Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7)

by Catherine Bybee

  “True. But I’m not the one who will find herself in prison for either insurance fraud or tax evasion.”

  The numbers that swam in her head were worthy of several years in a state penitentiary. She could fight it . . . probably win . . . eventually. But wouldn’t it be easier to fix her so-called crimes if she was free?

  “What do you want?”

  “A wife . . . you.”

  “Why me?” She wasn’t smiling now.

  “Because you and I have a lot in common.”

  “We have nothing in common,” she spat.

  “I’m in need of a wife, and you need a husband who can financially fix your criminal background.”

  “Even if I had a criminal background, I wouldn’t need a husband to fix it for me.”

  He grinned. “Becoming Mrs. Blackwell will start the process of distancing yourself from Mr. Picano’s name. My lawyers understand the need to quietly remove problems. By my estimates, it will take eighteen months, give or take, to remove the threat of prison being on your resume.”

  “Let me guess,” she said. “Eighteen months is the duration of time you need a wife?”

  “Beautiful and smart.”

  “Condescending and a bastard.”

  He laughed, lifted his glass, and drank. “Touché.”

  Hunter remembered his first trip to Vegas . . . the lights, the women, the whiskey . . . the game. He’d walked up to an exclusive poker table, laid fifty thousand down, and proceeded to bluff. He collected over four hundred thousand dollars from one game on the premise of intimidation.

  Wearing his poker face, he proceeded to bluff again.

  Good thing the back of the limousine had poor lighting or Miss Masini would have seen his reaction to her face when he mentioned her late husband. There was so much more to her story than what he’d been given, and even if she walked away, called his bluff, he would find those answers.

  Thankfully, Gabriella didn’t take his threats by rolling over. She fought, which delighted him. So few people in the world spoke to him the way she did.

  He was a bastard. One that always won . . . eventually.

  “How much time do I have to decide?” she asked.

  “The fundraiser will go on for several hours.”

  “You can’t be serious.” She was outraged, once again.

  He relented, slightly. “I expect contracts on my desk in the morning.”

  “Impossible.” She shook her head.

  “Nothing is impossible.”

  The car started to slow, announcing their arrival.

  “Blackmail is such an ugly practice.”

  The limo stopped and she reached for the door.

  He moved forward, caught her ice-cold hand. “So is prison.”

  Their eyes locked, both of their jaws set in tight control.

  Charles opened the door and extended a hand.

  Hunter quickly followed her, ignored her flinch when he placed a hand to the small of her back to escort her inside. To her credit, she didn’t take a swing. Though from the way she held her purse, she certainly wanted to.

  The cameras flashed as they walked the red carpet. A bottleneck of celebrities blocked their quick entrance, and Gabriella was forced to turn to the cameras.

  He leaned forward, was awarded the floral scent of her skin. “Smile, darling,” he whispered.

  She turned toward him, and he was grateful that looks couldn’t actually kill. She mumbled something in a language he didn’t understand and painted on a debutante smile. The expression didn’t meet her eyes, but she twisted to the flash of cameras and sucked in a deep breath.

  Why Hunter was so mindful of her every move baffled him. This was an acquisition . . . nothing more, nothing less. Yet he was pleased to see more color in her face.

  Hunter kept close to her side so there was no question as to whom she was with. The sooner he established contact with his personal life and the public, the better. He heard his name in the flash of media and purposely pushed closer to Gabriella. “Keep moving,” he suggested.

  “And where would you suggest I run?” Her words were pure venom, her smile coy for the camera.

  God, she was stunning. Her long, sleek hair was pulled up, with trails running down her neck. Her strong jaw with clenched teeth told him she would bite if he moved too close. Olive skin spoke of her Italian heritage; her guarded, expressive eyes hid so much from those around them. Yet he knew the daggers she tossed, felt them hit their mark every time she glanced his way.

  The line moved, and he gifted his hand with the small of her back.

  This time, her flinch was barely palpable. He reminded himself to keep his hand on the fabric of her dress as much as he could . . . all evening.

  His eyes traveled to the sway of her firm hips. The thick material of her gown kept him from seeing what she wore underneath.

  Attraction in this game would be lethal, not to mention useless. The woman hated him, and rightly so.

  He was a bastard.

  The worst kind.

  Yet he plowed forward, his goal in mind.

  The line released its hold on them, and they spilled into the hall of the famous restaurant. Hunter gave their names to the attendant and kept hold of his charge.

  “I’m not here with you,” she hissed through the crush of people.

  He grinned. “You are now.”

  Escaping Hunter Blackwell was akin to running from rain during a hurricane. It didn’t matter where she went, what she said . . . he was always there.

  She accepted sparkling water and lime, sipped the beverage, and allowed Mr. Blackwell to introduce her for over an hour before she couldn’t stomach any more.

  She excused herself to the ladies’ room, knew he was close behind, but detoured when she rounded the corner through a staff door. After pleading with an attractive young waiter, he helped her back into the main dining hall through another door, and she slid out of the venue.

  Before long she was tucked back inside the limousine on her way back home.

  The moment she arrived at her doorstep, she set her alarms, shut off all the downstairs lights, and retreated to her office.

