Chapter 9
Damn, he hadn’t seen that one coming, Devlin thought, admiring her tactics.
Attack and distract. Exactly what he did when he felt threatened or showed a weakness.
“An aberration,” he said, his gaze running shrewdly over her.
“Which means that you don’t think what happened last night will ever happen again. ”
Her nose lifted arrogantly in the air. “Very sharp, Sinclair. Now I see why you’re such a wonder in the courtroom.” Her tone was dry, sarcastic, and pitched to irritate him to the max.
If they really had had sex the night before, he’d be mad as the devil right now.
As it was, he could guarantee that the same scenario wouldn’t occur again.
Because next time he had Gabrielle naked in a bed with him, she would be stone-cold sober and they’d damn sure finish what they’d started.
He cranked the engine and turned on the air conditioner, allowing Gabrielle to think she’d gotten in the last word.
Knowing there was no faster, surer way to infuriate a woman than by not responding when she expected it, he kept silent during the short drive to Alfonso’s.
By the time he pulled into the parking lot he could feel the frustration steaming from her.
He admitted he was being a jerk by baiting her, but he found an angry Gabrielle infinitely easier to deal with than the woman who’d touched his heart and stirred his compassion in the dirty stairwell of the police station.
He drove up beside her car and parked. “Not so fast, sweetheart,” he said, halting her escape by grabbing hold of her wrist. “Exactly what are you saying won’t happen again? ”
“Don’t play stupid. You know what I’m talking about,” she said, her eyes flashing bright with anger.
“Spell it out for me.”
“S-e-x.” She tossed her head back and raised her chin in challenge. “Last night was an impulse, and it’s not going to happen again. Get it now?”
“Oh, I get it,” he said, nodding. “You’re saying you won’t be making those sweet little sounds you made when I sucked on your neck. That spot right at the hollow, where you’re so sensitive.”
“No,” she said between gritted teeth. “I won’t.”
“And you won’t be clawing my back with your nails at the same time you’re making those sounds.”
“I didn’t—” she started to protest. Glaring at him, she continued, “Not that either.”
“What about all those things you were whispering in my ear? The things you were promising to do to me and the things you wanted me to do to you? You won’t be doing that again either?”
Anger rolled off her in waves, raising the temperature in the car by several degrees. She started to speak, but Devlin continued, lowering his voice to a seductive murmur. “And what about how you screamed when you ca?—”
“None of it!” she shouted. “We’re not doing any of it again!”
“Well, that’s certainly clear,” he said. “But,” he added with an indulgent smile, “I’m afraid you’re the one who doesn’t get it. There’s a little detail you don’t seem to be aware of.” He pulled her closer until his lips were just a few inches from hers and said softly, “None of it ever happened.”
Shock widened her eyes, deepening their color to a murky green. He was a prime bastard for treating her so badly, but it was better she find that out about him now instead of later when it would only hurt her more.
“Wh–what?”
“Well, that’s not quite true,” he said, considering. “Some of it happened. But the main event didn’t. You see, sweetheart, we didn’t have sex last night.”
“We d–didn’t?” she whispered.
“Afraid not.” His gaze flickered over her as he allowed silence to dominate. With one hand, he tilted up her chin. “I like my lovers conscious.”
Cruel but necessary, he told himself, seeing the hurt dawn in her eyes.
He wanted her, but he didn’t intend for her to harbor any illusions.
His ambitions didn’t include being destroyed the way his father had been or being made a fool of again like Celine had done.
Gabrielle deserved to know what she’d be getting if she chose to go to bed with him.
At the moment she looked much more interested in strangling him than sleeping with him.
She’d lost the hurt look completely. Her face reddened, her eyes narrowed, and she jerked her wrist out of his grasp with a furious twist. Her wrathful gaze locked with his and held for a long, turbulent minute.
Then she slugged him.
No gentle tap, but a right to his jaw that snapped his head back, made his eyes water, and had him worrying she’d loosened a couple of his teeth.
A slap would have been expected, but the punch shocked the hell out of him.
But then, Gabrielle never did what he expected.
Gingerly, he put his hand on his jaw and wiggled it before deciding it wasn’t broken.
