Tangled Destinies. Diana Palmer
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She felt his hands before she looked up and saw his face. Big, warm, firm hands that kept her from pitching to the floor. Hands that her body remembered long before her eyes flooded with helpless memory.
“Gaby?” His deep voice ran through her like ripples on clear water, and her heart beat crazily as she straightened, drowning in the spicy scent of his cologne, a scent she’d associated with him all the long years.
Her wide green eyes searched his black ones, and all her resolutions to hate him, to wreak vengeance, went into stark eclipse. She’d heard of people being frozen in place, but until now she’d never actually experienced it. She didn’t move. She hardly breathed. The world narrowed to Marcus Stephano’s broad, dark face, and she looked and looked until her starving heart began to expand with feeling.
Older. He was older. There were streaks of gray in the thick straight black hair that still fell onto his forehead in unruly strands. There were lines under his eyes, beside his chiseled, wide mouth. He was heavier than he used to be but was still all muscle: broad shoulders that strained against a beautifully tailored jacket, powerful legs that were barely encased in thin, close-fitting slacks. Under his brow his dark eyes narrowed and stared down at her unblinkingly, as if he, too, were comparing memory with reality.
It was too quick. She’d expected that she might see him, dreaded and anticipated it with wild abandon. But she hadn’t expected that it would happen suddenly, like this, before she had time to prepare herself. It was like walking into a hole in a shallow creek.
“Marc,” she said, her voice sounding ghostly, not its normal, sweet contralto.
His chest expanded with what looked like a deliberate breath, but his face showed nothing. Just like old times.
“Surely I haven’t changed that much, honey?” he asked, nothing hostile in his tone. “You’ve grown up, little Gaby. I hardly recognized you.”
Her nails gripped her small purse until she thought they might pierce the delicate leather. But somehow she smiled.
“I’m nine years older,” she reminded him. “Twenty-six, my last birthday.”
“Yes, I know.” He let his eyes go slowly down her body. She felt almost as if he were touching her skin, and she trembled inside. Part of her was glad that she’d chosen to wear a silky, sleeveless beige dress that clung lovingly to her body and that she’d put her hair up into a sleek chignon. She looked elegant and sophisticated, and her eyes were triumphant when she saw the masculine appreciation in his hard face. “You were a bud then. You’ve blossomed.”
“Quite,” she said in a haughty tone.
He still didn’t react. His eyes went past her to Joe, as if he’d only just realized that his brother was with her. Joe’s face was an emotionless mask, and his hands were jammed deeply into his pockets.
“Ciao, mio fratello,” Marc said in Italian, and smiled pleasantly at the younger man.
“Hi,” Joe replied. “I thought Gaby might like to see the offices and meet David Smith, our vice president in charge of advertising.”
“Oh, yes,” Marc said. He glanced at his watch and pulled a gold cigarette case from his inside pocket, his eyes steady and curious on Gaby’s flushed face. “You’re our new image, aren’t you, Gaby?”
He seemed so condescending that she colored. So that was how he planned to play it. Very cool, she gave him that.
“We’re lucky to get her,” Joe broke in, sounding more belligerent than she’d ever heard him.
“Gaby’s reached the point where she’s turning down work these days.”
“Yes, indeed,” she agreed, laying it on thick as she peered up at the taller man and treated him to a flirtatious smile. “I’m in demand, as they say. My bankbook runneth over.” Her eyes narrowed, and the smile iced over. “Sometimes I make more than five thousand a week.”
She’d chosen the figure deliberately, and she watched it hit home, watched his expression freeze in place. He didn’t move for a long moment.
“Nice for you,” he said then, and the mask was in place again. It had hardly slipped at all.
“Nice for you, if this place is indicative of your empire, Mr. Stephano,” she said, glancing around at furnishings that were obviously expensive and probably had been chosen by interior decorators. “Amazing how far you’ve come from that garage where you used to work when I knew you.”
“I got lucky,” he said through his teeth.
“Oh, didn’t you just,” she drawled, delighting at the fury that darkened his eyes.
Joe, standing to one side, frowned at the byplay, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents.
“Shall we go?” Joe asked Gaby, holding out a hand.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said lightly, and took the outstretched hand. She didn’t miss Marc’s reaction, and that pleased her too. “See you, big boss.”
Joe seemed as triumphant as she felt, and she darted a glance at him. Well, there was no doubt that he’d grown up in Marc’s shadow. Marc had had to be father and mother to the younger man, and she remembered vividly how Marc wielded that authority. He expected immediate obedience, no delays, no excuses. He’d been rigid, and she’d wondered even then if he hadn’t been too tough on Joe. She’d even mentioned it once, only to have him lash out at her for trespassing in family matters.
“Do you work here too?” she asked Joe.
“Me? Nope.” He shrugged it off. “I have an office at the main supply store. It’s kind of my territory. Besides, Marc and I do better when we only see each other occasionally.”
“I see.”
“How was it, seeing him again after so long?” he asked, pausing at the door to an office that carried David Smith’s name in gold letters.
She grimaced. “Not so bad, I guess.”
“He went up in smoke, did you notice?” He laughed, as if that amused him. “I’ll hear about this, you know. He’ll be all over me. Fraternizing with the employees...”
“Joe, you won’t get in trouble, will you?” she asked nervously. She didn’t want to be the cause of an argument.
“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself,” he told her. “Let him rage. Besides,” he added with a calculating stare at Gaby, “he’s got his own problems. I hear his newest lovely is angling for matrimony.”
“His newest?” she asked softly.
“Lana Moore. She’s a British woman. Very wealthy. Brains and beauty. He’s been her lover for the past year. Who knows, he might settle down at last.”
Gaby felt sick, unsteady on her feet. But she couldn’t let it show; she couldn’t let Joe see how that news affected her. She smiled and acted as if she were on stage. “Think so?” she teased. “What will we give him for a wedding present? How about the engine out of that ’56 Chevy?”
He smiled and looked so relieved that she almost burst out laughing. “You’re terrific,” he said under his breath. “Class all the way. Me, I got so many rough edges, I look like a building under construction, but you’re pure, smooth curves, Gaby.”
“What rough edges?” she said, chiding.
His thin shoulders lifted and fell. “My background shows. So does Marc’s, although he hides it well. It’s hard to go from poverty to money. Hard to leave old friends behind because they can’t share your new interests, can’t keep up with the money. Hard to try to fit into the lifestyle of new acquaintances who have money as a common interest, but you can’t relate to them as well as you can to the old friends. You never quite fit in, you know?”
She shook her head. “I came