Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7)

by Catherine Bybee

  “That’s not funny, Gabi.”

  He was worried. Really alarmed.

  “I’ve spent many years of my life in these waters, Hunter. I’m fine.”

  “I saw you floating.”

  She grinned. “And you came out here to rescue me.”

  Hunter managed to stay afloat and cover his eyes with his hands. “You’re killing me, lady.”

  “You try to be such a tough guy. In control of everything.”

  He shook his head, offered a glare. “I thought you were shark meat out here.”

  She laughed, kicked her feet. “Shark-infested island waters aren’t a selling point to my brother’s guests.”

  For a moment, they swam in place and stared at each other.

  The clear water made her realize that Hunter had jumped in with only boxer shorts. On the shore, she noticed clothing carelessly heaped into a pile.

  “Are you a good swimmer?” she asked.

  “I manage.”

  She started to move. “Last one to shore cooks breakfast.” She ducked under the water and came up to hear him sputter.

  “I don’t coo—” He gave chase, not letting the words finish.

  Halfway to shore, he’d caught up, his arms stronger, his strokes taking the water and using it to propel him forward.

  Still, her home-court advantage helped keep her in the race, but Hunter managed to crawl up on the white sandy shore before she did.

  He sat with his arms resting on his knees, his lungs sucking in air.

  The gentle waves brought her on shore with some grace. She felt Hunter’s eyes watching her as she pulled herself from the water. The bikini hadn’t had much use since she’d left her brother’s island. The fact that the strips of material didn’t hug her curves as well as they once had was a testimony to the weight she’d lost. Putting it back on hadn’t been a priority.

  Instead of dwelling on the condition of her frame, she sat next to Hunter and let the white sand take up residence on her skin. “Next time I get a two second head start,” she told him.

  “Five,” he countered. His sharp gaze dipped to her chest and lingered.

  She couldn’t help the fidget. When was the last time someone other than a doctor looked at her in as little as a bikini?

  “What would you cook me . . . if you’d lost?”

  He turned his attention away from her chest and back to her eyes. “Crepes . . . maybe a Belgian waffle.”

  It was Gabi’s turn to stare. His straight face and stoic delivery of menu choices had her stunned.

  “Crepes?” Even she had no real idea how to manage crepes.

  A ghost of a smile started at one corner of his lips and spread. For the first time since she’d met the man, that grin found his eyes.

  “If only you could see the shock in your eyes,” he said.

  “Crepes?”

  He bust. A larger-than-life laugh erupted.

  She closed her eyes and envisioned Val’s room service menu.

  Gabi swept her hand along the sand, sending a plume of dust his way.

  “Hey.” He shot sand her way in retaliation.

  “Can you cook anything for yourself?”

  “Does coffee count?”

  She rolled her eyes. Don’t get mad, she told herself . . . get even. “If you want to get on my mother’s good side, plead ignorance in the kitchen. She’s a sucker for a helpless man in the kitchen.”

  “Offering tips on making your family happy?”

  She leaned back on her elbows, mirroring his stance. “We’re in this for eighteen months. Might as well find some peace.”

  “Hmmm.”

  She tilted her head toward the sun. “Besides . . . I miss the island.”

  She caught him looking at her through the corner of his eyes. He diverted his gaze to the ocean.

  “I couldn’t tell you the last time I sat in the sand.”

  “Hard to sand sit when you’re playing millionaire.”

  He laughed.

  “Sorry, billionaire.” It was hard to wrap her head around his net worth. Money had never been a primary need in her life . . . but then again, she’d always had it. She’d read his portfolio . . . knew he’d made the majority of his worth on his own.

  “One more zero.”

  “Two more. I crunched the numbers myself.”

  Hunter rolled onto his side, caught the side of his face in a sandy hand, and stared with amusement on his lips. “What numbers were those?”

  “We can start with the Carlton takeover. The most profitable project to date.” The soft grin on his face slid. “Sam suggested I dig a little deeper into that one. Seems there was much more to Blackwell Enterprises’ merger with Carlton Ammunitions than what sat on the surface.”

  His eyes drifted to the sand, where she noticed him drawing circles with his nearly dry fingers.

  “I was fresh out of college when we merged with Carlton.”

  “Merged and then imploded.”

  “I didn’t implode.”

  No, he halted sales of ammunition to many retail chains, and then manufactured and sold, nearly exclusively, to the government. Carlton held the majority of stock in the company to domestic sales. Only the government needed ammo. And the company took contracts from the US of A, and domestic sales hit an all-time millennium bottom. Within two years, Blackwell bought out Carlton completely.

  “Carlton knew the risk. He didn’t wager using his brain.”

  “If not his brain . . . what?” She honestly wanted to know. From the outside, it appeared Hunter knew the government contracts were coming and pounced on Carlton when sales were low.

  “He never wagered on the people losing their desire to own weapons. By the time the people made a run for ammo . . . there wasn’t anything available for them to buy.”

  “Because of your contracts with the government.” It made sense now.

  “Blackwell isn’t the only ammunition manufacturer.”

  His defensive tone made her pause. “No. I suppose you’re not.”

