16. Riley
SIXTEEN
This is ridiculous.
I flop back on the bed, unsure of what to do with myself. After Gabriel left, I wandered outside to the terrace where we shared drinks last night. As he suggested, I checked out the private beach, which was lovely, but hot. So, I retreated inside, back to the bedroom.
While I was interviewing Gabriel in the gym, this all seemed like a great idea. Staying here, shadowing him, getting to know his life. Now that I”malone, I”mnot so sure.
I have a few hours before the stylist comes, and my stomach”s already in knots over that. I neglected to ask him where we”re going tonight, and what kind of outfit I should select. Will the stylist know? I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Part of me wants to burrow into the comfy bed and take a nap, forget all about this awkwardness. But I can”t squander this opportunity to explore—or snoop.
Gabriel didn”t tell me where I couldn”t go, I reason. So, unless a member of his household staff pops up, I”m going to go on a little fishing expedition.
I stealthily walk out and shut the door to my bedroom, making sure it”s not locked behind me. My first stop is Gabriel”s office, mostly because I know how to get there.
But it”s locked. ”Shit,” I whisper aloud while kicking myself for not snooping earlier.
I try all the other doors at this end of the house. The only one that”s open is the library, and I spend several minutes inspecting the titles. Gabriel has an impressive array of books, many of them first editions. Some are quite old, and I wonder if they were his grandfather”s. The musty smell of the pages fills my nose as I run my fingers over the spines.
But I find nothing of significance that tells me more about who he is as a person.
The room is silent except for the sound of my breathing and the occasional creak of the floorboards—this is the only room that has a wood floor, not tile. It”s a peaceful space, and I wonder if he spends a lot of time in here. It seems like it, because the chairs look worn and well lived in.
The shelves are lined with books of all different genres, and there are four comfortable-looking armchairs scattered around the room. It”s clear that Gabriel is a man who enjoys reading, and that endears me to him even more.
I smile when I take down a hardcover of Mario Puzo”s The Godfather. It”s a signed first edition, probably worth thousands. How ironic that he”d have this particular book.
How meta, even.
I carefully slip the pristine, old book back onto the shelf and inspect a few more. Eventually, I give up rifling through the books and walk out. A meander down another hallway—how many does this place have, anyway?—and I run into Cassie, in the kitchen. It”s a blindingly white room that looks like no one has ever cooked a single meal here. Maybe this is just for show?
She greets me with a giant smile. ”Hello, dear. Do you need something?”
Of course, I don”t want to tell her that I”m snooping around, so I nod. ”I was hoping for something to drink, thanks.”
She rattles off an impressive array of beverages, and I decide on an iced coffee.
”We happen to have a fresh batch. Mr. Greco loves cold brew coffee and we make it from scratch right here. One moment,” she says.
Within a few minutes, I”m holding a chilled glass of coffee that rivals any café in town. ”It”s delicious. Thank you.”
I lean against a counter. ”So, how long have you worked for Mr. Greco?” I ask casually.
The smile hasn”t left her face. ”He told me you might ask questions, and instructed me not to answer anything. I”m so sorry, Ms. Murphy.”
I scowl and take a sip. ”He told you that, did he?”
She nods. ”He”s such a private man. Please excuse me. If you don”t need anything else, I must check on some of the staff.”
”Don”t let me keep you. Oh, where”s Reese? The dog?”
Cassie beams. ”He goes to doggie daycare on Saturday afternoons. They even have a dog water park there. Can you believe it?”
I snort out a laugh. ”Was that Gabriel”s idea to send him there?”
Cassie leans in, her eyes twinkling. ”Yes.”
We share a conspiratorial giggle.
”I guess I”ll just wander back to my room,” I say, wishing that Cassie would be more forthcoming about Gabriel, while knowing she won”t reveal anything beyond the Reese detail
”Please take this time to rest. Things will be quite busy when the stylists arrive. But if you need anything, you can always find me here, or my office, which is right back there.” She points to a closed door off the kitchen.
”Yeah, thank you,” I say slowly as I walk out. Stylists, plural? How much of a makeover do I need?
I don”t feel like being trapped in that room for hours, so I meander.
I check out two guest bedrooms that are decorated similarly to mine. One is decked out in white and gold décor, while the other is white and pale blue. A tad boring, if you ask me. Probably he hired an interior designer.
