Treasured by Thursday
Page 30
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She had a strong desire to count them, then decided against it.
Instead of lingering in Hunter’s space, she moved through the room and glanced at his bed once.
Well, maybe twice.
The presence on the other side of the double doors made her catch her breath. “Andrew.”
“Sorry to startle you. Just wanted to ensure your privacy.” The man stood back, giving her all the space she needed.
Lord, she could use a drink. “Can you show me the kitchen, Andrew?”
“It’s a bit hectic in there right now.”
She thought of the mass of caterers that were serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres. “I’d like to think I’m not a guest.”
“Of course.”
Andrew pivoted, and Gabi followed.
The kitchen was as sleek and modern as the rest of the home. A cook’s kitchen put to work with an event such as this.
“I think they’re fine. Murray wouldn’t have sent them if they weren’t servable!”
There was one woman, and one man, in solid white. The chefs.
And an obvious power struggle.
In Gabi’s experience, one too many chefs in the kitchen always created problems.
Unlike her brother’s island, the employees in this atmosphere weren’t ones she needed to concern herself with for the long run.
The click of her heels sounded on the hard surface of the marble floors as she made her way to the trays of shrimp the two chefs argued over.
The servers noticed her first, then the two in white.
“What is the problem?” Gabi asked.
“No problem. The guests are out—”
Gabi cut the woman off. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled back in such a severe fashion she would never need Botox.
“I’m not a guest.” Gabi moved to the tray in question and lifted one shrimp to her nose, touched the surface of the shellfish, and promptly turned to an open trash receptacle and emptied the tray.
The blonde gasped, the servers halted their movements.
“Did any of that go out?”
The second chef snapped his fingers and called out to a server, in Spanish, to retrieve the waiter who had just left the kitchen.
“Those were perfectly fine,” the blonde managed.
“Is that so?” Gabi lifted a nearby tray and waved it under the blonde’s nose. “Dig in.”
The woman held her ground . . . didn’t reach for the food.
“You can leave.” Gabi dismissed her with a flick of the wrist.
“Excuse me?”
“Leave. Get into your car and leave.” Gabi turned to the second chef. “How much of the order did the shrimp account for?”
“An eighth.”
Gabi looked at the other trays, made a deduction. “Half the portion of skewers to keep the trays full.” She found the eyes of a nearby waiter. “Tell the beverage servers to keep the glasses of the guests filled.” Gabi turned to the remaining chef. “I assume the alcohol quota is twice what was called for?”
“Yes,” he managed with a swallow.
“I’m in charge here,” the blonde, who hadn’t left, said in protest.
“The one paying the bill is in charge. Thank you for your service, but your insight on bad seafood is astounding. And I don’t mean that in a good way. Please don’t make me call security.”
With an exasperated breath, the woman turned on her heel and left.
Without thought, Gabi moved to the refrigerator and found a bottle of champagne chilling. She removed a towel from the counter and proceeded to pop the cork. Boxes of flute glasses sat alongside one of the counters. She removed two and filled them.
She handed one to the remaining chef. “What’s your name?”
“Hector.” He wiped his hands on his apron and took the sparkling wine.
“You’re doing a superb job, Hector.” Gabi winked and lifted the wine to her lips.
It was savory, wonderful.
Untainted.
She drained the glass and poured a second before leaving the kitchen.
Andrew fell in step behind her as she walked back into Hunter Blackwell’s world.
Chapter Eleven
His hand came down full force, the laptop bounced, as did the fully loaded Glock 40 sitting beside it. “What do you mean my money isn’t touchable?”
“I’m sorry, Señor Diaz, the passwords have changed and locked us out. I have a second man working on it.”
Diaz tapped his finger on the grip of his gun, seriously considered shooting the messenger. He hated the scrawny cokehead standing in front of him, but Raul knew his way around computers better than any of his other men.
“Who changed the password?”
“That I don’t know. Only you and I have access to the account.”
Diaz circled the trigger of his weapon, his eyes bored into Raul.
He lifted the gun and Raul had the good sense to back up, hands in the air. “I didn’t do it. Why would I come to you if I did?”
Raul would have scurried away in the dead of night if he’d compromised any of Diaz’s money, but watching the man fry a few brain cells as he attempted to talk his way out of death was worth the entertainment.
“Picano is dead. If you want to avoid his fate, you’ll have an answer for me in twenty-four hours.”
“But—”
Diaz pulled the lever back and loaded the chamber.
“Twenty-four hours. I’ll have an answer in twenty-four hours.”
Diaz waved the gun, dismissing the mule.
The thick Colombian heat had sweat rolling down Diaz’s back. He lifted his drink to his lips, finished it. He dragged the computer close, clicked onto a different account, this one much farther away.
