Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7)

by Catherine Bybee

  “And you remember Tiffany.”

  “Of course,” Gabi said, smiling into the weary eyes of Hunter’s personal secretary.

  “Maybe now that Mr. Blackwell has a wife, you can make sure his suits are pressed and the flowers are ordered.”

  Hunter shot his secretary a look that made Gabi cringe.

  “Or not,” Tiffany said before moving away.

  Hunter took the untouched champagne from Gabi’s hand and set it on a nearby tray.

  “Senator Fillmore . . . I’d like you to meet my wife, Gabriella.”

  A face she recognized. “We’ve met,” she managed as she extended her hand.

  “We have?” the senator said.

  “Yes, last year. I was a guest of Carter and Eliza Billings at the Hollywood fundraiser.” Carter was the former governor of California and was taking a political break for a couple of years while he and his wife adjusted to parenthood. Truth was, Carter was destined for bigger things than the governor seat, and everyone knew it. Eliza . . . well, she and Sam were the best of friends.

  “How is it I don’t remember you?”

  “There were over a thousand people at the event,” Gabi reminded him.

  The silver-haired senator shook his head. “I won’t forget a second time.”

  Hunter didn’t give her time to linger and moved them to another set of guests.

  After a dozen more introductions, Gabi was ready for a break. She leaned close and whispered. “Restroom?”

  “Down the hall, double doors to the master suite.”

  For the first time in over an hour and a half, she left Hunter’s side.

  The noise of the room started to fade as she made her way to the private, off-limits side of the home. She pushed through the closed doors and leaned against them, absorbing the quiet.

  The lights turned on with her movement in the room. Soft light filled the wall behind the massive king-size bed. A dark gray coverlet draped over the mattress and the simple artwork of New York and Los Angeles skylines in black and white were the only pieces on the wall. The drapes hadn’t been drawn, giving the room a slight chill. Drawn to the sight, Gabi moved to the floor-to-ceiling windows to soak in the view.

  So this is where Hunter Blackwell sleeps.

  She knew he had a residence in New York as well . . . one with a view most likely more magical than the one in front of her now. She wondered, briefly, if she’d ever see it.

  Cityscape had its place. The single world, one without a family . . . a life . . . a pet.

  Yet even as those thoughts filled her head, she realized that she’d been living in a suburban home without any of those things . . . and no view to speak of.

  She’d always wanted a puppy as a child and never had one. After her father had passed, she’d stopped asking. Then again, she was a young teen and Val had taken over as man of the house. Her mother wouldn’t stand for an animal, and then Gabi simply forgot about it.

  The image of the house she and Hunter were purchasing surfaced. Maybe she could have a dog after all. An animal to depend on her. Something to come home to.

  The gray slate floors and marble counter of the en suite bathroom were masculine but not deprived of texture. A simple flowering orchid sat in the center of two sinks . . . a shaver plugged into an outlet by one of the sinks. Without realizing she did so, Gabi opened a drawer, saw the usual suspects inside. Toothbrush, mouthwash . . . things of that nature. The next drawer housed an open box of condoms.

  She had a strong desire to count them, then decided against it.

  Instead of lingering in Hunter’s space, she moved through the room and glanced at his bed once.

  Well, maybe twice.

  The presence on the other side of the double doors made her catch her breath. “Andrew.”

  “Sorry to startle you. Just wanted to ensure your privacy.” The man stood back, giving her all the space she needed.

  Lord, she could use a drink. “Can you show me the kitchen, Andrew?”

  “It’s a bit hectic in there right now.”

  She thought of the mass of caterers that were serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres. “I’d like to think I’m not a guest.”

  “Of course.”

  Andrew pivoted, and Gabi followed.

  The kitchen was as sleek and modern as the rest of the home. A cook’s kitchen put to work with an event such as this.

  “I think they’re fine. Murray wouldn’t have sent them if they weren’t servable!”

