Treasured by Thursday (Weekday Brides Series Book 7) (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

The mental scoreboard in Hunter’s head was plunged toward the murky depths of hell.

Valentino hated him. His dark, watchful gaze and short tone didn’t need definition.

Margaret . . . or Meg, as Gabi referred to her sister-in-law, was close to impossible to read. From her words and watchful gaze, Hunter knew she’d be happy to see him gone.

And Gabi’s mom . . . forget it. The woman told him, repeatedly, that he wasn’t good enough for her daughter.
You don’t speak Italian. What’s wrong with you? Why go through all the effort to marry my daughter and not know her language? Call me Mrs. Masini . . . first names are for friends and family . . . and right now, you’re neither.

Hunter’s head swam with the woman’s insults.

For one brief moment, he wanted to remind the lady about his net worth . . . but knew she didn’t give a crap about his bank balance.

Gabi . . . Gabi was the woman’s concern.

The strange twist was Gabriella herself. She let her family deliver their verbal punches for a few hits, and then diverted the conversation.

Gabi didn’t deny, nor did she agree . . . she listened and diverted.

He might be able to eat while on the island after all.

They’d taken residence in the special guest villa beside Val’s main residence. Gabi had suggested they have their own space. At first, he thought maybe she was saving him from a twenty-four-hour inquisition of her family . . . but as it stood, he realized Gabi assured she wouldn’t have to take the room she’d shared with her ex.

He barely noticed the ocean views before he strode into the villa and began setting his things inside the bathroom he’d be sharing with his wife.

He hesitated as he plugged in his electric shaver.

Wife.

How had he managed to move through life without acquiring one of those?

With a sigh, he shook his head, looked past the title, and remembered what Gabi was.

An acquisition to suit his needs for a short duration of time.

Dark, lush hair . . . soulful eyes that displayed more emotion than she’d ever know . . . wit and courage he hadn’t expected . . . a body he’d coveted more than any bible verse he’d ever read.

An acquisition, he reminded himself.

Temporary.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Gabi stood on the other side of the door to the adjoining bathroom, a pair of high heels in her hands. “Dinner is at six. Did you want to shower first?”

Translation:
I want to shower and you’re in the bathroom
.

“You go ahead.”

A genuine smile reached her eyes. “Dinner is causal. You brought casual . . . right?”

“It’s a tropical island. I didn’t bring a suitcase full of suits.”

Those dark eyes followed him as he exited the bathroom and she shut the door.

When the water turned on, he imagined his naked wife . . . Gabi . . .

Yeah, he should probably think of something else.

He reached into the side pocket of his jacket, and then patted his back pockets . . . oh, yeah . . . his cell phone was sitting in a hotel vault, or worse, Gabi’s brother was searching his contacts . . . perhaps messages . . .

He tapped his fingers against his thigh.

His phone had a password, he reminded himself.

Hard to hack through a password.

Or was it?

The water from the shower turned off, and his brain raced from cell phones to skin.

They had four nights on the island. Four.

He’d been in more hostile environments than this . . . four days wasn’t that long.

“The shower’s yours,” Gabi called from the other side of the villa. She’d taken the larger of the two rooms. The bathroom had two doors, one to the room she occupied and the other to the rest of the apartment suite.

He stepped into the bathroom. The steam raced against his skin, as did the scent of the floral soap Gabi used.

The door to her room was cracked, and he caught a glimpse of her wrapped in a large bath towel as she padded around her suite.

Bare shoulders and bare knees shouldn’t make every part of his anatomy tighten . . . but they did.

Feeling like a peeping pervert, he silently closed the door and shed his clothing.

Cold showers and a warm climate.

Four days, he reminded himself. How hard could that be?

Holy hell . . . four days?

She emerged from her room in simple spaghetti-strapped silk that flowed over her curves and made then damn near invisible. They weren’t.

Gabi’s hair was tossed into what appeared to be a mess on the top of her head, which he knew many women paid close to two hundred bucks to have done for them. Her makeup was minimal . . . a little gloss, a touch at her eyes. She didn’t need it.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asked when she caught him staring.

He considered diverting his obvious gawking, then decided against it.

“You’re stunning.”

The hand she’d brought to her face to wipe fictitious dirt away fell to her side.

And Gabriella Masini Blackwell blushed.

Before she could say a thing, he added, “This island has relaxed you already and we’ve only been here two hours.”

She looked at her feet, then out the massive glass doors that disappeared when opened. “It’s hard to take in that view and not feel your heartbeat slow.”

Only his sped . . . from his vantage point, in any event.

Hunter shoved one hand into the linen pocket of his pants and took a step toward her. He offered his arm.

Instead of taking it, she lifted her dark eyes to his. “We don’t have to pretend affection here,” she reminded him.

That burned.

“You can’t be stabbing me in the back when you’re at my side,” he told her. “And right now, you’re the only person on this island who tells me to my face to jump off a cliff.”

