Treasured by Thursday(93)
She lit Hunter’s note with a flame, watched it lick up the sides of the waxed paper before threatening to burn her skin. Then she tossed the card into the cold, dark fireplace unread. “Fool me once,” she whispered to herself.
As the note evaporated into ash, so did Gabi’s concern about the thoughts of others. “Solomon?”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. B?”
“I’m not a very good driver,” she said in a monotone voice as she watched the rest of the note smolder and smoke.
“Yeah, I, ah . . . Neil mentioned something to that effect.”
She turned away from the message that she’d never read and tried to smile.
Both men were staring at her as if she suddenly sprouted a tail.
“You’re a good driver.”
Solomon stood a little taller, added a half-ass smile. “I considered the NASCAR circuit before I joined the service.”
A thought formed in her head.
“The Aston is back from the shop, right, Andrew?”
“It is . . .”
That solved that.
“How do you feel about offering a lesson in defensive driving?”
Solomon lifted a brow . . . blinked.
“We’ll take my car.”
Blink.
Blink.
“The Aston Martin?”
Gabi shrugged. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
He couldn’t concentrate. All it took was one text sent to Hunter to blow his entire day. Andrew took a picture of the flowers he’d sent to Gabi in the trash and added the message: The card is in the fireplace, unread and smoldering.
The next message simply said, Duct Tape!!!
He needed to fix this. Admittedly, he had no idea how. All his life, money and power fixed his problems. With more money came more power and a quicker resolve. Andrew’s words stuck in his head. Slow down. He needed to slow his personal life down or watch it spiral out of control. Flowers in the trash were a sign of an impending tornado.
He twisted his desk chair until he was staring out over the city. It was gray . . . not at all the Southern California weather he’d grown used to. It matched his mood, he supposed.
Gabi’s, too, he guessed.
His goals were easily defined a few months ago, now they were mucked up with emotion and consequences. Having Gabi by his side, having his back with something as simple as decorating a nursery in support, was a priceless example of the depth of her heart. With all she’d been through, he’d think she’d be jaded and dead on the inside.
Her family and friends adored her, would think nothing of burying him if he harmed her. Even Andrew was squarely on her side of the swinging pendulum.
A conversation . . . flowers . . . these things weren’t going to duct tape his relationship back together.
He wanted it back together.
He took in his colorless office and thought of the penthouse condo that held the same empty, quiet life. He wanted more.
And he wanted it with Gabi.
A plan began to form in his head.
A plan that meant slowing down his objectives and speeding up hers.
The cell phone in his suit jacket buzzed. He considered ignoring it before he pulled it from his pocket to check the caller.
Hope flared when he saw Gabi’s name.
“Gabi,” he whispered her name as his answer.
Silence met his ears.
He was close to begging. “Talk to me, Gabi.”
He heard laughter . . . male laughter.
Hunter froze, looked at the screen again, saw Gabi’s name.
“Who is this?”
“Mr. Blackwell . . . I’m your new best friend.” The voice was deep, with a south of the boarder accent.
“Who is this? Where’s my wife?”
“Ah, your caring wife is right where she’s supposed to be . . . for now. That can change, my friend. I don’t take kindly to people stealing my money. Makes my fingers itchy to take from others. You understand, no?”
“What are you talking about? Who are you?” Hunter leaned over and took his office phone off the hook.
“Ten million, Mr. Blackwell.”
“Excuse me?”
The voice laughed. “Check your e-mail. Gabriella . . . beautiful woman your wife. She sent you a picture.”
Hunter started clicking, found a message in his private inbox, and opened it.
His stomach twisted. Gabi, from what had to be during the darkest days of her life, looked like the shell of the woman he knew. Dark circles under her eyes, the white dress hanging on her thin shoulders . . . her arm extended with a needle hanging out.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“A man who will be ten million dollars richer very soon, eh? And so you know not to fuck with me . . . I will give you ten minutes to keep your wife alive.”
Hunter gripped his desk and stood.
“Do I have your attention, Mr. Blackwell?”