18. Riley
EIGHTEEN
We”rein the back of his chauffeured car. It”s been ten minutes since I made my grand entrance before him in this dress, these heels, all this hair and makeup.
Ten minutes. And he hasn”t said one damned thing. Not a ”you look beautiful,” or a ”wow you clean up good.” Nothing. Zero. Zip.
What a dick.
”How was your meeting?” I ask, trying to hide the peevish tone from my voice.
Gabriel turns away from the window to stare at me with those molten, dark eyes. ”Excellent. I got some rather surprising news on a couple of fronts.”
”Anything you want to discuss for the article?” That is why I”m here, after all. But I”m insanely curious about his meeting. It”s entirely possible he was doing something nefarious, or meeting with other mobsters, or even planning Doyle”s demise. I still don”t trust Gabriel entirely when it comes to the Doyle disappearance—there”s something he”s not telling me, I can feel it.
Gabriel slowly rubs his chin while staring at me. I shouldn”t be wondering what he looks like with dark stubble, but I am. Tonight, his jaw is smooth and sharp, matching the crispness of his black tuxedo. He”s devastatingly handsome, which is making my job as a reporter so much more difficult than it should be.
”Do you know a Jack Fitzgerald?” His voice, clear and sharp, cuts through my thoughts.
My face crumples in confusion, then I grin. ”I knew about three of them in high school. Oh, and there was old Jack Fitzgerald who ran the bar on Broad Street in Southie. I think he died a while back, that”s what my mom told me.”
Gabriel continues staring at me, as if he”s trying to leach information from my very pores. He doesn”t say anything, and that makes me nervous enough to ask questions.
”Why? Should I know a Jack Fitzgerald?”
Gabriel shrugs. ”You tell me.”
Okay, this is weird. I lift my hands in the air. ”Well, one of the Jacks I knew in high school works for the city of Boston as a meter reader. The second one, he”s a little older than me, he works for his father”s hardware store.
”And the third?”
Jeez, why is he so insistent? Now I”m curious who Jack Fitzgerald is. ”The third one died of a fentanyl overdose our senior year in high school. I didn”t know him that well, but it was pretty sad.”
Gabriel nods. ”So there”s no other Jack Fitzgerald in your life? Or your father”s life?”
”Can”t speak for my father. I don”t make a habit of talking to my dad about his friends.” Considering that Dad knew the asshole who killed Lorna, I stay away from any questions about the men in my father”s circle.
Now I”m getting annoyed, and my hardscrabble Boston accent is sneaking through. ”But there”s no Jack Fitzgerald in my life.”
”Okay, fair enough.” He says this softly as he exhales, as if he”s relieved for some reason.
”Why do you want to know?” I can”t help but probe.
He flashes me a cold, haughty stare. ”None of your business.”
”Well, I think it is my business, if you”re all up in my business,” I huff.
We drive in silence and I stare out the window as the angry tension crackles between us. Part of me wishes I”d chosen to go home and forget all about this man. We”re in Ybor City, the historic district, and we pass by old brick buildings that once housed cigar factories.
”You look beautiful,” Gabriel says in a low, husky voice.
My head whips around. Why is he saying that now, after he responded in such a nasty tone to my question? And why do I crave to hear compliments from him?
His gaze rakes down my body, lingering on my cleavage.
”Thank you. The people you hired to give me a makeover were quite thorough.”
He extends his arm and takes a lock of my now bright blonde hair between his fingers. He slowly, gently tugs on it. A corresponding pull on an invisible thread in my body feels tight and needy, and I stare at him.
”Very thorough. And what else did you do today?” He sweeps my hair off my shoulder, his fingers grazing my neck in the process. My mind flashes back to that artwork in his bedroom.
I swallow, and my instinct is to move away from him. But I don”t, because I”d like to feel his fingers against the sensitive skin of my neck again. Because I”m thinking of our kiss, and how I want more.
A feeling of guilt for snooping in his room settles into my chest, and then it hits me: he probably knows I poked around in his drawer.