A soft grin started to lift her lips. “You need assurance no one will push you to a splattering death?”

He winced. “I’ll stay clear of sharp edges.”

He nudged his elbow her way a second time.

She took it.

“I like him.”

Meg stood beside her mother-in-law and observed the newlyweds as Gabi introduced Hunter to one of the chefs who cornered them as they walked into the dining room.

“How do you know if you like him? You just met him,” Meg said.

“First impressions are important. Gabriella walked off his plane with a smile on her face. One I haven’t seen in some time.”

“That could be all Gabi and not Hunter.” Meg and Simona stood in front of their table, neither taking their seats. “Val can’t stand the man.”

Simona offered a snort.

Neither of them voiced what they both knew. Val had liked Alonzo, a fact that still haunted him.

The couple broke away from the chef and headed toward them.

Meg glanced around, wondered what was keeping Val. He’d been on the way down to the dining room when she’d agreed to walk Simona over.

The resort’s main dining room was lush with tropical floral arrangements and white linen. Several guests were already well into their meals, and many others were coming in for a formal meal.

Meg and Val took a few meals a week in the main dining room. Simona insisted on torturing—or teaching, as the older woman put it—Meg to cook.

If there was one thing Meg wasn’t, it was a cook. She managed pasta for fear of an untimely death at the hands of her mother-in-law. The relentless woman never eased up on Meg’s ability to cook a proper Italian meal.

The only good news in the forced education narrowed down to the bottle of wine she polished off with every pasta-from-scratch lesson.

Gabi kissed her mother when they arrived at the table. “It’s like I never left.”

“Then come home,” Simona suggested.

Gabi glanced up at Hunter, then back to her mother. “Not yet, Mama.”

Simona grunted, the sound so familiar Meg found herself laughing. She patted the space beside her. “You’re sitting here, Mr. Blackwell. Gabi, on my other side.”

An amused grin fell over Hunter’s face as he pulled out chairs.

“I’m going to see what’s keeping Val,” Meg told them as she excused herself.

She found him lingering outside the doors of the dining room greeting some of the guests. The act wasn’t new, but his timing was off. Val was, above all things, prompt.

The same worry she’d seen etched between his eyes when he heard of his sister’s marriage was tattooed there again.

She slid her arm around his waist and wiggled into the brief conversation he was having.

Val kept his tone even and wrapped an arm over her shoulders. “I’m delighted you’ve enjoyed your stay.”

“We’re already planning our return trip, Mr. Masini.”

All pleasantries aside, the older couple moved inside.

“Everyone is seated,” Meg whispered.

He grumbled . . . not the grunt of his mother, but close.

“I don’t like him,
cara
. How am I going to manage to eat with him at my table?”

She squeezed the hand holding his waist. “One bite at a time. C’mon. Your mom already separated the two of them. And I’ll sit next to Hunter to help buffer.”

Val kissed the top of her head and took her hand as they walked toward their party.

Hunter stood briefly when Val pulled out Meg’s chair. The gesture was normally reserved for those over the age of fifty . . . or from lands well beyond the shores of the Florida Keys. Meg noticed an appreciative glance from Simona. Even Gabi glanced at her temporary husband and managed a glimpse of a smile.

“I haven’t had time to truly settle, Val, but from what I can see, you have a spectacular island here.”

The compliment, freely given by every guest, wasn’t accepted as easily from Hunter Blackwell.

“It serves its purpose.”

Meg placed a hand under the table to Val’s knee. The man was a ball of tension. His jaw twitched, his eyes kept in line with Hunter without so much as a single blink.

Meg diverted the conversation. “Tell me what’s going on back in California,” she said to Gabi.

“It’s quiet . . . well, except for Jordan’s condition.”

Meg knew Sam’s sister wasn’t healthy.

“How’s Sam doing?”

“I haven’t seen much of her,” Gabi told her. “We’ve spoken a few times. Eliza has been by her side more than not.”

They discussed Sam’s sister and broke the tension between the men, but didn’t manage to lighten the mood at the table.

The waiter arrived with two bottles of wine. Val proceeded to sample the wine and wave his hand in agreement. “I’ve heard you’re breaking into the oil business, Blackwell.”

Hunter lifted the glass recently poured. “I am. Pipelines, actually.”

“With the country investing so much in solar, isn’t oil a risk?” Meg asked.

Val didn’t give Hunter time to answer. “Not really, Margaret. There’s plenty of oil here, just a lack of infrastructure to deliver it to refinery plants.”

“Do you invest?” Hunter asked.

Val shrugged, but Meg noticed her husband’s thoughtful gaze.

“We’re eating, Valentino. Business can wait.” Simona turned her direction toward Hunter. “Tell me about your mother.”

Hunter swallowed half his glass of wine in one gulp. “I’d rather talk about oil.”