  He frowned, kept drawing circles. Some took the shape of bullets.

  “Do you sell to offshore buyers?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not in daily contact with Blackwell/Carlton Ammunitions.”

  Translation . . . yes.

  “Doesn’t that bother you?”

  He set his hand in the sand and caught her gaze. “Does your brother offer a vacation destination exclusively to Americans? Italians?”

  Her jaw dropped, and she promptly closed it.

  “It’s business, Gabi. Toyota sells to America, McDonalds sells in India.”

  “We’re not talking cars and burgers. We’re talking bullets.”

  “If the country is an ally, what’s the problem?”

  Alonzo popped into her head. As much as she’d love to forget the man, she couldn’t. “An ally today can be an enemy tomorrow.”

  He paused, waited for her to look his way. “I don’t know the future of our world affairs any more than you do.”

  That was fair . . . she supposed. “You still managed the merger right as the political winds shifted.”

  “I read the papers. Carlton didn’t. Sue me.”

  “You rolled your millions like dice on a craps table. Pulled out of real estate months before the crash. You took less than a five percent hit with the stock market crash.”

  He smiled. “Four point—”

  “Six two . . . I know.” Down to the penny, she thought. “You were up two point eight in eleven months. While everyone else was trying to keep their companies from capsizing, you thrived.” She’d be impressed if she didn’t wonder how. The numbers were there. What she couldn’t find was all the backing behind them. Many folders were simple headings of names of countries and companies in languages she didn’t know.

  Her mind shifted, thinking in numbers. “You have offshore accounts.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I have a branch in London.”

  “Not London.” She waved in
his direction, her head ticking. “Of course. That would make sense.” Money converted from more than two currencies lost weight by the time it met the US. Yeah, the government wanted its share. But how much could Blackwell hide before Uncle Sam caught on?

  Too bad Gabi hadn’t followed this train of thought before meeting with Hunter the first time. Then again, what did it matter? He still had something on her.

  She’d be better off working on her own offshore accounts. The ones she knew very little about instead of the ones Hunter had.

  “What makes sense?” he asked.

  She settled her eyes on him . . . daring him to call her on what she was about to say.

  “Your numbers don’t mesh, Hunter. I know it, you know it.”

  His hand stopped playing in the sand. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “My accounts are legit.”

  Gabi pointed to her chest. “We all have one thing we’re good at, Hunter. Numbers are my thing. Yours aren’t right. Yeah, you’re worth more than most people can count. But there are discrepancies.” Discrepancies that would feed villages.

  “My company has many legs. I wouldn’t doubt there are a few thousand—”

  She laughed. Couldn’t help the burst of noise from her throat. “Don’t insult me.”

  His relaxed pose on the beach shifted to a sitting position, arms resting on his knees. “How are numbers your thing?”

  The question struck her as odd.

  “They just are.” That and languages. Well, not many languages, but she was working on expanding her foreign tongue.

  “How is it I don’t know this about you?”

  “There are many things you don’t know about me,” she told him.

  His eyes moved down her body, making her realize she wore next to nothing. He derailed her thoughts with only a look.

  Gabi closed her eyes and tried to keep her hands at her sides and not cover her bare midsection.

  “My numbers don’t balance and this is why Alliance rejected me?”

  “Alliance has many levels one must pass. Everyone has financial secrets. That isn’t a complete deterrent.”

  “It’s one. You believe my financial balance isn’t zero.”

  “It’s way far from zero. But again. Whose isn’t?”

  Hunter glared now. “What else?”

  “There are foreign meetings . . . men from questionable backgrounds.”

  He nodded, as if her words meant nothing.

  “And then there is the jerk factor.”

  A lift to his lip was slow in coming. “The jerk factor?”

  “Arrogant. Egotistical. Jerk . . . I think Meg would classify you as an asshole.”

  “Meg?”

  “She may not live in California, but she still works with and for Alliance.”

  Hunter grinned as if she’d just complimented him. “I’m an arrogant asshole whose billion-dollar company has divisions where the numbers don’t balance.”

  When he said it like that, it sounded trite. “You blackmailed me,” she reminded him.

  He glanced around the empty beach. He lowered his voice. “I suppose there are things we both regret from our past.”

  She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  “Yet here we are. Married, both of us uneasy about the other.”

  “I don’t believe you’ll kill me in my sleep,” he told her.

  She grinned.

  “You don’t wear orange . . . remember?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

  “Orange is the new black.”

  Gabi and Meg sat with their heads together, their ears tuned into the noise drifting from the kitchen.

  “That’s not right. Do it again.”

  “I’m not a cook, Mrs. Masini,” Hunter said for the umpteenth time in the last half an hour.

  When Gabi had peeked into her mother’s space, flour covered the entire counter and half the floor. A telltale sign that pasta was in progress. Or at least a mix of flour and eggs. There was no guarantee anyone would be eating anything at this rate.

  “Crack the egg gently.”

  When Gabi’s mom groaned, Meg started to giggle. “I wish I had a camera set up in there.” Meg stretched her neck in an attempt to see inside the mess.

  “Do it again.”

  Meg nudged Gabi’s arm. “How long are you going to let that continue?”