  Hunter Blackwell’s cell phone information was in his file. Instead of making him chase her, which she innately knew he would, she drafted a text before he could knock on her door.

  Contracts require time to construct. I will contact you in the morning.

  Within two minutes, his brief reply read, Until then.

  It took some time, but she managed to find the offshore account Blackwell told her about.

  How stupid of Alonzo to set up passwords associated with his birthday. Everyone knew not to do that.

  Then again, the man was dead . . . his stupidity eventually killed him.

  Over five million euros infused the account.

  Worse, someone was depositing and removing money from the account one thousand at a time.

  Mr. Alonzo Picano and Mrs. Gabriella Picano . . . the account held a name she briefly claimed.

  She wanted nothing to do with the blood money but knew sending it to a charity, any charity, might suggest she was scared and running. Maybe even prove that she was using the account and evading taxes in her own country.

  Like every time she backed out of an online account, Gabi shifted the sequence of numbers and changed the passwords. She moved to a second computer and started an international search of her name. And that of Gabriella Picano.

  A name she never claimed publicly.

  She typed slowly, feeling her hands shake as she reached the O in Picano, and paused.

  A cold sweat started at the nape of her neck and down the back of her evening gown . . . a gown she’d yet to change, even hours after the fundraiser.

  When she hit enter, she released a long-suffering breath.

  He’s dead, Gabi, she told herself. He can’t hurt you now.

  Chapter Five

  She was screwed. Before falling into a fitful sleep, she’d found a second a
ccount under Gabi Picano, one smack in the thick of Colombia. This one had a steady stream of money coming and going. The infusion of funds correlated with the withdrawals of the larger offshore account, which led her to believe that they were tied. Whoever was playing with one account was playing with the other.

  Gabi woke with the intention of dragging Samantha into her troubles, only to find a message on her cell phone telling her to take care of any and all Alliance needs. Jordan had been transferred to the ICU and everything Alliance had to wait.

  When she lifted the phone to call her brother, she stopped herself. Val had fished her out of hot water once before. A mess she made by trusting the wrong person. If blowing off Blackwell and landing in prison would only affect her, she might consider taking her chances.

  But it wouldn’t.

  Alonzo had taught her that she could do nothing without it affecting everyone around her. Her trust in him nearly got her sister-in-law killed.

  Instead of pulling in others to shovel her out of her past, Gabi decided it was time to dig herself out.

  She brought up the boilerplate contracts Alliance used and started to modify them.

  Two hours later she contacted the Alliance attorney and sent her an e-mail. Before Gabi could shower, Lori Cumberland called. “What in the world is this?” she asked in disbelief.

  “It’s a contract.”

  “A contract someone will actually sign?”

  “Did I add something that’s illegal?” Gabi was fairly certain that every clause that had ever been placed in an Alliance contract was legal. She decided a few other conditions needed to be in writing.

  “Not illegal . . . just . . . wow. Am I reading this right? This is between you and Hunter Blackwell?”

  The thought of marriage made her shudder. “That’s correct.”

  “The zillionaire Hunter Blackwell?”

  “Not sure about the zillion . . . but yes. I need to know if the conditions I added can be held up in court.”

  To render a lawyer speechless left a certain smile on Gabi’s face.

  “He’d be stupid to sign this.”

  “Or desperate.”

  Lori paused. “Does Sam know about this?”

  “Her sister is really ill, Lori. She asked that I handle the Blackwell account.”

  “I don’t think that means you have to marry the man. From what I hear, he’s an ass.”

  Gabi smiled for the first time in hours. “An ass that will have me handing it to him if he violates our contract. Is it legal?”

  “I need to modify a few words, but yeah. Wow.”

  “Glad you approve.”

  Lori sighed. “Approve? I’m impressed. I didn’t consider you the shrewd one. Make sure I’m invited to the wedding.”

  Gabi doubted a ceremony was forthcoming. “I need to get these to Blackwell before noon. Can you modify and send them back?”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Me, too,” she muttered before hanging up.

  The tight black dress stopped above her knees, her black stockings had beads up the back that turned heads when she passed. Tall and slender had always been a gift to Gabi, she used it now by adding an extra four inches with her stilettos. Her hair was slicked back in a simple knot.

  With her back straight, Gabi walked up to the ground floor security, expecting her first delay.

  When she mentioned her name, they waved her through and escorted her to a bank of elevators. She stepped in and ignored the looks around her.

  Blackwell Enterprises held the entire top floor of the building, making the reception space larger than the ground floor of Gabi’s home.

  She commanded attention as she walked to the desk. The receptionist offered a brilliant smile.

  “Miss Masini for Mr. Blackwell.”

  The smile stayed and the twentysomething model-perfect woman blinked. “Right away, Miss Masini. I’ll call Tiffany.”

  Gabi ignored the roll of tension down her spine. Walking into the office had been too easy.

  She turned away from the desk, hoping to hide her nerves. The entire way into the city, she questioned her decision. Then again, Blackwell would probably shred her contract.

  The quick, steady click of heels slowed as they approached. “Miss Masini?”