But his own bedroom...didn”t he say that was upstairs? I sip my coffee as I roam the house. Probably I should”ve brought my notebook and pen, but so far, I haven”t seen anything but generic luxury.
I”m barefoot, thankfully, so I don”t make much noise as I creep up the stairs. There are two more bland bedrooms with stunning waterfront views, each with their own bathroom. Then there”s another bathroom—I”ve lost count of how many there are in this house—that”s more like a spa, complete with a massage table and a sauna. Then I push open another door and my mouth opens in a silent gasp.
This is Gabriel”s room.
I can tell by the way it smells. Like him. The air is spicy and dark, dangerous and heady. As if he”s permeated every molecule of the place with his very essence. My stomach does little flip-flops as I take a hesitant step inside the room. Then a second, and a third, and almost without knowing, I”m standing in the middle, staring at where he sleeps and breathing his air.
It”s like the sky after a storm, dark and milk-blue. Like the feeling of our kiss. The kind of thing that makes your toes sing. It”s almost overwhelming, a scent you can burrow into.
I scan the room, double checking for any evidence of the household staff.
It”s unlike any of the others in the house. It”s not bland or boring. It”s not decorated in shades of tropical colors or safe, benign hues. The walls are painted a deep, rich burgundy, and the furniture is a mix of dark woods and soft fabrics.
I walk over to the bed. It”s a canopy style that almost looks like a cube surrounding a mattress. I run my hand down one of the canopy rods. It”s cool to the touch, and metal of some kind. The bed is enormous, with a thick, burgundy duvet comforter that perfectly matches the walls, and a few stark, black pillows. It”s a regal, imposing bed, fit for a dark and devious king.
There”s a fireplace in one corner, and sleek, dark wood furniture. The floor is covered in what looks like polished cement, and the windows are draped in heavy black velvet curtains. They”re open, so the dazzling Florida sunshine pours inside. The light is almost too harsh, too pure, for the room. The sun casts a harsh light on the floor, making the cement look like a sheet of ice. The curtains flutter in the breeze, letting in a shaft of light that hits the floor and reflects into the room. The beam of sun is so intense that it hurts my eyes.
It”s as if a ray of heaven is slicing into the realm of hell.
Despite its large size, the room is a cozy, intimate space, and it feels like a moody refuge from the rest of the world. Almost too intimate, as if I”m peering into Gabriel”s very soul. Unlike the rest of the house, it has a personality, and one that I suspect is uniquely his.
I imagine him stretching out like a lithe, predatory panther on that bed. A pleasurable shiver goes through me as I think about last night”s kiss and how his hard, hot body pressed against mine. I imagine the two of us on the bed, naked. Our bodies moving in tandem...
No. I can”t think of him in that way. No matter now touch-starved, sex-deprived and horny I am, Gabriel Greco is off limits.
Still carrying the iced coffee, I take step after tentative step, trying to focus on information gathering. There”s a large piece of abstract art on one wall. It”s visible from the bed, possibly the last thing Gabriel looks at before he falls into a slumber.
I squint at it, wondering what the black lines on white paper represent. My head tilts and I take a sip as I move toward the painting. Modern art has always confused me, and this is no different. No matter how I look at it, I can”t understand what this work is supposed to represent. To me, it looks like a bunch of black squiggles on white paper?—
Wait. It”s not abstract at all. The lines turn into figures, and it finally sinks into my dense brain. It”s of a woman”s slender neck and shoulders. And a larger man”s hand on her throat.
Oh.
Oh.
My heartbeat, which was already thumping at a steady clip, speeds up even more.
I stare at the painting, feeling slightly dizzy. The thought of Gabriel with his hand on my throat sends an intense, searing rush of wetness between my legs. I”m no virgin, but I”ve never been choked during sex. I”ve wanted it, though. Fantasized about it many a time.
The men I”ve been with have always been reluctant. Too timid. One guy, who I dated for a while in New York, seemed to be open-minded about stuff in bed. But when I told him of my desire to be dominated, he treated me as though I was flawed for having such desires. I haven”t dated anyone since—well, except for the guy who brought me to the porn movie on our first date. I”m sure he would”ve choked me, but while I do want someone dominant in bed, I”d also like them to take me to a normal dinner first.
Gabriel would give me what I want.
I can”t get this thought out of my mind as I glance from the painting to the sumptuous bed.
Stop. This isn”t why you”re here.
Or is it?