  Gabi sat back, crossed her legs. “I have nowhere I need to be.”

  “No, no, no.” Simona lowered her tone. “Pretend the egg is a fragile woman, not a twist top on a beer.”

  Gabi and Meg held their breath and waited . . .

  “Better. Now, three more eggs.”

  Silence.

  Sigh.

  Silence.

  “Damn it!” Hunter’s patience had to be at an end.

  Gabi pushed off the couch. “Distract my mother.”

  “You’re going to rescue him?” Meg asked.

  “I did throw him in the dark waters of my mother’s kitchen. I think he’s learned his lesson.”

  The two of them entered the kitchen at the same time. Meg instantly started to laugh.

  Hunter stood over the sink, his hands dripping with raw eggs and flour.

  Gabi’s mother was scooping a mound of flour off the counter.

  Hunter snapped his eyes to Gabi, causing her to step back. “Maybe I should—”

  “Help?” her mother offered. “This husband of yours is useless.”

  Meg pushed around Hunter, patted his arm with understood sympathy.

  Meg moved to Simona’s side and nudged her away. “How about a break?”

  Simona looked between the two women. “Don’t you do it for him, Gabriella. He needs to learn.”

  “Yes, Mama. Why don’t you rest?” Gabi pushed the open bottle of wine in her mother’s direction before Meg led her out of the kitchen.

  Gabi and Hunter were still until they heard the door to the outside patio open and close.

  Hunter’s shoulders slumped. “Your mother is the kitchen Nazi.”

  It felt good to laugh.

  Hunter wasn’t amused. “You set me up.”

  Gabi tossed her hands in the air. “Guilty. Serves you right for pretending to be able to cook crepes.” She found a clean apron and tied it around her waist.

  Hunter made to remove his and she stopped him. “Not so fast, Wall Street. I told my mother I would help you . . . not do it for you.”

  “I don’t cook.”

  She stepped close and turned on the faucet to wash her hands. “Stop whining.” She wasn’t sure exactly where her confidence came from . . . maybe it was the mass of flour that covered the front of Hunter’s apron and most of his shirt. Maybe the smudge on his cheek, the lock of hair drifting into his eyes . . . or maybe seeing him completely out of his element empowered her.

  He untied his apron.

  She snapped a finger in his direction. “Put that back on.”

  “Oh, God . . . the kitchen Nazi’s spawn.”

  “I can call my mother back in.”

  “You’re pushing me, Gabi.”

  She shrugged. “What are you going to do, divorce me?”

  He moaned.

  “Exactly. Besides . . .” she found a clean, empty bowl, “my mother won’t let up until you master a few steps.”

  His eyes followed her as she completed the mountain of flour and punched a fist-size crater in the center for the raw eggs.

  “Let me guess.” She picked up an egg with one hand. “My mother showed you like this.” With a gentle crack, Gabi opened the shell and slid the egg into the flour with one hand and a tiny flourish of her wrist.

  Hunter sighed. “You make it look easy.”

  She smiled, moved close to his side, and handed over an egg. “Use two hands and crack it into the bowl. That way you don’t ruin what you’ve started if the shell decides it wants to be part of our dinner.”

  He hit the side of the bowl too hard, the egg spilled on the counter, the shell in the bowl. “I look li
ke a fool.”

  “You look like you’re trying too hard.”

  She rinsed the bowl, retrieved another egg. “Place your hands over mine.”

  Hunter moved closer, the heat of his body seeping between them. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

  Digging for the confidence that was there a moment ago, she attempted to ignore Hunter’s large shoulders and spicy scent. When his hands covered hers, dwarfing them instantly, she shuddered.

  Crack the egg.

  “Slow and easy,” she told him.

  His hands where a whisper above hers while she cracked and separated the shell from the yolk.

  Hunter didn’t pull away when she moved to release the shell and dump the perfect egg into the flour.

  Attempting to ignore his silent presence, and refusing to look into his face, she handed him an egg.

  She placed her hands over his.

  Gabi wasn’t sure if Hunter hummed in concentration or something else. The something else was what kept her from looking directly at him.

  “Slowly,” she cautioned when he lifted his hands to crack the egg.

  The break was clean.

  “That wasn’t hard, was it?” she asked, glancing at him as she removed her hands from his.

  The anger and frustration that had been there moments before was replaced with something much more dangerous. Her heart kicked hard in her chest, reminding her of forbidden feelings. Dangerous desire.

  His full lips parted, capturing her attention.

  She caught herself staring. The silence in the room an open invitation for more than cooking.

  Neither of them moved forward or away. Maybe it was kitchen chemistry . . . or a combination of nerves, but there was no mistaking the mutual attraction. Unwanted and completely forbidden attraction, but desire nonetheless.

  “What are we doing, Gabi?” Hunter’s question was just above a whisper.

  She blinked, pulling her eyes away from his parted lips. “Cooking.” She put space between them, nearly knocking over the bowl with the eggs inside.

  They mixed with their hands and slowly turned the flour and eggs into dough. The air between them sparked with current.

  Hunter played with his section, his eyes on her hands.

  “We will never eat if you can’t concentrate,” she told him.