Bound By Their Christmas Baby. Clare Connelly
Читать онлайн книгу.
pushed, ‘Have you met Mr Arantini before?’
Her eyes flew to Gabe’s and, damn it, memories of her straddling him, staring into his eyes as she took him deep within her, spread like wildfire through his blood, burning him from the inside out. He didn’t want to remember what she’d been like in his bed. He needed to recall only the way it had ended—with her taking photographs of top secret Calypso documents when she’d believed him to be showering.
His jaw hardened and he leaned forward.
‘Tell him how we met, Abigail,’ he suggested, and a cold smile iced his lips, almost as though he was enjoying this. He wasn’t.
She blinked her eyes closed. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘It’s ancient history.’
‘If only it were,’ he said softly. ‘But here you are in my friend’s kitchen and knowing you, as I do, I can’t help but believe you have an ulterior motive.’
‘I needed a job,’ she said with a shake of her head. ‘That’s all.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you did.’ Gabe laughed, but it was a harsh sound, without any true mirth. ‘Trust funds are so hard to live off, aren’t they?’
‘Please—’ she focused her energy on Rémy ‘—I do know this man...’ Her eyes shifted to Gabe and her frown deepened. She was an exceptional actress. He could almost have believed she was truly feeling some hint of remorse. Pain. Embarrassment. But he’d been wrong about her once before and he’d never make that mistake again. ‘A long time ago. But that’s not relevant to why I’m here. I applied for this job because I wanted to work with you. Because I wanted to work. And I’m good at what I do, aren’t I?’
Rémy tilted his head. ‘Yes,’ he conceded. ‘But I trust Mr Arantini. We’ve known one another a long time. If he says I shouldn’t have you working here, that I can’t trust you...’
Abby froze, disbelief etched across her face. ‘You can trust me.’
‘Like you can trust a starving pit bull at your back door,’ Gabe slipped in.
‘Monsieur Valiron, I promise you I’m not here for any reason except that I need a job.’
‘Needing a job? Another lie,’ Gabe said.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She glared at him and the heat in that look surprised him. The vehemence of her anger. It was as though she were driven to defend herself by something other than pride, by true desperation. He’d felt it often enough to recognise it.
‘You forget how well I know what I’m talking about,’ he said smoothly. ‘You’re just lucky I didn’t press charges.’
She drew in a shaky breath. ‘Mr Arantini,’ she said crisply, ‘I’ve moved on from...that...how we met. And you obviously have too.’ She blinked her eyes and he had a sinking feeling in his gut that she was trying not to cry.
Hell. He’d never made a woman cry, had he?
Even that night, when he’d accused her, she’d been shocked and devastated, but she hadn’t cried. She’d taken his tirade, admitted that her father had asked her to contrive a way to meet him, to get close to him and find out all she could about Calypso, and then she’d apologised. And left.
‘I’m not asking you to forgive me for what happened between us.’
‘Good,’ he interrupted forcibly, wishing now he had a glass of something strong he could drink.
‘But please don’t ruin this for me.’ She turned back to Rémy. ‘I’m not lying to you, monsieur. I need this job. I have no plans to do anything that will reflect badly on you...’
Rémy frowned. ‘I want to believe you, Abby...’
Gabe turned slowly towards his friend, and his expression was cold, unemotional. ‘Trusting this woman would be a mistake.’
* * *
Abby was numb. It had nothing to do with the snow that was drifting down over New York, turning it into a beautiful winter wonderland, nor the fact she’d left the restaurant in such a hurry she’d forgotten to grab her coat—or her tips.
She swore softly, her head dipped forward, tears running down her cheeks. What were the chances of Gabe Arantini walking into the kitchen of the restaurant she happened to work in? Of his being friendly enough with her boss to actually have her fired?
A sob escaped her and she stopped walking, dipping into an alleyway and pressing herself against the wall for strength.
She’d never thought she’d see him again. She’d tried. She’d tried when she’d thought it mattered. She’d tried when she’d thought it was the right thing to do. But now?
Another sob sounded and she bit down on her lip. He hated her.
She’d always known that, but seeing his cold anger filled her with doubts and fears, making her question what she knew she had to do.
When had he come to New York? Had he been here long? Had he thought of her at all?
She had to see him again—but how? She’d tried calling him so many times, and every call had been unreturned or disconnected. Emails bounced back. She’d even flown to Rome, but he had two burly security men haul her from the building.
So what now?
It would serve that heartless bastard right if she didn’t bother. If she skulked off, licking her wounds, keeping her secrets, and doing just what he’d asked: staying the hell away from him.
But it wasn’t about what she wanted, nor was it about what Gabe wanted.
She had to think of their baby, Raf—and what he deserved.
Her chest hurt with the pain of the life she was giving their son. Their tiny apartment, their parlous financial state, the fact she worked so hard she barely got to see him, and instead had to have a downstairs neighbour come and stay overnight to help out. It was a mess. And Raf deserved so much better.
For Raf, and Raf alone, Abigail had to find a way to see Gabe—and to tell him the truth.
And this time she wasn’t going to let him turn her away without hearing her out first.
‘THERE’S A MISS HOWARD here to see you, sir,’ Benita, his assistant, spoke into the intercom.
From the outside Gabe barely reacted, but inside he felt surprise rock him to the core. She’d come to his damned office? What the actual hell? How many times did he have to tell her to stay away from him?
He reached for his phone, lifting it out of the cradle. ‘Did you say...?’
‘Miss Howard.’
He tightened his grip on the receiver and stared straight ahead. It was a grey day. A gloomy sky stretched over Manhattan, though he knew at street level the city was buzzing with a fever of pre-Christmas activity.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his assistant to call the police, when he remembered a small detail. The way Abigail had been two nights earlier, her eyes wet with unshed tears, her lip quivering. As though she really did need that menial job.
He knew it to be a lie, of course. But what was the truth? What ruse was she up to? What game was she playing? Was she looking to hurt Rémy? Or was her latest scheme more complex?
He owed it to his friend to find out. But not here. His office was littered with all manner of documents someone like Abigail would find valuable.
‘Tell her I’m busy. She can wait for me, if she’d like,’ he said, knowing full well she would wait—and that he’d enjoy stretching