  There was one woman, and one man, in solid white. The chefs.

  And an obvious power struggle.

  In Gabi’s experience, one too many chefs in the kitchen always created problems.

  Unlike her brother’s island, the employees in this atmosphere weren’t ones she needed to concern herself with for the long run.

  The click of her heels sounded on the hard surface of the marble floors as she made her way to the trays of shrimp the two chefs argued over.

  The servers noticed her first, then the two in white.

  “What is the problem?” Gabi asked.

  “No problem. The guests are out—”

  Gabi cut the woman off. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled back in such a severe fashion she would never need Botox.

  “I’m not a guest.” Gabi moved to the tray in question and lifted one shrimp to her nose, touched the surface of the shellfish, and promptly turned to an open trash receptacle and emptied the tray.

  The blonde gasped, the servers halted their movements.

  “Did any of that go out?”

  The second chef snapped his fingers and called out to a server, in Spanish, to retrieve the waiter who had just left the kitchen.

  “Those were perfectly fine,” the blonde managed.

  “Is that so?” Gabi lifted a nearby tray and waved it under the blonde’s nose. “Dig in.”

  The woman held her ground . . . didn’t reach for the food.

  “You can leave.” Gabi dismissed her with a flick of the wrist.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Leave. Get into your car and leave.” Gabi turned to the second chef. “How much of the order did the shrimp account for?”

  “An eighth.”

  Gabi looked at the other trays, made a deduction. “Half the portion of skewers to keep the trays full.” She found the eyes of a nearby waiter. “Tell the beverage servers to keep the glasses of the guests filled.” Gabi turned to the remaining chef. “I assume the alcohol quota is twice what was called for?”

  “Yes,” he managed with a swallow.

  “I’m in charge here,” the blonde, who hadn’t left, said in protest.

  “The one paying the bill is in charge. Thank you for your service, but your insight on bad seafood is astounding. And I don’t mean that in a good way. Please don’t make me call security.”

  With an exasperated breath, the woman turned on her heel and left.

  Without thought, Gabi moved to the refrigerator and found a bottle of champagne chilling. She removed a towel from the counter and proceeded to pop the cork. Boxes of flute glasses sat alongside one of the counters. She removed two and filled them.

  She handed one to the remaining chef. “What’s your name?”

  “Hector.” He wiped his hands on his apron and took the sparkling wine.

  “You’re doing a superb job, Hector.” Gabi winked and lifted the wine to her lips.

  It was savory, wonderful.

  Untainted.

  She drained the glass and poured a second before leaving the kitchen.

  Andrew fell in step behind her as she walked back into Hunter Blackwell’s world.

  Chapter Eleven

  His hand came down full force, the laptop bounced, as did the fully loaded Glock 40 sitting beside it. “What do you mean my money isn’t touchable?”

  “I’m sorry, Señor Diaz, the passwords have changed and locked us out. I have a second man working on it.”

  Diaz tapped his finger on the grip of his gun, se
riously considered shooting the messenger. He hated the scrawny cokehead standing in front of him, but Raul knew his way around computers better than any of his other men.

  “Who changed the password?”

  “That I don’t know. Only you and I have access to the account.”

  Diaz circled the trigger of his weapon, his eyes bored into Raul.

  He lifted the gun and Raul had the good sense to back up, hands in the air. “I didn’t do it. Why would I come to you if I did?”

  Raul would have scurried away in the dead of night if he’d compromised any of Diaz’s money, but watching the man fry a few brain cells as he attempted to talk his way out of death was worth the entertainment.

  “Picano is dead. If you want to avoid his fate, you’ll have an answer for me in twenty-four hours.”

  “But—”

  Diaz pulled the lever back and loaded the chamber.

  “Twenty-four hours. I’ll have an answer in twenty-four hours.”

  Diaz waved the gun, dismissing the mule.

