Gabriel: Adamo Bodyguards Book 2 Read online

  Either way — though she felt so right in my arms that I didn’t want to let go — I need to give both of us time to get acquainted, to catch up on all those missing years. She’s shown no signs of being uncomfortable with me, but that could change if I act like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  Maybe I should be worried about what Rob will say, but I’m not. I’m pissed at him. He should be taking care of his baby sister. Since he’s not, I damn well will.

  It makes things easier, my not giving any fucks about his opinion. If he’d come in with her, if they were close, it’d be difficult not to feel guilty about my instant craving for her. As it is, the only person I need to persuade is Rachel.

  We reach the parking lot, still illuminated by the late-afternoon sun. Rachel’s car is easy to spot, since every other vehicle parked out here is one of ours. Her ride is a snazzy little convertible that almost looks smaller than I am … but I can picture her in it, her hair streaming out behind her as she motors along.

  The image makes me hard, like every other damn thing about her. I’m going to have the world’s bluest balls if she makes me wait too long. “Let me take a look,” I tell her, and head that way.

  I want to get some surveillance mounted at her home, and in her car too. Any spot that this creep might try to approach her.

  As I near the convertible — which has the roof closed — I spot something on the windshield. Cursing, I yank out my phone and call upstairs to the office. It rings a few times before Enzo answers.

  “What’s up? We were just leaving.”

  “I need you to bring an evidence bag down. And some gloves. And be sure we preserve the security camera footage for the parking lot.”

  “Got it.”

  Ending the call, I examine the envelope tucked under her windshield wiper. Rachel’s staring at it like it’s a bomb. “Does that look like the stationery he’s used before?” I ask.

  She leans down, but doesn’t make any move to touch it. “No, but I don’t think that means anything. He seems to use whatever’s at hand. I’ve gotten notes written on cardboard before, left outside my door.”

  That’s even worse than mailing her. If he’s been to the house while she was there, I have to elevate the potential threat level. “I assume you’ve notified the police.”

  “Yes, but I can’t prove it’s him. He’s clever; he hasn’t sent me emails, or anything traceable.”

  “Yeah. Good thing you came to us.” We do stay on the right side of the law for the most part, but sometimes we have to do stuff the cops can’t. If I have to personally convince this guy to leave her alone, I will.

  Enzo brings me the evidence container and gloves, and I carefully open the envelope. I don’t care if Albert Kukor is watching — let him see that she’s not alone, that she has backup. The card it contains has a picture of a flower on the front; the inside is blank except for a handwritten note.

  It reads, For a beautiful flower who needs the best soil to bloom. I turn the card so Rachel can read it. “Is that writing familiar?”

  “Yes, all his notes are in that hand.”

  “And is that language similar to what he usually says?”

  She nods. “No overt threats, as I said, and no outright demands either. Just lots of flowery language that implies that I belong with him, we’re meant to be together, and so on.”

  I’m impressed at how calm she is. It’s costing her — I can tell that much — but she’s holding it together.

  I’ve always been attracted to strong women. Combine that with her big brown eyes, lush, kissable mouth, and sweet scent … and Rachel Wilson packs one hell of a punch.

  Stay on track, Gabe. “Thanks for the assist. See you tomorrow,” I tell my brothers, and get Rachel into my SUV. Stashing the note inside the evidence bag, I swing into the driver’s seat and pull out onto the main drag. “Has he ever approached you face to face?”

  Rachel shifts slightly to look at me. I feel the weight of her gaze, like a warm, gentle hand against my skin. “Only that time at my brother’s party. We didn’t really interact then; I was talking with a group of other people, and he was staring at me in that unnerving way that people — usually men — sometimes do.

  “Someone there knew him, and told me his name, and said not to mind him, that he had the social skills of a gnat. They said it so he could hear it, which I didn’t think was very kind.”

  “No.” Accurate, maybe, but not kind.

  “But he did make me uneasy, so I didn’t shake his hand. I said hello, and then went back to my conversation. He didn’t leave for a while; he stood on the edge of the group, watching me.

  “Everyone ignored him, which made me feel bad, but at the same time, I didn’t want to invite his attention by being nice to him. I’d already had too many experiences with men who gave off the same kind of vibe.”

  I want to hurt every one of those men.

  “I got my first note three days later. No name; he never signs his name. But I knew it was him.”

  I pull into the parking lot at Armando’s. He’s one of our cousins, and his business is a bar and grill, which is basically like a pub would be in the UK: a family-friendly kind of place where people can come and bring their kids, grab a bite, or sit and have a drink if they want. Serious drinkers don’t like the atmosphere — it’s too relaxed and friendly — so things stay pretty mellow.

  There’s a fenced-off section at the back of the parking lot reserved for family and the occasional VIP, accessible with a key card. Parking’s always at a premium downtown.

  Several cars are parked there; I’ll see family inside. This area of the parking lot leads directly to a back entrance, so we don’t have to go out and around to get in.

  Randy, the bouncer on the back door, greets us as we come in, his eyes scanning Rachel with impersonal efficiency, committing her to memory. “A bouncer back here?” she murmurs to me.

