Chapter 11 #3
Gabrielle shut the door, leaning her head against it for a moment. Straightening, she squared her shoulders and turned to look at him, her face wiped clean of emotion.
Oh, no, sweetheart. That won’t work this time. This time, he intended to get answers. “What in the bloody hell is going on between you and Sabatino, Gabrielle?”
She stared at him, just stood there staring at him in the taut silence. “Nothing,” she said, finally. “Nothing’s going on.”
“That won’t fly, sweetheart.” Devlin grasped her arm with one hand, cupping her chin with his other to force her to look at him. “Tell me.”
No longer expressionless, a series of emotions crossed her face. Anger, confusion, fear. It was the latter that shadowed her eyes as well, Devlin thought, darkening them to a deep jade.
Beneath it all, he sensed a torment he didn’t understand.
“He—this isn’t the first time he’s been here.”
“Go on,” Devlin said harshly, dropping his hand to her arm, but still holding her gaze.
She drew herself up, seeming to get hold of herself. “He came over a few days ago. With the same agenda. I told him to forget it, but obviously, he doesn’t listen well.”
His fingers tightened on her arms as he stared at her, trying to hear what she wasn’t saying. “Did he touch you?”
“Devlin—”
“I asked if he touched you.”
“No.” She swore at him and jerked out of his grasp. “No, he didn’t. Don’t go all Neanderthal about this. He hasn’t done anything a lot of men haven’t tried. It’s not a crime to ask a woman out.”
Devlin muttered an obscenity, knowing what she said was reasonable, but he didn’t feel reasonable about Sabatino. He paced away a step and turned back to her. “Sabatino is your client. What’s he doing hitting on you?”
She looked at him like he was nuts, then she laughed in disbelief. “Oh, come on, Devlin. You can’t tell me none of your clients has ever hit on you.”
His smile was bitter. No, he couldn’t say that.
Celine had considered sleeping with him a small price to pay for his getting her off that murder charge.
Too bad he’d been too stupid to realize her game.
Or her guilt. “Remind me to tell you a story sometime. But right now, we’re talking about you and Sabatino.
You can’t deny there’s something between the two of you. ”
Cocking her head, she narrowed her eyes and cast a speculative look at him. “You almost sound like you’re jealous. Is that what this is about?”
Damn, she knew all the moves. Why should he be surprised?
“Good try, but it’s not working. I’ve seen you shiver when you get near him, Gabrielle.
” Devlin stepped closer, his gaze boring into hers.
“I think you hate Sabatino. I think he makes your skin crawl. Now tell me, why do you hate a man you just met a few weeks ago?”
“You’re overreacting. I don’t like him, I’ll admit that, but you’re imagining things.”
“Overreacting?” He bracketed her chin with his hand and stared at her.
Her pulse beat at her throat, steady, not jumpy.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so.” Then he swore and pulled her into his arms. “I thought the knife was for you.” A bloody, sickening image flashed through his mind of that gleaming blade and what it might have done to Gabrielle’s delicate flesh.
She hugged him tightly and buried her face against his shoulder.
“No, when he came over before, he—he said he hated dogs.” Her voice was low, hesitant.
“I had a dog once. Someone killed him. Cut his throat.” Devlin felt her swallow convulsively before she continued, “So when I saw the knife, I knew it was for Rocky.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he muttered, his lips against her hair. “Or the way he talks to you. I don’t like all those Italian endearments he’s always saying to you. The next time I hear him say bellisima, I’m going to break his face.”
Gabrielle gave a muffled laugh. “It just means pretty. It’s not an obscenity.”
“It is the way he says it.” They were silent, holding each other, absorbed in each other as much of the strain faded.
After a time, Devlin loosened his hold and dropped a kiss on her lips before leading her to the couch.
“What did you say to him?” he asked her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Her brow furrowed; she looked confused. “When you spoke to him in Italian,” he added, “just before he left.”
For a moment she looked blank, but then she smiled. “I’m not sure of the exact translation, but it’s an extremely idiomatic way of saying get lost.”
“You’re fluent in Italian?” There was nothing in that. Why did it make him uneasy?
“Not fluent. I know—some phrases. A high school boyfriend taught me a chosen few.”
His heart twisted. Literally twisted in his chest. She was lying.
It sounded plausible, but she was lying.
Devlin didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.
Why would she lie about speaking Italian?
And what else was she lying about? He wanted her to trust him.
He wanted to trust her. But he didn’t. The worst thing was, it didn’t matter. Not one damned bit.
He was still in love with her.