No, he totally knows, because he”s staring at me with a lopsided smirk.
”Thought about the story. Napped. Had some iced coffee. You know, the usual, under the unusual circumstances.” I try to play it off like this sort of thing happens to me all the time.
He again strokes my neck, then works his hand further into my hair. In a flash, he tugs me close, sending sparks showering over my scalp. What I wouldn”t give to have him pull my hair like that during sex...
”You and I both know you did a little more than drink coffee and nap, tesoro.”
His mouth is close to my ear now, and a flood of wetness has suddenly appeared between my legs. I squirm a little under his touch, my eyes flitting out the window. When are we getting to this damned party, anyway?
”I”m afraid a little punishment will be in order.”
I twist out of his grip and glare at him. ”Yeah, right.”
He smiles, all teeth and sin. ”Not now, though. Later. That will give you something to look forward to, because God knows this party”s going to be boring as fuck.”
His gaze once again lands on my cleavage, and I can feel my nipples harden. What does he mean when he says he”s going to punish me? Can he do that? Do I want him to?
No, don”t think of that now.
The car stops, and the chauffeur hustles to open my door first. Gabriel exists on his side and by the time I”m stepping out, he”s there to hold my hand.
As we walk in, he snakes an arm around me, like I”m his possession.
ThankGod there”s no red carpet. In the few times I”ve had to cover local charity events for the paper, I”ve always felt embarrassed for the dressed-up denizens who parade down the scarlet path like they”re at the Oscars—when they”re really just at a party, in Tampa, Florida no less.
Catty of me, I know.
I shouldn”t even be thinking along those lines. Who am I to judge anyone? I”m a girl from Southie, a lower-middle class kid from a place that”s gray and dingy. And now I”m here in this tropical hell with someone who is also gray—but in a different way.
Gabriel and I walk up the grand marble steps of the venue. His hand is around my waist, touching the skin that”s exposed from the cut-out portion of my dress. His touch is like fire licking my skin, and I can feel goosebumps rising on my arms as I lean a few inches into him. It”s as if I crave his touch, but I also feel slightly horrified, because I know what we”re doing can only lead to disaster.
Focus, Riley. Focus. That”s all you can do at this moment.
I”m here for a purpose: to write a story. Not to be some rich mobster”s arm candy for the night. Gabriel doesn”t seem to think the same, though, because his embrace seems to grow more possessive as we step through the grand wooden door of the club.
We”re immediately assaulted by the sound of people laughing and talking, of glasses being clinked together, and of music that”s best described as an electronic monstrosity. It”s the kind of music Lorna used to love, the type played in upscale bars.
”Come,” Gabriel shouts over the din, and threads his hand through mine, pulling me toward the pulsing, chattering crowd. He nods and says hello to several groups as we pass, each one emitting a different scent. It”s like walking through an expensive department store.
That”s when I notice that everyone is wearing all black. I expected this for the men; after all, Gabriel”s in black tie. But every woman, too, is in dark colors. Thank Christ I didn”t select that red dress earlier.
I tug on Gabriel”s arm and he stops, turning to look at me with a tilted head and a lopsided smile.
”Is this okay?” he says, and that shocks me a little. Why would he care? I”m sure he doesn”t.
”Yeah, it”s fine,” I reply brusquely. ”But why is literally everyone in black? Did you not tell me that this is a funeral?”
”This is the annual Midnight Affair.” He says this like it”s supposed to mean something, and I shake my head.
”Of course, you”re new here. This party has been held in the city for decades. It”s just tradition, Riley.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, as if he”s genuinely amused at my naiveté.
This leaves me even more puzzled, but I nod like I get it. He continues moving, my hand firmly still in his, and I take in the rest of the room: giant chandeliers, a soaring ceiling, decadent scarlet brocade wallpaper. The main part of the floor is filled with people and a few high-top tables—covered in black tablecloths, of course—and around the perimeter, there are velvet fainting couches in the same hue as the walls.