“So much for chivalry,” he said. “You slugged me for not taking advantage of you when you were drunk?”
“No, I slugged you because you strung me along when you knew I didn’t remember what had happened.
And you’re damned lucky that’s all I did.
” She got out of the car, then leaned down to speak to him.
“Thanks for a forgettable evening, darling,” she said, and slammed the door shut with window-rattling force.
Devlin watched her drive off, wondering if he’d finally outsmarted himself.
Not exactly his usual smooth handling of a woman.
He seemed to act like a son of a bitch a lot around Gabrielle, and he liked it less each time it happened.
Gabrielle stirred up unwanted feelings, unacknowledged dreams that he hadn’t felt or been in touch with in a decade.
His response to her scared the hell out of him.
No other woman—with the exception of a select few of his clients—had ever roused his protective instincts to the degree Gabrielle did.
No other woman had roused any of the feelings that had bombarded him last night and today.
Oh hell, admit it. She’d been stirring him up since the day he met her.
Making him feel, making him want, making him hunger for things he knew didn’t exist. Making him…weak. A bad sign in a man who didn’t believe he had a heart or a conscience.
* * *
Music supposedly soothed the savage beast, but right now it wasn’t doing that for Gabrielle. She’d reached home in such turmoil that she could barely think. Instead of rehashing an impossible situation, she’d turned to her major solace of the last fifteen years. Her piano.
Beginning with a particularly violent piece by Saint-Sa?ns, she ripped through, in rapid succession, selections of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart suited to her present vindictive mood.
With each passionate, haunting note she vented her anger, her humiliation, and finally, a very small portion of her despair.
As the last direful, lingering notes of Beethoven’s “Pathétique Sonata” echoed in the air, her fingers faltered at the keyboard.
No matter how much she focused her anger on Devlin, and on herself for her stupidity in falling for him in the first place, she knew she was avoiding the worst problem.
Her eyes closed and her head bowed, touching the keyboard with a discordant note of hopelessness.
How could she do it? How could she reconcile having the means to successfully defend her client and yet deliberately withhold the evidence?
Doing so meant compromising her career, her belief in the law, her ethics.
And look what had happened already; she’d had a panic attack in front of Devlin.
She’d handed him a lovely weapon to wield against her, and she didn’t doubt he’d make superb use of it.
Yet what would happen if she didn’t hide that report?
Getting Franco off would solve none of her problems, except her moral dilemma.
Because Franco wouldn’t fade away once he was free.
He’d hang around, a dark, malicious albatross, until he totally destroyed her life.
Again. She closed the keyboard cover on another dream that had died.
No amount of agonizing would change the bottom line.
If she followed through with her impulse and hid the police report, if she didn’t use every means at her disposal to gain her client’s acquittal, then she truly was no better than Franco.
She might as well have stayed under Vito’s control and lived the life of the Mafia princess she’d been born to.
Everything she’d done for the last fourteen years would have been in vain.
Her whole way of life would be a mockery.
How could doing the right thing feel so wrong?
She had no other choice but to expose the police error, and consequently, enable Franco Sabatino to go free.
Rocky, lying stretched out beside the piano, raised her head and stared at the front door. A few seconds later a knock sounded. The dog rushed to the door and scratched at it, whining happily, her tail wagging. At least the visitor wasn’t Franco.
She crossed the living room to look out the peephole.
Devlin. How dare he show his face there after the number he’d pulled on her? She didn’t answer, but folded her arms over her chest and waited to see what he’d do.
“Gabrielle,” he called, pounding on the door this time. “I know you’re in there. I heard you playing.”
She stuck her tongue out, feeling better after the childish action. More pounding. Rocky scratched at the door again and looked at her expectantly. Dumb dog didn’t realize that Devlin was as big a threat as Franco.
“Dammit, Gabrielle, let me in,” he shouted, his voice muffled by the barrier. “I need to talk to you.”
“Go to hell!” she shouted right back. “And get off my property before I call the police.” Not that she’d carry things so far, but he didn’t need to know that. She waited, Rocky whining beside her, but didn’t hear any more noise. Minutes passed with no other sounds. Had he actually left?