  “People have been known to try to sneak in this way — which is dumb, since there’s no cover charge. Maybe they think there’s a secret back room where the orgies happen.”

  Her lips twitch. “There’s not?”

  “Well, if there is, I owe Armando a punch in the mouth, because he never told me.”

  The place is packed, as always. “Can we get a booth in the back?” I ask the hostess. It’s quieter there, more intimate.

  “We always find room for family.” She turns to Rachel, who’s been giving her a frank appraisal. “Hi, I’m Nia.”

  “Rachel. I was just wondering if you’ve ever modeled.”

  Nia’s smile gets bigger. She’s about five foot ten of gorgeous black woman. “Thank you. I haven’t, but I appreciate the compliment.”

  “Well, if you ever want to, let me know.”

  “Really.” Nia cocks her head, considering. “I hear it’s a pretty brutal business for people who like to eat more than a teaspoonful of food a day.”

  “It can be. You could easily do plus-size modeling, though. Not that you’re actually plus-sized, except by the bizarre standards of the fashion industry, but it’s less grueling.”

  “Good to know; thanks for the tip. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As she’s leading us to our booth, weaving past the other diners, I exchange greetings with the family members who are already here. Nia’s gotten us a spot in the very back corner of the back room, away from everyone else. It’s perfect; even my nosy cousins should leave us alone.

  We may be surrounded by people, but I’ll have Rachel all to myself.

  3

  The Rules Don’t Matter

  “Rob told me you were modeling. How did you get started with that?” Gabriel asks as we slide into our small, circular booth. “Was it something you always wanted to do?”

  “No, not at all. When I was younger, I kind of hated being so tall and skinny and awkward. One day, I was at the mall, and a man came up to me and said he was an agent and could get me work.

  “I didn’t believe him; I thought it
was some kind of gross pick-up line. But he gave me a business card to give to my mother, and she checked him out, and he was legit. Before long, he had jobs lined up.

  “My mom was still worried, though. At first, she went with me to all my jobs.”

  I fall silent. “And then?” he prompts, his voice gentle.

  “She got sick.”

  Before he can respond, a man comes up to our booth. He looks familiar, in a tall-dark-and-gorgeous kind of way. “Cugino,” he says, “it’s good to have you here.”

  Gabriel says, “Armando, this is Rachel Wilson. Rachel, my cousin Armando, the owner of this fine establishment.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wilson. Are you celebrating anything special tonight?”

  “A reunion,” Gabriel says, and he and his cousin exchange meaningful looks as my face heats.

  Armando says, “Then, with your permission, I’ll bring you a few select dishes to share.”

  “Sounds good,” Gabriel says, and Armando goes off. I’m relieved I don’t have to look at my menu, don’t have to make any choices. I’ve been on a diet more than half my life; counting every calorie has taught me to treat food as the enemy.

  “Hey.” Gabriel gives my hand a squeeze, and heat sparks through me. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I give him a faint smile; he gives me a cut the crap look. “It’s nothing.”

  “Rachel.” He leans in close, and the scent of him, deep and masculine and somehow quintessentially Gabriel, swims through me. I want to close my eyes and soak in it.

  “I get that you’re used to dealing with things yourself,” he goes on. “I respect that, and admire your strength. But nobody can go through life completely alone.”

  His remark hits far too close to home. Most of the time, it feels like the only person who really gives a damn whether I exist is my stalker. My lip quivers, and I blink back the sudden moisture in my eyes.

  “You’ve got people on your side now,” Gabriel goes on. “Let us help you.”

  “Of course,” I manage to say. “It’s why I came to you.”

  “Good.” He studies me, his expression serious. “I’m sorry I lost touch. That I didn’t keep tabs on you.”

  He’s going to shred me if he keeps this up. I look away, fighting for control. “But I promise you—” his voice is so close now, his lips almost touching my ear— “that is never going to happen again.”

  It’s too much, suddenly. Everything I’ve missed, all that I’ve lost, the hollowness inside me begging to be filled. And the man sitting next to me, who’s the only person on the planet I can trust with the depths of my need.

  I turn my head and meet his eyes, not hiding this time, letting him see every turbulent emotion storming through my soul. Especially the part where I want him to take me home and make me his, even if it’s only for one night.

  Awareness flares in his gaze, and I think I see an answering hunger there. Unless that’s just my wishful thinking, filling in the gaps. He doesn’t speak, but his hand cradles my face for a long moment, his touch trying to communicate what he can’t — or won’t — say with words.

  Armando returns with a bottle of champagne and a tray of raspberries, artfully arranged around a small bowl of dark chocolate sauce. I stare at them, trying to hide my dismay, but must not do a very good job. Once his cousin has withdrawn, Gabriel says quietly, “One bite. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it.”

  I try to find the words, because I need him to understand. “It’s not about not liking food.”

  “What is it about?” He sounds like he really wants to know.

  “When my mom got sick, she couldn’t afford her treatments. Modeling was how I paid for them. I needed every job I could get, so I had to stay thin.”

  His jaw tightens. “Where the hell was Rob? And what about your father? Even if they were divorced—”

  “She didn’t want them to know. She made me promise not to say anything.”

