Gabi squirmed in the passenger seat. “Every sixteen-year-old acne-faced kid learns how to drive. I think I have more on them.”
Gwen, channeling her husband, who often said so much by not saying anything at all, silently pushed out of the car and walked up the short path to the front door.
A series of numbers on a keypad let her in. From there she moved to another monitor system that alerted the team that the resident of the house had breached the walls. Gabi set her bags on the kitchen counter, dropped the mail onto the table.
She moved about the room, depositing groceries where they belonged. “Was it hard for you to adjust to driving on the right side of the road when you moved here?”
Gwen told her about her adjustments to driving in the States, which apparently weren’t nearly as difficult as Gabi’s.
By the time Neil arrived, Gabi had exhausted her excuses for being a poor driver and conceded that something had to change before someone got hurt.
Then Neil delivered a series of facts that took some of her control away . . . at least temporarily.
“Your car is in for repairs, your insurance company has suspended your ability to hold them accountable until an investigation has taken place.”
“Can they do that?” Gabi asked.
“They can and have. Renting a car without insurance isn’t possible.”
“Seems a bit extreme,” Gwen said.
Neil stood silent for a moment. “The man she hit this time is a lawyer and had a call into Gabriella’s insurance company before the tow managed to pull into the shop.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Neil removed his wallet and found a business card. “Here is the company Blake uses. I’ve already spoken with our contact there, they need thirty minutes’ notice and they will drive you wherever you need to go.”
Gabi pulled a long strand of her dark brown hair over her shoulder and glanced at the card. “That must be terribly expensive.”
“It’s this or a lawsuit. A taxi is another option, but in light of the majority of work and contacts you have, a private driver might prove best,” Neil encouraged.
“How can I convince the insurance company to reinstate my coverage?” Because Gabi knew once her car was fixed, she still wouldn’t be able to drive it without insurance.
“I have a call in for that answer. In the meantime, use the service.”
Gwen placed a kiss to each side of Gabi’s face before following her husband out the door.
Before Neil and Gwen turned the corner of the quiet street, Gabi’s phone was ringing.
The name on the display had her sucking in a breath for support. Word traveled fast. She lifted the phone, closed her eyes, and pressed the answer button. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“What?” Samantha Harrison, otherwise known as Gabi’s boss and new friend, didn’t laugh or lay the blame on her.
“I thought he motioned for me to back up. I’m much better than when I first arrived.”
“What are you talking about?”
Gabi sucked in her bottom lip. “You, ah . . . you don’t know?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t pretend otherwise. What isn’t your fault?”
“Minor fender-bender in the parking lot. No one was hurt.”
Gabi thought she heard Sam groan. “And it wasn’t your fault?”
She waved a hand in the air, as if Sam could see. “No. Of course not. So if you’re not calling about the accident, what can I do for you?” Her thinly veiled attempt to change the subject as quickly as possible was met with a tiny laugh.
“I have a client I need you to crunch some numbers on.”
Numbers . . . she could do that. Gabi was a savant with numbers. “Give me a name and the access code to your file and I’m on it.”
Gabi jotted down the name and code. Hunter Blackwell. J836AY9
“Numbers is all you need from me?”
“No. Actually . . . I need more than a bottom-line portfolio report. Mr. Blackwell is an old friend of Blake’s, so I’m giving him an extra chance. Based on what I’ve already learned, I would have encouraged him to look elsewhere for the future Mrs. Blackwell.”
If there was one thing Gabi had discovered about her boss, the woman scrutinized every client, both male and female, with a high-powered microscope. She looked beyond any tabloid fodder and water-cooler gossip to determine the truth behind the persona. Nearly every male client searching for a bride had a driving reason for doing so, and sometimes they weren’t forthcoming with their backgrounds. Sam always found the skeletons, displayed them for her clients to see, then determined their worthiness based on their reaction to the facts. Most high-powered men willing to part with over seven figures for a bride hated having their dirty parts displayed. They especially didn’t like a woman advertising it.
If at any time during the initial meeting with Sam or now Gabi, they felt the slightest bit threatened, the meeting ended, and the ability to do business with the client dissolved.