  The thick Colombian heat had sweat rolling down Diaz’s back. He lifted his drink to his lips, finished it. He dragged the computer close, clicked onto a different account, this one much farther away.

  When the computer-generated warning Denied Access. Misspelled Password flashed, he locked his teeth together and slowly tried again.

  Access Denied!

  Without thought, Diaz unloaded a round into the computer.

  The server who had been en route with a replenishing drink screamed, dropped the tray, and stood in paralyzed fear.

  Diaz pushed back, the chair falling behind him. “Clean this up,” he hollered before moving into the comfort of his air-conditioned refuge deep in the Colombian jungle.

  Hunter’s wife emerged from the door of his kitchen with a lift to her lips. O’Riley stopped her and the two of them engaged in a conversation. When she tilted the champagne to her mouth, Hunter realized it was the first time he’d actually seen her drink something other than coffee, tea, or water. The memory of her switching his wine with hers when they first entered the room made him question why.

  Did she have a problem with drinking? In his experience, those who didn’t drink at their age weren’t able to handle it.

  O’Riley said something that made her laugh, and an unexpected snap of jealousy hit him.

  Hunter excused himself and wove his way to Gabi’s side.

  “Is that right?” he heard Gabi say to O’Riley.

  “Is what right?” Hunter slid a proprietary hand across the dipping back of Gabi’s gown and let it rest on her hip.

  She attempted to place room between them, but Hunter kept his fingers firm, not letting her go.

  “Travis was just telling me that your absence in the New York office has your employees jumping whenever they see you.”

  “Well, Travis.” He emphasized the other man’s name, pissed that Gabi was using it. “I haven’t noticed you jumping.”

  “I jump . . . I just hide it better than most.”

  Travis knew that flirting with Hunter’s wife would result in more than a hop in the air. He’d be jumping into an unemployment line if he wasn’t careful.

  “I’ll be sure and watch for that, Mr. O’Riley.”

  Travis lifted a brow, his smile waned.

  Hunter leaned close to Gabi’s ear. “I’d like to address the crowd for a toast.”

  “If you’ll excuse us, Travis,” Gabi said as Hunter pulled her away. “That was abrupt,” she said so only he could hear.

  “Flirting with an employee isn’t wise.”

  She laughed. “Talking and flirting are worlds apart, Hunter.”

  Gabi passed a waiter and motioned him over. “Mr. Blackwell is proposing a toast. Have the champagne available for the guests.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Blackwell.”

  Hunter guided her to where the pianist played and watched Gabi motion the performer to pull the piece to a close.

  Sitting back, Hunter noticed the servers—all of them—exchange their food trays for those filled with sparkling wine.

  Though he hadn’t researched Gabi’s ability to be the perfect hostess, she obviously understood her way around a social event.

  A waiter stopped before them, and instead of picking a flute for his wife, he offered her first choice.

  She lifted two, handed him one.

  His guests slowly stopped talking and turned their attention toward them.

  It didn’t take long for the low muttering of the crowd to dim, and the attention of his guests fell on him.

  When Gabi edged back to give Hunter the spotlight, he reached out to keep her close.

  She smiled and looked over the room.

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Hunter began. “After meeting my beautiful bride, I’m sure you can understand my need to keep her away from just about everyone in the room so I could encourage her to say yes.”

  A low level of laughter, and probably more secret nods than he’d prefer, commenced.

  “I hope you embrace her as you have me.”

  He turned, made a point of capturing her eyes for his next words. “To Gabriella Blackwell, who has taken on the challenge of making me a better man.”

  A wicked smile met her lips. “I don’t believe those words were in our vows.”

  Those who heard her laughed.

  “To Gabi.” He lifted his glass, set it against hers, and drank.

  She was still smiling when he took her glass from her hand and set them both on the baby grand.

  Someone in the room graciously started a ring of their glass, and within seconds there was a universal sound that every wedding reception understood.

