Tangled Destinies. Diana Palmer
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go,” the short one growled, tugging at the purse. “Come on, baby, you got all kinds of money, ain’t you never heard of sharing?”
“Yeah, we ain’t all rich, you know,” the tall one mumbled.
“Whew!” The heavyset boy whistled as he studied the contents of her bag. “Five big ones.” He held up the ten-dollar bills in his fist. “Not bad,” he grumbled, digging further.
Gaby was terrified. She didn’t care much about the money but wasn’t sure what would happen next. She’d never felt so alone or helpless. Tears stung her eyes when she saw one of the boys grin at her lecherously. She backed away, preparing to defend herself from them, knowing exactly what was on their minds, but she tripped on something and fell heavily to the ground. She felt her back hit the hard concrete, saw them looming over her, felt hands at her blouse.
“What’s going on here?” an unexpected deep voice demanded from the end of the blind alley.
The boys jerked up, staring toward the light. The figure blocking it looked massive, even at that distance. Very dark, wearing a white T-shirt and tight slacks that showed every bulging muscle. Even at this distance Gaby could see crisp, straight black hair and eyes so big and black that they de-emphasized the formidable straight nose, square jaw, and leonine quality of the rough face.
“Hey, Marc,” the shorter boy protested, hands palms upward. “Hey, no trouble, okay?”
The man he’d called Marc stared past him at the thin, disheveled redhead on the ground. “You okay, honey?” he asked her in a voice like deep, dark velvet.
She wanted to cry now that it was almost over, now that she had help. “Yes,” she managed, but her voice sounded quavering. She scrambled to her feet, clutching her blouse.
“Come on over here, then,” he coaxed. “You’re fine now, they won’t bother you again.”
Once she was safe behind him, Marc took two quick steps forward. He landed a powerful blow to the taller boy’s solar plexus, sending him crashing to the ground. Almost without pausing he spun around to Gaby’s other attacker, who by now was cringing. A quick right hook sent the boy sprawling next to his friend.
“That make you feel any better, honey?” Marc asked with a chuckle.
“Thanks,” she said, panting and holding tight to her open purse as she joined him. He looked good even close up, grease stains and all. His mouth was wide and had a chiseled look to it, and he was smiling mockingly.
“My pleasure. Terry and Gus aren’t my favorite neighbors. They take any money?”
“A little,” she said, glaring down at them. “Let them keep it. I don’t want to soil my hands by touching it.”
Marc scowled and moved forward again. He bent and jerked the ten-dollar bills from the grasp of the shorter boy, who was still groaning. “Forget it, Gus,” he said tightly. “You’re not getting paid to attack little girls. Stick your dirty nose in my neighborhood again and I’ll cut it off even with your eyelashes. Understand?”
Gus swallowed. “Yeah. Sure, buddy.” He looked nervous. “You, uh, you won’t mention this around your uncle?”
“Uncle Michael wouldn’t soil his hands on you.” Marc laughed mirthlessly. “He’s got too much pride to bother with garbage. Get out. Both of you.”
As the boys edged past, the bigger one shot a regretful glance at Gaby and took off running. One of them made a gesture that caused her to blush, but Marc returned it with interest.
“Hotshots,” he muttered, staring after them with his hands on his narrow hips. He looked down at the girl curiously, noticing her cashmere sweater, leather purse and boots, and real pearl earrings. Money, he thought. Not much to look at, poor little thing, all thin angles from her shoulders down to her feet. That wild auburn hair must look stylish to her own crowd, and her eyes were the biggest, greenest ones he’d ever seen. He cocked his head to study her. In a few years she might be something to look at, he concluded. And she had spirit, which appealed to him.
“Out of your league down here, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I sure am,” she agreed, brushing back her hair. “From now on it’s karate lessons. I’m being wasted at music class.”
He chuckled. “What’s your name?”
“Gabrielle, but I’m called Gaby. Gaby Bennett. And you?”
“Marcus Stephano,” he volunteered. His head jerked toward the garage down the street. “I own half of the neighborhood auto shop. God didn’t think I should be rich, but he gave me good hands. I can fix anything short of broken hearts.”
“You saved me,” she offered. “Thanks.” With a mischievous grin she gestured at herself. “It isn’t much, but it’s yours.”
He smiled, a genuine smile. “You’re not so bad, honey. I like your style, Gaby Bennett.”
“I like yours, too, Mr. Stephano.”
“Marc.” He pursed his wide lips. “What are you doing down here?”
“I walked home from piano class,” she confessed. “Not my brightest idea so far, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You must lead a sheltered life.”
“Smothered, if you want to know,” she blurted out.
“Rich kid?”
“I guess.” She sighed, walking along beside him. He towered over her despite her above-average height. “My dad’s an investment firm and my mother is a jewelry store.”
“My dad was a petty criminal, and my mother wasn’t much better,” he said matter-of-factly. Her breath caught, and he grinned.
“Yeah, that’s right, you’re in bad company, pet,” he told her. “I’m a mean man. I come from a line of those swarthy gangster types your mama probably warned you about. My uncle’s big-time stuff around here.”
“You don’t scare me, big man,” she returned, smiling back. “I owe you my life, remember?”
“Not your life, exactly,” he said, letting his darker-than-night eyes go slowly down her slender body. “Do you eat?”
“No, I live on pure oxygen and Bach concerts in the park. But if you like, I’ll start sneaking cream cakes for breakfast.”
“You do that. We Italians like a little meat on our women’s bones.”
She laughed and fell into step with him. It was spring, and suddenly the world was bright and beautiful and blazing with new color. Overhead, the streetlights took on a magical quality as she walked toward home with a stranger who was rapidly becoming a friend...
“GREAT SHOTS, GABY,” Harry Dean grinned as he helped her up from a lounging position on the hood of a rebuilt 1956 Chevrolet. “Motocraft, Inc., will love it! You’ll sell auto parts by the barrelful.”
“I’d better sell transmissions.” She laughed, stretching lazily in the skimpy halter-and-shorts set she’d worn for the layout. They were white, and she was nicely tanned from her long auburn hair down to her pretty toes. Slender, green-eyed and vivacious, Gaby Bennett was a top model and earned big money at her profession. This layout for Motocraft, Inc., had been one of her best jobs to date. She was rapidly becoming known as the First Lady of Parts, an in-joke with her modeling friends.
Apparently the executives of the auto parts and transmission specialists corporation had been very picky, because ten girls had been turned down before they had approached her agency about the layout. Gaby had been picked immediately. This was the first of a series of commercials she was shooting for them, and it might