“Just asked me to watch out for you.”
“Spy?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. More like, he knows you’re a beautiful woman and are married to one of the richest men in the States. You never know who might lurk, ya know?”
That didn’t sit well. Her face must have shown her concern. Charles instantly jumped to put her at ease. “Before I took this job, I trained in firearms and hand-to-hand self-defense. You’re safe with me, Mrs. Blackwell.”
His conviction made up for his size.
She really needed to get over her paranoia. Maybe it was time to see her counselor again. It had been six months and she’d not felt the need. But since she said “I do,” that need seeped back in.
Six blocks and four red lights from the complex Hunter lived in, Charles used his hands-free phone and called ahead. “Two minutes,” he said.
If Gabi was worried about the paparazzi getting too close, she needn’t have. Not only was Hunter standing at the curb when Charles pulled in, but beside him were two men twice his size, their hands loose at their sides while they all but dared the media to shove in too close.
Hunter opened the door and extended a hand.
He wore a tux. Crisp black, clean white shirt, and a tie that was a little askew. His hair was mussed a little in the front, as if he’d run a nervous hand in it prior to her arrival.
Gabi placed one leg out of the limo and felt his eyes find her bare skin under the slit of her dress. She placed her hand in his and let him lift her from the low car.
When she stood her full height, nearly meeting his gray eyes in her four-inch heels, she realized he hadn’t let her hand go. Instead, he lifted it to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
Flashes exploded around them.
Of course . . . the media was close enough to grab pictures, but not close enough to touch.
“You’re stunning,” he said under his breath.
With a tug, she removed her hand from his and placed it on his tie. Once it sat perfectly, she smiled.
“Mr. Blackwell . . . one picture.”
“Some of us have to make a living,” another voice called.
Gabi noticed Charles move behind them and waved his hands in the air as if to remind the media to keep a distance.
“I have kids to feed, Mrs. Blackwell . . . help a guy out?”
Hunter started to pull her away and she held firm. The need to feed the kids was probably a line, but Gabi didn’t think there would be any harm in smiling for a few shots.
Hunter nodded toward the building and Gabi pulled his hand closer.
A ghost of a smile met his lips and did a dangerous twist to her gut. Understanding of her desires had him moving close and placing a hand around her waist. That dangerous twist did a double flip. Instead of thinking about it, she turned toward the man with kids and a huge lens and smiled.
Hunter turned her toward the media on the other side of the bodyguards and tugged her closer still. She felt the full length of the man, from shoulder to hip, and for the first time in more months than she could remember, she didn’t shiver. Even though the night was cool and she hadn’t bothered placing a wrap over her shoulders, she was warm.
His lips moved close to her ear. “I hear the hungry kid thing once a week.”
“Kids get hungry every day.”
He laughed, putting her at ease, and walked her out of the media lights.
One of the bodyguards stayed in the lobby, while the other rode up the elevator with them.
“Do you mind telling me what we’re doing tonight? Seems to me playing dress-up for an evening at home is a little overkill.” Gabi kept her eyes on the double doors, counting the floors as the elevator made a rapid climb to the top.
“A small reception. Mainly business associates and a few key media personalities to spread the word.”
She glanced at him briefly, realized he was staring. “You could have said as much.”
“You don’t like surprises?”
“Not particularly.”
“Hmm . . .” he glanced at the rising numbers. “I’ll remember that.”
The bell dinged.
“Ready?”
Like she had a choice. She placed her arm through his and plastered on a smile as the doors opened.
Small reception?
Perhaps Hunter didn’t understand the definition of the word small.
Women dressed to the nines, men in tuxes . . . it looked like a wedding reception, only she wasn’t wearing white. Would she have, had she known?
No, the gold sequins was close enough. Besides, the man was made of gold and there would be those who called her a gold digger, so why not run with it?
Two things hit her at once . . . she knew no one in the room. Not one soul outside of Hunter . . . and roses. The same red velvet roses he’d sent earlier in the day sat in every possible horizontal space in the room. It wasn’t a splash of color, it was a tsunami of fragrance and texture.
Hunter twisted away and returned with one single stem. “For you.”
He was too good-looking, too full of testosterone . . . too much. She glanced at the flowers again and couldn’t help but smile like a fool. “Who knew you had a pink side.”
His laugh caught the attention of everyone within earshot.
“Only you would dare say such a thing.”
She’d say more than that if they didn’t have an audience.
A pianist’s music filled the space as they walked into the room, his arm around her.
An older man approached instantly, as did a waiter with a tray of drinks.
“Mrs. Blackwell . . . can I take your purse?”
She glanced at Hunter, who nodded. “This is Andrew, Gabi. He works for us personally. You’ll get to know him very well.”