“And you told Olivia this?” she asked.
“Of course not. He hadn’t taken it back.”
“But you told her you ended the agreement and you were trying to return his money?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no proof.”
Rose argued the point, but Gabriel wouldn’t budge. He had delayed telling Eden until he had proof, and, having no proof, he would not mention it. Nor would he further discuss the matter with Rose, let alone accept advice on how to mend the rift. He would not even admit he wished to mend it.
“I have an appointment,” he said when she pushed too hard. “I should go.”
“All right,” she said, stifling a sigh. “But if you need anything . . .”
“I do.”
The response was so unexpected, she hesitated.
Gabriel continued, “Or I should say, Olivia needs something. A security system. There was a threat.”
“What kind?”
“I’m not at liberty to explain. I can simply say that I take the threat seriously, and I was getting a system installed for her. I would like that done as soon as possible. Perhaps you could suggest you see the need for it.”
“Tell her I saw danger in the cards?”
“Precisely. Tell her that you can get one installed without involving me in the matter.”
“But shouldn’t you be involved in the matter? If I tell her that you asked me to make sure she got this system, when you are no longer being paid to protect her—”
“No.”
“It would show her that—”
“No. Leave me out of it. Please. I’d only like you to suggest she requires it and provide the appropriate contact information. I’m sorry to ask—”
“You never need to be sorry, Gabriel.”
“Well, I am. But it’s for Olivia, not me. I know you’re fond of her.”
She was. The question, though, was what Gabriel felt for Eden. Rose didn’t need the sight to know her nephew had lost more than a mere client.
Damn it, Gabriel. You knew better, and yet you went ahead and messed this up anyway. Why?
She knew why. Partly because he couldn’t help himself when it came to money, but partly, too, because it kept Eden firmly on the other side of the barrier. A Walsh never conned the people he cared about. Ergo, by conning Eden, Gabriel said, “I don’t care,” which would be perfectly fine . . . if it were true.
“Rose?”
“Yes.”
“If you could do this for her . . .”
“I will,” she said. But not for her.
CHAPTER TEN
It’d been a quiet two days. Too quiet. There were moments when I almost wished I’d spot a giant black dog or stumble over a bed of poppies, just to give my brain something else to obsess over. Then I’d realize what I was asking for and feel even worse, as if I’d wished for someone’s death to distract me.
I hated letting Gabriel’s betrayal bother me so much. I wanted to slough it off and bounce back. I had the last time. But now I hadn’t just lost my lawyer. I’d lost a job I’d wanted. I’d lost a person I could confide in. And yes, damn it, I’d lost a friend, which was only made worse by knowing he hadn’t been a friend at all, only a paid companion.
Maybe the friendship part bothered me more than it ought, but I . . . well, don’t make friends easily. Or I make them too easily. My calendar used to overflow with lunches and coffees and get-togethers, my in-box brimming with messages from high school friends, college friends, friends I met through my volunteerism. Then my world went to hell, and I found myself alone. Sure, when I retrieved messages, there were friends checking up on me. How was I doing? Did I need anything? When I sent back reassuring notes, they went quiet. Not abandoning me, but presuming I had it under control. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones—I always had everything under control. As for the thought that I might need a shoulder to sob on? Olivia Taylor-Jones didn’t sob. So they went their own way, presuming I’d be in touch when I was ready for lunches and coffees again. And that stung, just a little, but it wasn’t their fault.
If there’s a ten-point scale of friendship, I don’t think I’ve had anyone rate above a six since high school. There are dozens of fours and fives, but that’s where they stay and that’s how I like it. So when things had gone so horribly wrong, there’d been no one there to say, “Call me, damn it. We’re going for a drink, whether you like it or not.” Even James had backed off after we’d argued.
Into that void came Gabriel. The furthest thing from a potential friend I could imagine. And yet, in the last month, closer to me than any actual friend had been in years. He was the guy who came running when I called. Who stuck by me no matter how bad—or dangerous—things got. The guy who might not say, “We’re going for a drink, damn it,” but took me driving instead and bought me mochas to raise my spirits. Like a puppy starving for attention, I’d eagerly lapped it up.
James had been played by Gabriel, but it was nothing compared with the way I’d been played. And despite it all, I missed him. Missed him and hated myself for it.
After Wednesday morning, Gabriel had sent several “call me” texts. By evening, they’d escalated to complete messages, asking to talk, telling me he wanted to explain the situation, could we meet and discuss it? There were moments when I thought he sincerely wanted to do that. Then came a text on Friday—need to talk re: Pamela’s case—and I understood exactly why he was so eager to smooth things over.
I called him back at lunch.
Before he could speak, I said, “You’re worried that I’m going to convince Pamela to fire you. I wouldn’t do that. I want her to have the best legal representation possible, and that’s still you.”
Silence, broken only by the hiss of a less-than-perfect connection. Then he said slowly, “I appreciate your support. And in return . . .”
“In return?”
“What would you like in return?”
Anger sizzled through me. “I’m not bargaining, Gabriel. I’m saying I won’t jeopardize her defense out of spite. This is a clean break.”
“Break?” he said.
“Yes. As we agreed, I’ll pay your bill in full as soon as my trust fund comes due, and I won’t interfere with you and Pamela, so there is no need to call again trying to mend this—”
“Of course not. He hadn’t taken it back.”