  He blows out a breath. “So she let you carry the burden instead, while you were still a child.”

  “That’s not fair.” It’s instinctive to defend her.

  “Rachel, I always liked your mom. She seemed like a nice lady. But the fact remains that she put you in a position you shouldn’t have been in.”

  “She didn’t ask to have cancer.”

  “But her pride was more important than your well-being?”

  I stare at the table, unable to either deny the truth of his words or agree with him. He curls his hand around mine. “I’m not trying to fight about it. I know families can be complicated, even without divorce in the mix.

  “It’s just … someone should have been looking out for you, Rachel. And it makes me mad, and sad, that no one was.”

  I turn my hand under his and squeeze hard. I’m too emotional to speak, but I want him to know that I’m listening. That his words matter.

  “Do you still have debts from your mom’s treatment?” he asks.

  “No, not anymore.”

  “So you’re still modeling because … you like it?”

  “No. Because it’s what I know.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “Because I’m a coward.”

  “Rachel. Look at me.” He waits until I do. “You’re not a coward. You’re an incredibly strong woman.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You lost your mom, and I can’t even imagine what that felt like. It makes sense that you’d want to stick to a routine, to what was familiar, as a way of getting through it.”

  “I’m afraid it’s all I’ll ever be good at. I’m afraid to try something else and fail.” All these words come tumbling out of my mouth, like I’ve been storing them up for the day I saw him again.

  Maybe I have.

  “The most successful people in the world are the ones who fail the most, you know.”

  I squint at him. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Failure is human; we all do it. So is not giving up. That’s what separates the ones who succeed from the ones who don’t.”

  “So the ones who fail the most, succeed—”

  “Because they keep trying, and learning, and getting better. So … what is it you want to fail your way to success at?”

  That makes me smile. Taking a deep breath, I confess what I’ve never shared with anyone. “Photography.”

  “Aha. You’d rather be on the other side of the lens.”

  “Yes. I only did the modeling for the money; I never wanted the attention, to be a celebrity or anything like that. I like looking at photographs and figuring out why they work, what makes them good. I think I have a decent eye, but I need to develop the actual photo-taking part of things.”

  “Do you have a camera?”

  “I do. I’ve been taking pictures for a few years now.”

  “So you’ve already started trying.” He nudges my knee gently with his. “Good for you. Do you have money saved up from the modeling?”

  “Enough to live on for several years, probably.”

  “So you don’t need to do it anymore. It’s a kind of … security blanket, at this point.”

  “Exactly. Ever since I got my camera, I’ve been thinking about quitting.”

  “How does that feel, when you think about it?”

  “It feels good. Incredibly freeing.”

  Gabriel picks up his glass of champagne. “To freedom.”

  I hold his gaze for a long moment. I haven’t felt brave enough to walk away, to never work another job, but the way he’s looking at me gives me strength.

  Given what my career is costing me, the choice to leave it seems obvious … but maybe it feels easy because, for the first time, I have something better on offer. Lifting my glass, I touch it to his. “Freedom.”

  We each take a sip. The champagne is so delicious that I have the sudden impulse to gulp it down like water. Now that the decision’s made, I’m almost giddy. “I can eat anything I want.”

 
; Setting down his glass, Gabriel takes a raspberry, dips it in the chocolate, and holds it to my lips … and suddenly our meal is about far more than food. With our eyes locked, I open my mouth just enough to let him insert the berry. My lips brush his fingers; there’s a bit of chocolate on one of them, and I lick it off.

  His eyes turn hot. I start to melt.

  He feeds me another raspberry, with the same sensual deliberation, and then I have to reciprocate. Gabriel doesn’t just take the fruit; he closes his mouth around the tip of my finger, sucking, and then lets me feel his teeth.

  I gasp as sensation rushes to my clit. Our booth has high walls, blocking us from casual view, and it’s a good thing Armando comes back right then or we might forget we’re in public.

  He’s brought us cheese fondue with squares of bread and pieces of apple, pear, and carrot. We feed each other more warm, gooey deliciousness, and when Gabriel follows up one of his morsels by tilting his head toward mine, I’m ready.

  Our tongues tangle together, letting us taste each other, and it goes to my head faster than the champagne. My hand curls around the back of his neck, holding him to me as I try to deepen the kiss. When his hand slides up my thigh, under my dress, my legs part instinctively to give him more room.

  I’ve never done anything with anybody before. First my mother was with me, protecting me; and by the time she was too sick to come with me on my jobs, I’d seen enough of what happened to other girls for my shields to be fully engaged every time I was working or out in public. Even then, I encountered enough creepy guys to convince me that men in general could not be trusted.

  But this is Gabriel, the one man I’ve always wanted, and for him the rules aren’t just different; they don’t matter at all.

  4

  Just A Bump In The Road

  My thumb brushes her clit, and she whimpers into my mouth. Fuck, I want her. Now.

  It’s all I can do not to drag her onto my lap, pull her panties aside, and drive my cock into her pussy. I’d wrap my arms around her waist, hold her still when anyone came by, and then rock up into her, slow and deep, until she came, my hand over her mouth to block her cries.