Instead of lingering in Hunter’s space, she moved through the room and glanced at his bed once.
Well, maybe twice.
The presence on the other side of the double doors made her catch her breath. “Andrew.”
“Sorry to startle you. Just wanted to ensure your privacy.” The man stood back, giving her all the space she needed.
Lord, she could use a drink. “Can you show me the kitchen, Andrew?”
“It’s a bit hectic in there right now.”
She thought of the mass of caterers that were serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres. “I’d like to think I’m not a guest.”
“Of course.”
Andrew pivoted, and Gabi followed.
The kitchen was as sleek and modern as the rest of the home. A cook’s kitchen put to work with an event such as this.
“I think they’re fine. Murray wouldn’t have sent them if they weren’t servable!”
There was one woman, and one man, in solid white. The chefs.
And an obvious power struggle.
In Gabi’s experience, one too many chefs in the kitchen always created problems.
Unlike her brother’s island, the employees in this atmosphere weren’t ones she needed to concern herself with for the long run.
The click of her heels sounded on the hard surface of the marble floors as she made her way to the trays of shrimp the two chefs argued over.
The servers noticed her first, then the two in white.
“What is the problem?” Gabi asked.
“No problem. The guests are out—”
Gabi cut the woman off. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled back in such a severe fashion she would never need Botox.
“I’m not a guest.” Gabi moved to the tray in question and lifted one shrimp to her nose, touched the surface of the shellfish, and promptly turned to an open trash receptacle and emptied the tray.
The blonde gasped, the servers halted their movements.
“Did any of that go out?”
The second chef snapped his fingers and called out to a server, in Spanish, to retrieve the waiter who had just left the kitchen.
“Those were perfectly fine,” the blonde managed.
“Is that so?” Gabi lifted a nearby tray and waved it under the blonde’s nose. “Dig in.”
The woman held her ground . . . didn’t reach for the food.
“You can leave.” Gabi dismissed her with a flick of the wrist.
“Excuse me?”
“Leave. Get into your car and leave.” Gabi turned to the second chef. “How much of the order did the shrimp account for?”
“An eighth.”
Gabi looked at the other trays, made a deduction. “Half the portion of skewers to keep the trays full.” She found the eyes of a nearby waiter. “Tell the beverage servers to keep the glasses of the guests filled.” Gabi turned to the remaining chef. “I assume the alcohol quota is twice what was called for?”
“Yes,” he managed with a swallow.
“I’m in charge here,” the blonde, who hadn’t left, said in protest.
“The one paying the bill is in charge. Thank you for your service, but your insight on bad seafood is astounding. And I don’t mean that in a good way. Please don’t make me call security.”
With an exasperated breath, the woman turned on her heel and left.
Without thought, Gabi moved to the refrigerator and found a bottle of champagne chilling. She removed a towel from the counter and proceeded to pop the cork. Boxes of flute glasses sat alongside one of the counters. She removed two and filled them.
She handed one to the remaining chef. “What’s your name?”
“Hector.” He wiped his hands on his apron and took the sparkling wine.
“You’re doing a superb job, Hector.” Gabi winked and lifted the wine to her lips.
It was savory, wonderful.
Untainted.
She drained the glass and poured a second before leaving the kitchen.
Andrew fell in step behind her as she walked back into Hunter Blackwell’s world.
Chapter Eleven
His hand came down full force, the laptop bounced, as did the fully loaded Glock 40 sitting beside it. “What do you mean my money isn’t touchable?”
“I’m sorry, Señor Diaz, the passwords have changed and locked us out. I have a second man working on it.”
Diaz tapped his finger on the grip of his gun, seriously considered shooting the messenger. He hated the scrawny cokehead standing in front of him, but Raul knew his way around computers better than any of his other men.
“Who changed the password?”
“That I don’t know. Only you and I have access to the account.”
Diaz circled the trigger of his weapon, his eyes bored into Raul.
He lifted the gun and Raul had the good sense to back up, hands in the air. “I didn’t do it. Why would I come to you if I did?”
Raul would have scurried away in the dead of night if he’d compromised any of Diaz’s money, but watching the man fry a few brain cells as he attempted to talk his way out of death was worth the entertainment.
“Picano is dead. If you want to avoid his fate, you’ll have an answer for me in twenty-four hours.”
“But—”
Diaz pulled the lever back and loaded the chamber.
“Twenty-four hours. I’ll have an answer in twenty-four hours.”
Diaz waved the gun, dismissing the mule.
The thick Colombian heat had sweat rolling down Diaz’s back. He lifted his drink to his lips, finished it. He dragged the computer close, clicked onto a different account, this one much farther away.