But then I stop admiring the décor and begin to realize that people are staring at us. Openly. And murmuring. Oh, fuck. Why? My stomach does a 180 from sheer nerves, but this is exactly the time to project a steely exterior, so I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. With my free hand I flick my hair from my clavicle, and I can feel the ends brushing against my bare back. The sensation is sensuous, almost erotic, like a whisper of things to come.
Gabriel glances back at me as I”m doing this, and halts his march through the room. We”re practically in the middle of the floor now.
”What?” I ask. ”Why”d you stop?”
He leans toward my ear, probably because the noise is so loud now that he has to, in order to be heard. ”You need to stop that.”
A smirk twists my face. ”Stop what?”
I see a muscle in his jaw ticking. ”Nothing. Let”s go,” he says roughly, pulling me along.
Now thoroughly baffled, I allow myself to be led deeper into the party. While Gabriel seemingly knows everyone, he isn”t stopping to chat, and no one appears to want to impede his forward movement.
I spot people that I”ve seen at City Hall, men and women who are in charge of various meetings and community events. Oh, great. Now they”ll see me with Gabriel and that will really tank my possibilities for news scoops.
Or will it?
This place is lousy with the city”s powerbrokers, the people who make the decisions that affect the regular folks like me, like the people I spoke with yesterday while I was reporting. The citizens who don”t have the money to get this kind of access to decision makers.
Is that the governor? My eyes nearly pop out of my head. This is so different from my normal life, and I”m a little dizzy by what”s going on.
I live in a sparsely decorated, one bedroom apartment in the suburbs, my fridge is nearly empty, and I make less in a year than some of these women”s necklaces cost.
Normally, I write about these kinds of people. I don”t mingle with them. But tonight, I am.
We”re almost at the back of the room and now my curiosity is at its height. How is Gabriel able to openly move in these circles when he”s a mobster? He blends so well.
Too well, if you ask me.
We reach the back of the room and he steers me to a Roman column, not one made of stone but a plaster one, placed here for decoration.
”We need drinks,” he says, licking his lips, making me unsteady in the tall heels. My eyes can”t handle staring into his right now, because I fear that looking at him too long will ignite whatever the fuck”s going on between us, and that”s the last thing I want in such a public place.
My gaze skitters to the right and I see the city”s police chief, a tall bald guy, laughing.
”Oh, shit,” I whisper. The man next to him is the Tribune”s publisher, and I never in a million years imagined he would be here. I”ve only met him once, but I”m going to bet that he doesn”t want his new crime reporter hand-in-hand with the city”s biggest mobster.
”What?” Gabriel demands.
I wrench my hand out of his. ”Please, stop.”
Gabriel”s expression falls, like I”ve just injured him. ”Stop what? What”s wrong?”
The words tumble out of my mouth. ”My publisher. He”s here. I don”t feel comfortable touching you here like this. Or at all. In front of him. I”m sorry. I don”t think it”s professional, given...”
My voice trails off, because I realize that our kiss has rendered everything else pointless. Like my article. I can”t write a story about a man I want this much. Imagine if I did, and people found out? I”d be brought up as an example of what not to do in journalism schools for years to come.
Gabriel raises his hand, as if he”s going to touch my hair, then stops himself. ”Tesoro.”
That one word almost makes my knees buckle. All I desire is to wrap myself around his body, and I”m edgy and wet just thinking about it.
”Tesoro, I will honor your wishes. But please don”t be afraid of your publisher, or of anything. You”re going to be just fine with me. I”m taking care of you now.” He pauses, as if he”s measuring his words. ”You”re the most beautiful woman here tonight, you know that, right? Did you see how everyone was looking at you? It”s because you”re so. Fucking. Beautiful. And I won”t let anything happen to you. Now I”m going to get our drinks. Stay right here.”
I nod, numb with want from his words.
The problem, of course, is that something has already happened to me, and it”s all Gabriel”s fault.