with his presence. His scent surrounded her, heady, masculine, potent. A throb of fury trembled in the air.
Her temper flared at his words. “Don’t act so sanctimonious. Men do this sort of thing all the time. I ought to know, I’ve defended several of them. You’re staring at me, looking like murder. What am I supposed to think?”
If anything, he appeared even angrier. But she felt a brief surge of . . . shame? Why should she be ashamed of a perfectly reasonable reaction?
Sarcasm laced his voice. “You can relax, sweetheart. I think I can manage to restrain myself.” He took a step nearer, almost but not quite touching her, his lips curving into a hard smile when she didn’t back away. “I don’t have to force women. They come to my bed willingly, or not at all. Don’t confuse me with your clients.” With that, he turned on his heel and left her.
Infuriated, Gabrielle watched him go. She kicked at her tire, then grabbed her foot, swearing at the pain. Normally she took care to let a man know exactly where she stood, but her relationship with Devlin was anything but normal. When it came to him she had a split personality. Her mind said, “Wait, this is stupid,” and her body said, “To hell with that. Go for it.” It was the first time she could remember that her body and her mind were totally at odds with each other.
Though tempted to ignore the insistent ringing of her doorbell, Gabrielle didn’t. Hobbling on one shoe, the other one clutched in her hand, she stalked toward the door. Rocky weaved around her legs, tripping her along the way. Bleary-eyed, she cursed halfheartedly at the dog. Her foul humor was Devlin’s fault. She’d spent half the night tossing and turning and still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about him. Trying to smooth things over would be the reasonable way to go, but she desperately wanted to bury the scene in oblivion.
The doorbell’s repeatedly cheerful chime tempted her to throw something. She cursed again as she stumbled over the dog. Mr. Weber, she thought. Who else would it be at 7:00 A.M.? The man loved to come over and hassle her before she left for work, complaining about her trees dropping gum balls on his perfectly manicured lawn, or Rocky’s barking, or anything else he could find to nag about. He needed to get a life, she thought, and geared up to tell him so.
Yanking open the door, she pointed her shoe at him and began, “Mr. Weber—”
Franco. His identity registered with a shock, and she instinctively tried to shut the door in his face. He shoved past her, smirking.
“Gabriela, really. I only came to thank you for getting me out of jail.”
“How did you—?” Stupid question, she thought, halting in midsentence. Franco could find her house easily enough. “Get out. If you want to talk to me, call me at the office.”
He shook his head pityingly. “Why so hostile, Gabriela?”
“You know why. Don’t play innocent, Franco. That’s the last thing you could ever be.”
“I’m deeply wounded,” he said, covering his heart with his hand. “Is that any way to treat your oldest friend?”
More like her worst nightmare. “Cut the crap. What do you want?” Taking a deep breath, she strove for control. She was overreacting, and she knew it. At least he thought she was angry. She’d be damned if she’d let him know how much he frightened her.
“A little matter you won’t want made public,” he answered. “A private conversation, bellisima.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It never had, except a very few times . . . Don’t remember, she told herself. She forced away the images flashing in her mind, concentrating on the present, not the past. It wasn’t a great deal better.
Trapped for the moment, Gabrielle bit the inside of her cheek, welcoming the distraction of the pain. “Make it quick, I’m running late.” She heard an odd rumble, a sound she couldn’t place at first. Against her leg, she felt Rocky quivering and
Her temper flared at his words. “Don’t act so sanctimonious. Men do this sort of thing all the time. I ought to know, I’ve defended several of them. You’re staring at me, looking like murder. What am I supposed to think?”
If anything, he appeared even angrier. But she felt a brief surge of . . . shame? Why should she be ashamed of a perfectly reasonable reaction?
Sarcasm laced his voice. “You can relax, sweetheart. I think I can manage to restrain myself.” He took a step nearer, almost but not quite touching her, his lips curving into a hard smile when she didn’t back away. “I don’t have to force women. They come to my bed willingly, or not at all. Don’t confuse me with your clients.” With that, he turned on his heel and left her.
Infuriated, Gabrielle watched him go. She kicked at her tire, then grabbed her foot, swearing at the pain. Normally she took care to let a man know exactly where she stood, but her relationship with Devlin was anything but normal. When it came to him she had a split personality. Her mind said, “Wait, this is stupid,” and her body said, “To hell with that. Go for it.” It was the first time she could remember that her body and her mind were totally at odds with each other.
Though tempted to ignore the insistent ringing of her doorbell, Gabrielle didn’t. Hobbling on one shoe, the other one clutched in her hand, she stalked toward the door. Rocky weaved around her legs, tripping her along the way. Bleary-eyed, she cursed halfheartedly at the dog. Her foul humor was Devlin’s fault. She’d spent half the night tossing and turning and still hadn’t decided what she was going to do about him. Trying to smooth things over would be the reasonable way to go, but she desperately wanted to bury the scene in oblivion.
The doorbell’s repeatedly cheerful chime tempted her to throw something. She cursed again as she stumbled over the dog. Mr. Weber, she thought. Who else would it be at 7:00 A.M.? The man loved to come over and hassle her before she left for work, complaining about her trees dropping gum balls on his perfectly manicured lawn, or Rocky’s barking, or anything else he could find to nag about. He needed to get a life, she thought, and geared up to tell him so.
Yanking open the door, she pointed her shoe at him and began, “Mr. Weber—”
Franco. His identity registered with a shock, and she instinctively tried to shut the door in his face. He shoved past her, smirking.
“Gabriela, really. I only came to thank you for getting me out of jail.”
“How did you—?” Stupid question, she thought, halting in midsentence. Franco could find her house easily enough. “Get out. If you want to talk to me, call me at the office.”
He shook his head pityingly. “Why so hostile, Gabriela?”
“You know why. Don’t play innocent, Franco. That’s the last thing you could ever be.”
“I’m deeply wounded,” he said, covering his heart with his hand. “Is that any way to treat your oldest friend?”
More like her worst nightmare. “Cut the crap. What do you want?” Taking a deep breath, she strove for control. She was overreacting, and she knew it. At least he thought she was angry. She’d be damned if she’d let him know how much he frightened her.
“A little matter you won’t want made public,” he answered. “A private conversation, bellisima.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. It never had, except a very few times . . . Don’t remember, she told herself. She forced away the images flashing in her mind, concentrating on the present, not the past. It wasn’t a great deal better.
Trapped for the moment, Gabrielle bit the inside of her cheek, welcoming the distraction of the pain. “Make it quick, I’m running late.” She heard an odd rumble, a sound she couldn’t place at first. Against her leg, she felt Rocky quivering and
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