“But you told her you ended the agreement and you were trying to return his money?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have no proof.”
Rose argued the point, but Gabriel wouldn’t budge. He had delayed telling Eden until he had proof, and, having no proof, he would not mention it. Nor would he further discuss the matter with Rose, let alone accept advice on how to mend the rift. He would not even admit he wished to mend it.
“I have an appointment,” he said when she pushed too hard. “I should go.”
“All right,” she said, stifling a sigh. “But if you need anything . . .”
“I do.”
The response was so unexpected, she hesitated.
Gabriel continued, “Or I should say, Olivia needs something. A security system. There was a threat.”
“What kind?”
“I’m not at liberty to explain. I can simply say that I take the threat seriously, and I was getting a system installed for her. I would like that done as soon as possible. Perhaps you could suggest you see the need for it.”
“Tell her I saw danger in the cards?”
“Precisely. Tell her that you can get one installed without involving me in the matter.”
“But shouldn’t you be involved in the matter? If I tell her that you asked me to make sure she got this system, when you are no longer being paid to protect her—”
“No.”
“It would show her that—”
“No. Leave me out of it. Please. I’d only like you to suggest she requires it and provide the appropriate contact information. I’m sorry to ask—”
“You never need to be sorry, Gabriel.”
“Well, I am. But it’s for Olivia, not me. I know you’re fond of her.”
She was. The question, though, was what Gabriel felt for Eden. Rose didn’t need the sight to know her nephew had lost more than a mere client.
Damn it, Gabriel. You knew better, and yet you went ahead and messed this up anyway. Why?
She knew why. Partly because he couldn’t help himself when it came to money, but partly, too, because it kept Eden firmly on the other side of the barrier. A Walsh never conned the people he cared about. Ergo, by conning Eden, Gabriel said, “I don’t care,” which would be perfectly fine . . . if it were true.
“Rose?”
“Yes.”
“If you could do this for her . . .”
“I will,” she said. But not for her.
CHAPTER TEN
It’d been a quiet two days. Too quiet. There were moments when I almost wished I’d spot a giant black dog or stumble over a bed of poppies, just to give my brain something else to obsess over. Then I’d realize what I was asking for and feel even worse, as if I’d wished for someone’s death to distract me.
I hated letting Gabriel’s betrayal bother me so much. I wanted to slough it off and bounce back. I had the last time. But now I hadn’t just lost my lawyer. I’d lost a job I’d wanted. I’d lost a person I could confide in. And yes, damn it, I’d lost a friend, which was only made worse by knowing he hadn’t been a friend at all, only a paid companion.
Maybe the friendship part bothered me more than it ought, but I . . . well, don’t make friends easily. Or I make them too easily. My calendar used to overflow with lunches and coffees and get-togethers, my in-box brimming with messages from high school friends, college friends, friends I met through my volunteerism. Then my world went to hell, and I found myself alone. Sure, when I retrieved messages, there were friends checking up on me. How was I doing? Did I need anything? When I sent back reassuring notes, they went quiet. Not abandoning me, but presuming I had it under control. I was Olivia Taylor-Jones—I always had everything under control. As for the thought that I might need a shoulder to sob on? Olivia Taylor-Jones didn’t sob. So they went their own way, presuming I’d be in touch when I was ready for lunches and coffees again. And that stung, just a little, but it wasn’t their fault.
If there’s a ten-point scale of friendship, I don’t think I’ve had anyone rate above a six since high school. There are dozens of fours and fives, but that’s where they stay and that’s how I like it. So when things had gone so horribly wrong, there’d been no one there to say, “Call me, damn it. We’re going for a drink, whether you like it or not.” Even James had backed off after we’d argued.
Into that void came Gabriel. The furthest thing from a potential friend I could imagine. And yet, in the last month, closer to me than any actual friend had been in years. He was the guy who came running when I called. Who stuck by me no matter how bad—or dangerous—things got. The guy who might not say, “We’re going for a drink, damn it,” but took me driving instead and bought me mochas to raise my spirits. Like a puppy starving for attention, I’d eagerly lapped it up.
James had been played by Gabriel, but it was nothing compared with the way I’d been played. And despite it all, I missed him. Missed him and hated myself for it.
After Wednesday morning, Gabriel had sent several “call me” texts. By evening, they’d escalated to complete messages, asking to talk, telling me he wanted to explain the situation, could we meet and discuss it? There were moments when I thought he sincerely wanted to do that. Then came a text on Friday—need to talk re: Pamela’s case—and I understood exactly why he was so eager to smooth things over.
I called him back at lunch.
Before he could speak, I said, “You’re worried that I’m going to convince Pamela to fire you. I wouldn’t do that. I want her to have the best legal representation possible, and that’s still you.”
Silence, broken only by the hiss of a less-than-perfect connection. Then he said slowly, “I appreciate your support. And in return . . .”
“In return?”
“What would you like in return?”
Anger sizzled through me. “I’m not bargaining, Gabriel. I’m saying I won’t jeopardize her defense out of spite. This is a clean break.”
“Break?” he said.
“Yes. As we agreed, I’ll pay your bill in full as soon as my trust fund comes due, and I won’t interfere with you and Pamela, so there is no need to call again trying to mend this—”