  Gabi turned and couldn’t help but smile.

  “I’m Tiffany, Mr. Blackwell’s personal secretary.”

  The introduction instantly had Gabi envisioning a very personal position between Hunter and the lovely woman beside her. She was luscious, beautiful, and appeared too innocent to be hooked up with the likes of Hunter. Gabi felt an instant desire to shelter the younger woman from the evil man.

  “Hello, Tiffany,” Gabi managed.

  “Mr. Blackwell is expecting you.” Tiffany turned back into the thick of the office and led the way.

  Gabi lifted her chin and ignored the glances as she walked through. The sheer amount of attention her presence created as she rounded the corner made it clear that Hunter didn’t often have personal calls to his place of work.

  Somehow, that pleased her.

  Tiffany stepped through a set of doors that opened to a large reception space complete with couches and magazines . . . and a desk that would engulf the one Gabi had at home.

  Tiffany approached a set of sleek double doors and knocked. Without waiting, she opened one and stepped aside.

  Gabi knew her practiced smile left, briefly . . . then she squared her shoulders and walked in.

  Hunter stood behind a black desk that held a computer, a phone, and a pen. Behind him was a wall of windows overlooking the city. The space was completely masculine down to the leather couches, the simple art . . . the bar on the far end of the office.

  Their eyes met . . . locked, and he stared.

  There was a spark behind his gray eyes that screamed of his success by her walking in his door.

  He’d won and he knew it.

  “That will be all, Tiffany. Let me know when Ben arrives.”

  “Yes, Mr. Blackwell.” Tiffany closed the door behind her.

  He made a slow path around his desk. “I assume you had no trouble with security getting up here.”

  Gabi approached, set her purse in one of the empty chairs. “The ease of my entrance smacks of arrogance.”

  “Yet here you are.”

  Could she hate the man any more?

  Keep your enemies close.

  Instead of debating with him, she removed the contracts from her purse and slid them across his desk. “I took the liberty of adding a few conditions . . . in light of our personal situations.”

  He didn’t bother a glance at the papers. “I’m sure we can work out whatever you might have come up with.”

  So arrogant.

  “You’re going to find your condescending words to be a mistake, Mr. Blackwell.”

  “Hunter, Gabi . . . my name is Hunter.”

  She wasn’t sure what shook her more, the fact that he’d instantly put them on a personal level by the use of his first name, or the fact that he’d used her nickname.

  “I despise you,” she muttered.

  He lifted a hand, indicated the chair at her side. “A fact that we will both recognize and speak of freely . . . when we’re alone. In public, I expect a reserved wife who accepts a casual touch and even a smile.”

  “What kind of touch?” She hated asking.

  “I won’t maul you.”

  She sat across from him, comfortable with the desk separating them.

  The despicable man was a stranger . . . he unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat before sliding his chair closer to his desk. He’d yet to look at the contracts.

  “Why are you really doing this?”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “Beggianate!”

  “Excuse me?”

  Gabi took delight in her ability to speak a language he couldn’t. “I don’t believe you. Your explanation is trivial at best. It’s one of the many
reasons Alliance rejected your application.”

  He lifted one brow. “Yet here you are . . . contract in hand.”

  She closed her eyes, sucked in a breath, and calmed her nerves. When she opened them again, Gabi found him watching her.

  A wave of something resembling concern passed over his eyes before he said, “As soon as the contracts are signed, and we’re married, I have a team of lawyers and investigators ready to move on your case.”

  “And if they find me guilty?” she asked.

  That left a smirk on his face. “They’ll find a way to exonerate you.”

  Such an ass.

  “It doesn’t bother you to believe you’re marrying a woman with a history of killing a wealthy husband and collecting after his death?”

  He smiled for the first time since she entered his office. “You’re stunning in black.” His eyes swept her frame before returning to her face. “But I don’t think you’re a black widow.”

  It was her turn to grin. “Mating before killing isn’t necessary.”

  He laughed when she was hoping to intimidate.

  I need to work on that.

  Before he could comment, the phone on his desk buzzed.

  Hunter lifted the receiver, listened. “Let him in.”

  Gabi stayed seated as Hunter introduced one of his lawyers.

  Ben Lipton was a personal attorney who’d been given enough information to know that Gabi wasn’t in Hunter’s life because of a romantic relationship.

  He shook her hand and took the contracts to the opposite side of the room to read.

  “Can I get you something to drink, Gabi?”

  Hearing her name from Hunter’s lips wouldn’t sit well for some time. “Tea.”

  He buzzed Tiffany, placed her request.

  The silence in the office was broken by the door opening and the tea setting being placed on the table.

  Tiffany glanced between the three of them and left in silence.

  Mr. Lipton would occasionally lift an eyebrow, glance Gabi’s way, then return to the contract.

  When the man finally finished, he evened out the pages and stacked them on the table. “Have you read this?” he asked Hunter.

  “That’s why I have you.”

  Mr. Lipton was in his fifties . . . his salt-and-pepper hair and starch-filled suit would label him as sophisticated. He had kind blue eyes, but if he was in business with Hunter, Gabi believed he couldn’t be trusted.