Hunter finished the rest of his drink and set the glass aside.
“You have a unique opportunity with a woman who has a heart the size of Texas. You’re about to bring a child into your home who is going to need more than a bitter old man raising him. You have the world a snap away and you’re blowing it.”
Hunter fixed his eyes on the only person in his life willing to talk to him this way. “I blew it before I began.”
“Then you need to do what every other red-blooded man out there does. Find some damn duct tape and fix it.” Andrew took to his feet and started to leave the room.
Hunter stopped him.
“Why do you care if I fix anything?”
Andrew looked around the room. “I want the solo title of bitter old man.”
Hunter smiled at that.
“And the tree is a nice touch.”
He walked out of the room, leaving his wisdom behind.
“So Blackwell wants to be a daddy . . . how perfect.” Diaz tapped the table in thought. Of all the useless information he’d obtained by listening to the Blackwell’s conversations, this one would pay off.
“This is going to be easier than I thought, eh, Raul?” Diaz snapped his fingers. “I need those pictures.”
“Pictures, what pictures?”
“Picano sent you pictures before he ended up dead. Blackmail-worthy pictures. I think a few were of his wife.”
Raul shrugged and twisted back to the computer.
Diaz had to give the dead guy credit. He covered his tracks when it came to Gabriella. Marry her, put the money in her name, make her look as guilty as he was . . . have dirt on her . . . string her up. Had the man lived, he would have walked far enough to run until the law couldn’t find him.
Damn shame he ended up with a chest full of lead.
Screws up anyone’s day.
It took Raul a good hour to find and hack into the images.
Diaz flipped through the pictures, held the one with Gabriella Blackwell holding her arm out for a hit. Nothing better than an image of Blackwell’s wife banging up caught on film. “Perfecto.” There were others . . . but the most damning was the one of an imperfect socialite in the throes of a drug-induced high. The picture was worth a few million if Blackwell wanted to keep it from the judge deciding his eligibility to hold sole custody of his son. Diaz nodded Raul’s way. “Now I need you to find the life insurance company Picano used. I need his policy number, a name of an agent . . . everything.”
Raul sniffed, shot both index fingers in the air, and started typing.
Later, Diaz pulled his cigar from his lips, sucked in the smoke, and blew it out slowly. He had everything he needed, and soon he’d have Hunter Blackwell’s balls in his hand. The man had a couple of important decisions in front of him.
His son . . . his wife . . . or his money.
Gabi didn’t know which room Hunter slept in, but it wasn’t hers. She woke the next morning with bloodshot eyes and a headache to kill all others. She’d managed to come to a conclusion somewhere around two in the morning.
The bed she made was her own. She’d chosen Alonzo and all his false advertising. She’d decided to marry Hunter instead of bringing her troubles to the doorstep of her family. She’d consciously and quite willingly begun a physical relationship with her temporary husband. The emotional attachment wasn’t something she had expected, but somewhere between fall and winter, her heart started to crack and Hunter took hold.
He said he couldn’t be trusted and didn’t deserve her. He freely admitted he was using her, and yet she’d hoped that something had changed inside him as it had her.
How had Lori put it? To come out of this marriage whole, she’d have to find the cold and detached part of her that had entered into it.
Only as she showered and attempted to hide the circles under her eyes, the image in the mirror was of a broken woman, not a cold one.
She squared her shoulders and added one layer at a time. Moisturizer, something to block the circles . . . a layer of armor disguised as foundation. A blush of confidence she was going to have to fake until it felt natural. Her eyes, the best asset she had, were going to have to pop today. An uplifting swirl of liner and a thick coat of mascara were equivalent to a clown painting on a smile. The dark plum lipstick completed her cosmetic arsenal. She piled her hair on her head with a teasing strand or two lying on her neck.
Hunter liked it down . . .
She’d wear it up.
Gabi stepped into the walk-in closet and dropped her robe. Every inch of clothing had a job other than what the tailor intended. Her underclothing made her smile; even more when she knew Hunter would like them but never see them.
The sexual part of them was over.
The knit top hugged her breasts and slimmed over her waist before sitting low on her hips. The silk pants felt like a layer of soft skin, and the three-inch heels offered the right amount of sex appeal she desired.
The entire routine took an hour of her morning and reminded her of how strong she was. No more tears.
No more trust.