While Gabi had accepted a few male clients over the past year and a half, she’d yet to meet one as wealthy, and apparently difficult, as the one she was meeting today.
Knowing that 70 percent of her decision was already made, Gabi felt her palms itch. As much as she liked to think her unwelcomed fear of unknown men was controlled . . . it wasn’t. Days like this made her realized the magnitude of her fraudulent life.
To make matters worse, Gabi forgot to download a picture of Hunter Blackwell before she left home. She was reduced to searching for images on the Internet, of which there were very few. Very few, very hidden, or very old. How he managed to stay relatively incognito while making the Forbes list was impressive.
If Sam wasn’t at that moment in the hospital with her sister, Gabi would have made a quick call to get a lock on the basics of Hunter Blackwell’s face.
She gave up on her search and glanced at her phone for the fourth time before tucking it into her purse. Ten minutes.
Her heart sped.
One slow breath followed by a meditative exhale had her pulse slowing.
She watched those entering the coffee shop. A family with two young boys harping for something filled with chocolate, who hung on their mother’s legs. A half dozen college students huddled around a group table with laptops and cell phones plugged into the outlets available. Some of them had notepads while others sat quietly with their ears filled with music, lessons . . . or any number of things.
Gabi sipped her tea and glanced at the door every time it opened. Asian couple . . . not Blackwell. Two teenage girls. A potbellied sixtysomething in shorts and flip-flops . . . definitely not Blackwell.
Then came two suits . . . men wearing business attire, one slightly taller than the other. They spoke in low tones and moved through the line. At no time did they look around the room.
Gabi glanced at her watch.
Five minutes.
Tapping her fingers, she forced another deep breath. Then the door opened, someone beyond the panes of glass held the door open for a flustered woman pushing a stroller. “Thank you,” the woman said to the man beside her.
For one brief moment, Gabi passed over the family as just that.
Then the woman with the infant pushed away and left him.
Gabi’s heart raced.
Crisp and polished, Hunter Blackwell emerged. He stood an easy six four . . . maybe even taller. His suit made the other men in the room look as if they were wearing flannel. A firm-cut jaw with what looked like a scar under his left ear. Not that it took away from the man’s appearance. “Dangerously handsome” had been used in a few tabloids she’d read, and they were spot-on. His full head of light brown hair and gray eyes scanned the room. They passed over her once and quickly returned.
Gabi felt her bottom lip curling in and forced the nervous habit away.
With her hand wound in a tight knot in her lap, she watched his slow descent.
Samantha’s tutelage ran through her like a tape. Another mantra, one easier to remember, came from her sister-in-law, Meg . . . fake it till you make it.
Gabi held Mr. Blackwell’s immediate future in her hands. She had something he wanted, and that empowered her.
At least it should.
“Mr. Blackwell.” Gabi didn’t bother standing . . . a slightly intimidating tactic Samantha had taught her.
“Miss Masini.” His smooth voice was an octave below most.
She felt her heart speeding for entirely different reasons.
“Please, sit.” Gabi indicated the chair beside her and forced a smile.
Hunter Blackwell unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat.
“I took the liberty of ordering you coffee,” she told him.
Gabi glanced at the barista behind the counter and returned her eyes to the man in front of her.
“And if I don’t care for coffee?”
So that’s how this was going to be. Gabi felt her pulse slow . . . slightly. “A temp . . . I believe her name was Natalie, said you drank three cups, black, every morning before you took your first call. You appear to be a man who cuts the fluff, Mr. Blackwell.”
He smiled, showing a divot in his chin.
“Coffee it is then.”
Gabi signaled the barista.
For a brief moment, they spoke of the traffic, the warm day.
Once the employee left the coffee on the table, Mr. Blackwell took his obligatory sip and settled into his chair.
“So how do we proceed?”
Gabi glanced at her watch . . . set her internal timer.
“I’m in the business of matching people, Mr. Blackwell. No one slips through our proven system.”
His left eye twitched. “I’m listening.”
Whether Hunter Blackwell knew it or not . . . that was his only warning. “Have you ever been arrested?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.
“Care to elaborate?”
He shook his head. “I assume Blake’s wife found all she needed in that file.”
She had. The man had been arrested, released, and charges dropped a minimum of four times. Two in the last few years, two more before he was eighteen. The man knew Gabi had done her research, so she moved on.
“Have you ever hit a woman?”