I haul in a deep breath and tear my attention away from the erotic painting. There”s a chest of drawers on the far end of the room, and I go inspect that. There”s nothing on the top surface of the bureau, and an ornate gold mirror hangs on the wall behind it. I can”t even look at my reflection, I”m so ashamed of what I”m doing. But I can”t seem to stop myself.
But since I slide the top drawer open, I”m obviously not that concerned with my illegal snooping. I could get fired for this, if my editor found out. But I don”t care, because I feel compelled to know more about Gabriel.
The drawer is as neat and organized as everything else in his life. There”s a compartment holding a pair of gold cufflinks, another with a designer watch that looks to be vintage. Was it his grandfather”s, perhaps? There”s a third compartment filled with change—oh, they”re Euro coins—and a fourth holding a stash of condoms.
There are a few other assorted things in the drawer, all neatly aligned in an organizer box. A heart rate monitor, the kind marathoners wear. An extra watch band in black leather. There”s also a small, framed photo, and I”m wondering why it”s not on the top of the bureau. I gently scoop it up and bring it closer to my face so I can study every pixel.
It”s an older picture, something taken probably in the eighties or nineties. The once-bright colors have begun to fade. It”s a man and a woman at a wedding, and I suspect it”s his parents. The man looks a lot like Gabriel, only sterner and more serious. Less sensual. His jaw is set in a hard line, and his eyes are narrowed, as if he”s looking at something far off in the distance. The woman is gorgeous, all dark hair and dark eyes, with a long, white veil. She”s laughing, and her eyes are crinkled at the corners. Her hand is resting on the man”s arm, and she”s leaning into him, like they”re sharing a secret.
What does Gabriel see when he looks at that photo? To me, it”s an enigma like everything else in his life.
I set the framed photo back where it was and shut the drawer, feeling vaguely dissatisfied that I”m not gleaning any earth-shattering information on Gabriel.
I slide open the middle drawer. The T-shirts are perfectly folded according to color, from whites on the left all the way to blacks on the right. They”re so crisp that they look like they”ve never been worn. I run a finger over the soft fabric, careful not to leave any indent in the unblemished fabric.
I shut the drawer softly and open the bottom. A smile creeps on my face. These are his underwear, all identical black boxer briefs. I”m feeling more than a little pervy, and I”m about to shut the drawer—even I have my snooping limits—when I see an envelope sticking between two pairs of underwear.
Should I?
”Hell yes,” I whisper, carefully plucking it out of its spot. I take a sip of coffee and set the glass down on the top of the bureau. The iced coffee is sweet, cold and bitter against my tongue.
It”s a heavy linen envelope, and it”s not sealed. My heart pounds as I slide out the paper inside.
Riley,
You”re a bad girl, aren”t you? We”ll have to discuss this later.
Gabriel
I”m so startled that I spray a mouthful of coffee everywhere. Including on the pristine paper.
”Fuck,” I yelp.
I survey the mess I”ve made, then read the words again. A bad girl?
”Gabriel, you bastard.”
He knew I was going to poke around. Mortified, I shove the paper back into the envelope. Perhaps I can stuff it back where it was and he won”t know. No chance of that, though, with the coffee spittle marking the paper. I pat the underwear to see how much I dribbled there. Not much, thankfully, and surely it will dry before he gets home.
But I don”t remember exactly where the envelope was. It was somewhere in the middle, and I suspect that Gabriel knows the precise location. Since the boxer briefs are all identical and black, all in neat rows lined up like soldiers, it”s hard to tell. I stuff the envelope between two pairs, wince, and slam the drawer shut.
After making sure I didn”t leave a condensation ring from my coffee glass on the top of the bureau, I creep out of his room, feeling ashamed. I”ve never snooped for a story, and it”s completely unethical to do so. My face feels hot from utter mortification, despite sucking down that cold coffee.
Deep down, I know I wasn”t poking around Gabriel”s room for a story.
It was for my own curiosity. About him. And it has nothing to do with whatever article I”m going to write. I want to know more about Gabriel the man, because I”m both attracted to and repelled by him.
Fortunately, I don”t see any of the staff—or Reese—while walking back to the room. I lock the door and ease back onto the sinfully comfortable bed. What is going on with me here in this house? I”m taking risks I normally wouldn”t, crossing ethical lines I”ve previously never considered. Maybe I should just leave. There”s nothing stopping me from walking out of this house right now.
Except for my intense curiosity about Gabriel. Or is it desire? This is what I”m thinking as I drift off into a deep sleep.