“It’s a pot filler. For pasta.”
She opened the side-by-side Sub-Zero refrigerator. The light went on, displaying a case of bottled water . . . further evidence that the home wasn’t occupied. Through the eat-in kitchen sat a dining room, a butler’s pantry, and an open formal dining room. Several sets of double doors opened into a loggia that expanded the living space to twice the size of the inside space.
Gabi walked through the doors and muttered something about the fireplace and furnishings.
By the time they were upstairs and into the master bedroom, Hunter knew she’d found the right house. Like a child in a candy store, she giggled when she saw the size of the tub and shower. Iron accents and rustic colors were obviously Gabi’s personal taste. The upstairs balcony looked down on the yard, the pool . . . the massive space below.
When they moved back downstairs, Ms. Fortier opened doors and poked around the spaces they’d yet to explore.
“You like it,” Hunter said close to her ear.
“It’s . . . it’s too much.”
He grinned and turned when Ms. Fortier called them over. “You have to see this.”
Gabi had a spring in her step as they followed the real estate agent down a narrow stairway. The brick walls were darker than any of the other spaces but suited the home perfectly.
“What Italian home is complete without a wine cellar?” Ms. Fortier said.
They stopped at the bottom of the stairway and Gabi lost her smile before stumbling back. Hunter reached out and held her elbow.
She was cold, stone cold.
“Gabi?”
She shivered and closed her eyes. “I’m OK.”
No, she wasn’t. Hunter looked around the beautiful space, saw bottles of wine, empty racks for more. “Let’s get you back upstairs.”
The fact that she didn’t pull away when he wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her back upstairs told him the wine cellar had sparked some kind of bad memory.
She was silent as he sat her on the nearest sofa and asked that Ms. Fortier find her a glass of water.
“Give us a minute,” Hunter told the real estate agent once she returned with the water.
Ms. Fortier stepped outside, leaving them alone.
He sat on the wooden coffee table and waited for Gabi to stop trembling before he spoke. “Are you OK now?”
She sipped the water, her hand still shaking. “Yeah.” Gabi laid the back of her hand to her forehead. “I didn’t expect that.”
“The wine cellar?”
“No. My reaction to it.”
He hadn’t expected it, either. “I guess we can mark this house off our list.”
She offered a quick shake of her head. “No. The house is lovely. Perfect, really.”
“You nearly passed out a minute ago by walking into a basement.”
She attempted a smile and Hunter felt her squeeze his hand. It was then he noticed that he held hers. Gabi must have realized it, too, and pulled away.
“It’s one room in a big house. I don’t have to go into it.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and asked, “Why the strong reaction, Gabi?”
Her gaze met his, her forced smile faded. “It’s not important.”
Which translated meant none of your business.
Hunter took the water from her hand, set it aside. He had a year and a half to discover her secrets. Something told him it wouldn’t take that long.
Gabi swayed when she stood, reached out to steady herself on his arm, then promptly let go. “Thank you,” she said. “For not prying.”
“I want to,” he told her.
“I know.”
Ms. Fortier walked into the room, concern on her face. “Shall we move on?”
Gabi looked around the room, her eyes fell on him. “What are they asking for this house?”
There was shock in Ms. Fortier’s voice when she spoke. “Eighteen point four.”
Gabi’s head snapped toward the other woman. “Million?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t I say less than ten?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Hunter stepped between them. “Write up an offer.”
“Hunter!” Gabi called behind him.
“The house is perfect, you said yourself. I’ll bolt the cellar door. What do you think about the furnishings?” He shifted the conversation as if the purchase of the home was a foregone conclusion.
Gabi closed the space between them and tugged on his arm to get his attention. “You’re being impulsive.”
“I’m being practical. Buying furniture takes time.”
“I’m not talking about the furniture. I’m talking about the house. Eighteen point four million dollars is—”
“My standard of living,” he said, his gaze firm. “Just like we agreed upon.”
Gabi glanced between Ms. Fortier and Hunter. “Fine.”
“Wonderful,” Ms. Fortier said.
Gabi leaned close. “I was trying to save you some money.”
“If I wanted to save money, I wouldn’t have gotten married.”
“I want to pick out my own furniture!”
Hunter met her eyes . . . added a slow smile. “Fine.”
Chapter Ten