of the life she was giving their son. Their tiny apartment, their parlous financial state, the fact she worked so hard she barely got to see him, and instead had to have a downstairs neighbour come and stay overnight to help out. It was a mess. And Raf deserved so much better.
For Raf, and Raf alone, Abigail had to find a way to see Gabe—and to tell him the truth.
And this time she wasn’t going to let him turn her away without hearing her out first.
‘THERE’S A MISS HOWARD here to see you, sir,’ Benita, his assistant, spoke into the intercom.
From the outside Gabe barely reacted, but inside he felt surprise rock him to the core. She’d come to his damned office? What the actual hell? How many times did he have to tell her to stay away from him?
He reached for his phone, lifting it out of the cradle. ‘Did you say...?’
‘Miss Howard.’
He tightened his grip on the receiver and stared straight ahead. It was a grey day. A gloomy sky stretched over Manhattan, though he knew at street level the city was buzzing with a fever of pre-Christmas activity.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his assistant to call the police, when he remembered a small detail. The way Abigail had been two nights earlier, her eyes wet with unshed tears, her lip quivering. As though she really did need that menial job.
He knew it to be a lie, of course. But what was the truth? What ruse was she up to? What game was she playing? Was she looking to hurt Rémy? Or was her latest scheme more complex?
He owed it to his friend to find out. But not here. His office was littered with all manner of documents someone like Abigail would find valuable.
‘Tell her I’m busy. She can wait for me, if she’d like,’ he said, knowing full well she would wait—and that he’d enjoy stretching that out as long as possible.
He stayed at his desk for the remainder of the day. Hours passed. He caught up on his emails, read the latest report from his warehouse in China, called Noah. It was nearly six when Benita buzzed through.
‘I’m all done for the day, Mr Arantini. Unless there’s anything else you need?’
‘No, Benita.’
‘Also, sir, Miss Howard is still here.’
His lips flattened into a grim line. Of course she was.
‘Tell her I’m aware she’s waiting.’
He disconnected the call and picked up the latest report on Calypso’s production, but struggled to focus. Five hours after she’d arrived, the suspense was getting under his skin.
With a heavy sigh, he stood, lifted his jacket from the back of a conference chair and pushed his arms into it, before pulling the door between his office and the reception area open.
It was still well-lit, but the windows behind Abigail were pitch-black. The night sky was heavy and ominous. Despite the fact Christmas was a month away, an enormous tree stood in one corner, and it shone now with the little lights that had been strung through its branches. They cast an almost angelic glow on Abigail. An optical illusion, obviously. There was nothing angelic about this woman.
Her eyes lifted to him at the sound of his entrance, and he ignored the instant spark of attraction that fired in his gut. He was attracted to character traits—intelligence, loyalty, strength of character, integrity. She had none of those things. Well, intelligence, he conceded, but in a way she used for pure evil.
‘What do you want?’ he asked, deliberately gruff.
She seemed surprised—by his tone? Or the fact he’d actually appeared?
‘I didn’t think you were going to see me,’ she said, confirming that it was the latter. ‘I thought you must have already left.’
‘My first instinct was to have you removed,’ he said. ‘You know I’m capable of it.’ Now heat stained her cheeks, and her chin tilted defiantly towards him. ‘But then it occurred to me that I should find out what you’re planning.’
‘Planning?’
‘Mmm. You must have some reason for working in my friend’s kitchen. So? What is it?’
She shook her head. ‘Gabe...’
‘I prefer you to call me Mr Arantini,’ he said darkly. ‘It better suits what I think of you and how little I wish to know you.’
She swallowed, and the action drew his attention to the way she’d dressed for this meeting. That was to say, with no particular attempt to impress. Jeans again, though she did wear them well, and a black sweater with a bit of beading around the neckline. She wore ballet slippers on her feet, black as well, but scuffed at the toes.
Her eyes sparked with his, emotions swirling in them. ‘Gabe,’ she repeated, with a strength he found it difficult not to admire. Not many people could be on the receiving end of Gabe’s displeasure and come out fighting. ‘The night we met, I was...’
‘Stop.’ He lifted a hand into the air, his manner imperious. ‘I do not want to rehash the past. I don’t care about you. I don’t care about your father. I don’t care about that night except for one reason. You taught me a lesson I’ll never forget. I let my guard down with you in a way I hadn’t done in years. And you reminded me why I don’t make a habit of that.’ He said with a shrug that was an emulation of nonchalance, ‘Now I want you to get out of my life, for the last time.’
‘Listen to me,’ she said.
‘No!’ It was a harsh denial in a silent room. ‘Not when every word that comes from your mouth is a self-serving lie.’
She clamped her lips together and his eyes chased the gesture, remembering how her pillowy lower lip had felt between his teeth. A kick of desire flared inside him. Desire? For this woman?
What was wrong with him?
Celibacy, that was what. He should have found someone else for his bed before this—why had he let the ghost of Abby fill his soul for so long?
‘You traded your body, your looks, hell, your virginity, because of what it could get you. That makes you no better than...’
He didn’t finish the sentence but his implication hung between them, angry and accusing.
‘I wanted you, Gabe, just like you wanted me. Calypso wasn’t a part of that.’ She blinked up at him, and he felt it. The same charge of electricity shot from her to him that had characterised that first night, their first meeting. It was a bolt of lightning; he was rattled by heavy, drugging need. God, would he forgive himself for acting on it? For leaning down and kissing her, for pushing her to the floor and making her his one last time before kicking her out of his life for good?
No.
She had used him; he wouldn’t use her.
That