  Gabi’s gaze fell to the floor, but the smile on her lips held when Hunter moved into her personal space. He set his hand to the side of her face and looked into the depths of her dark gaze. He saw acceptance there instead of fear . . . he took that as encouragement and lowered his lips.

  Unlike their first kiss, on a street corner for the purpose of exposure, this one . . . while for exposure, was softer. Her lips parted, inviting . . . and God help him, he wanted to explore.

  She moaned when he pulled away, and did the unexpected. Gabi pulled his lapel and forced a second kiss, bringing laughter to those watching. Her kiss was brief, and when she moved away, she ran a finger over his lips, removing the evidence of her presence.

  He caught her eyes, and for a brief moment . . . the space of two breaths . . . neither of them blinked. Something, he wasn’t sure what, shifted inside her, and she lifted her lips in a soft smile that wasn’t forced . . . wasn’t fake.

  Hunter lost his breath, knew he grew a special shade of pale.

  Gabi laid her hand to his arm.

  “Mrs. Blackwell,” one of the servers called while the guests resumed their previous conversations.

  She turned, offered the waiter an ear. “Yes?”

  “A little issue . . . in the kitchen.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be back.”

  “Fine.” He could use a minute alone . . . time to collect his thoughts.

  He watched his wife . . . his temporary wife, he reminded himself . . . walk away, and in her place, Andrew stood.

  “I’m not sure what I expected,” Andrew said in a whisper. “But it wasn’t her.”

  Hunter had disengaged . . . tapped out . . .

  He hadn’t said a word, or lent a hand to her, since she’d pulled him into an unexpected kiss.

  The crowd in his home thinned, and eventually the only ones standing were Tiffany and a few select employees of Hunter’s LA office.

  Gabi meandered around, directing the staff as they cleaned and set the room to rights. The kitchen slowly became something respective of a bachelor pad.

  Gabi walked out of the kitchen in time to see the last of Hunter’s guests leave.

  “I’ll be back Tuesday,” he told his secretary, “but out again on Wednesday.”

  Tiffany tipped a
hand in the air, her eyes a tad glossed over from the free-flowing champagne. “Gotcha covered.”

  Hunter peered closer. “Someone driving you home?”

  She waved a finger in the air and said, “Have that covered, too.” She giggled, which seemed to surprise Hunter. Tiffany glanced over his shoulder and smiled at Gabi. “Good luck.”

  Then the slightly intoxicated personal secretary wobbled on a two-inch heel and stumbled out the door.

  OK, maybe slightly was an understatement.

  Once the door closed, Gabi called behind her, “Andrew?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Blackwell?”

  “Can you make sure Tiffany has a ride . . . that she doesn’t get in her own car?”

  “I’ll call the desk.”

  “Thank you.”

  She went ahead and slipped off her heels. It wasn’t quite eleven, but the night had taken a beating on her feet. With her shoes in her hand, she lifted the floor-length dress and made her way to the leather couch.

  She dropped the shoes by the sofa and moved to what remained of the bar. “Marilyn, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. You were great tonight.” If there was one thing being the sister of a successful restaurateur had taught her, it was to be grateful for every efficient staff member.

  “My pleasure.”

  Gabi took leave to pour a final glass of champagne for the evening. She’d refrained most of the night and looked forward to relaxing.

  From the corner of her eye, Gabi noticed Hunter removing his jacket and tugging on his bow tie.

  Hector and the remaining staff members emerged from the kitchen. “We’re all cleaned up in there,” the chef said.

  “Are you married?” Gabi asked, feeling safe to ask with the evidence of said relationship sitting on the chef’s ring finger.

  “I am.”

  Gabi turned to the remaining bottles of champagne and took one of the many dozen roses in the room and handed them both to the chef. “For your wife. Thank you for ensuring our guests weren’t ill.”

  Hector offered a full-watt smile, glanced behind her, then back. “Thank you, Mrs. Blackwell. Please call on us whenever you need a caterer.”

  “I’ll do that.”