“Mrs. Picano most certainly does have an account.” He reached into his pocket and removed a folded paper before handing it over.
She couldn’t read the language, not completely, but understood a few key words. The money was in euros, there were several zeros, and her name was listed. Instead of telling the man she knew nothing about the account, she soaked in the name of the bank and the account number and returned the paper.
“Do I have your attention now, Gabriella?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“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.