Danger in a Red Dress (29 page)

As he washed, Gabriel cursed the plastic wrap and the duct tape that kept his bandage dry. The whole thing took too long to put on, and it took too long to take off, and all the while, Hannah was lying in bed alone and worried about her confession to him. That was the real reason she hadn’t come in the shower with him. She was afraid he didn’t believe her.

The hand that held the soapy washcloth slowed.

She was afraid for good reason. He didn’t believe her.

Did he?

Was he willing to condemn Carrick without asking for the truth? If he did ask for the truth, would Carrick tell him?

Did Carrick even know what the truth was?

Would Carrick admit to killing his own mother?

No, never.

But he’d done it. Damn it.

Gabriel slammed his fist on the wall of the shower.

He’d done it all.

Because Carrick would do anything for money, and once Gabriel had suggested that Hannah probably knew the code to access the fortune, Carrick had needed only one thing: confirmation. Knowing Mrs. Manly, knowing how easily irritated she was . . . she’d given it to him.

Gabriel played the video in his mind.

Carrick had been in the party. He’d gone to his mother’s room, dressed in the long vampire cape, and placed a red rose on her pillow. Afterward, he had stopped by the tray where the medications and syringes had been laid out, and for a vital few seconds, his cape had covered the tray.

That was when he’d made the switch.

He hadn’t needed his mother anymore, except as a means to an end. Except as a means to pressure Hannah into giving him the code.

It hadn’t worked, because Hannah got away. Even if she hadn’t, she would never have betrayed Mrs. Manly’s trust.

No wonder Carrick had looked a little worried in New York City. He needed that money.

Had Gabriel known all this before? He’d seen that video a hundred times, yet never had he allowed himself to think Carrick had done the deed. Gabriel could have enhanced the video to see details—he would now, and look to see if Carrick was wearing gloves, or if there was a chance he’d left a fingerprint on the medicine bottle. But Gabriel hadn’t wanted to admit his brother’s possible guilt to himself.

What had changed?

Hannah. Hannah had changed everything.

Mrs. Manly hadn’t been a fool. She had trusted Hannah, because Hannah was as genuine as she seemed.

Gabriel was the fool.

In a hurry now, he rinsed and got out of the shower. He needed to talk to Daniel about Carrick, consider how best to go about trapping him without harming anyone else. He needed to talk to Hannah about remaining indoors and out of sight.

He needed to tell her . . . who he really was.

THIRTY-TWO

Gabriel walked into the bedroom, hoping Hannah wasn’t already asleep. He needed to tell her the truth as soon as possible. He needed to hold her, convince her he truly believed her story, discuss the strategy for catching Carrick in the act, and what kind of deal they would cut with the feds before she gave them access to Nathan Manly’s fortune.

He needed to tell her he loved her.

But she was gone.

He hit the living room at a dead run and skidded to a stop.

She was circling the perimeter of the huge room, dressed in his lounge pants and racer-back shirt, walking as fast as she could.

He gaped at her. “What are you doing?”

She grimaced and waved a hand at Daniel.

“She says she needs exercise. Nordstrom is sending up some workout clothes, and I was telling her there’s a gym on the fifth floor.”

Gabriel shot him a glare.

Daniel shrugged his shoulders like,
What’s the harm?

“Are you well enough to exercise?” When she didn’t answer, Gabriel said, “Grace?”

“Oh! Sure. I got enough sleep. And you warmed me up.” She shot him a glittering smile. “I’m actually getting a little twitchy being in bed. I’m not used to being idle.”

Idle. Well. That put him and his lovemaking in their places.

“I’ll get into my workout clothes.” Daniel headed for his room. Daniel loved to exercise, and apparently Hannah wasn’t the only one getting twitchy.

“I’ll change, too.” Gabriel tried to catch her eye. “Want to come and help?”

She shot him another one of those million-volt smiles. “If I did that, we’d never make it to the gym, and I’m getting a little stir-crazy, being up here. Not that it’s not a gorgeous place. Big living room!” She kept walking. “But are you sure you should exercise at all? Dr. Bellota said you were to stay in bed for seven days.”

“Dr. Bellota is a conservative old poop.”

She laughed. “Go and change. I’ll wait for the workout clothes.”

He didn’t want to leave her alone to accept the package, but he reminded himself—he trusted her.

He retreated to the bedroom.

It was that right now she seemed to be acting . . . oddly.

He got into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and was tying his shoes when he heard the buzzer. He paused and listened, poised and ready in case. In case of what, he didn’t know, but for no reason he could put his finger on, that impression of wrongness nagged at him.

He heard her speak, heard someone answer, heard the elevator door close. He made himself finish tying his shoe, stood, and walked into the living room.

She sat on the couch, transferring her new shoes and clothes into a gym bag. He would have sworn she heard him come in, but she didn’t look up.

“I need to tell you something.” Maybe this wasn’t the best time to confess the truth, but a sense of urgency was driving him.

“Hmm?” She looked up as if surprised.

“It’s complicated, but I’m not who—”

Daniel bounded into the room. “Are we ready?”

“Yes!” Bag in hand, Hannah stood. “Not quite. If you both will give me a private minute . . . I won’t be long.” She headed toward the bedroom and shut the door after her.

“Sorry, boss.” Daniel hung his head and looked sorrowful. “I didn’t realize you were having a moment.”

“I was going to tell her I believed her.”

“All the way?”

“All the way.”

“About time.” Daniel was intelligent, intuitive, and a friend, and his blessing meant a lot.

“It probably wasn’t the right moment, anyway.” Gabriel rubbed the stubble on his chin and wished he’d taken a moment to shave. “When I tell her who I really am and what I’ve done, she’s going to—”

“Blow a gasket.”

“Hannah’s not like that.”

“You are kidding yourself. You spied on her. You slept with her, and she doesn’t even know who you really are.” Daniel counted off the list of Gabriel’s sins on his fingers. “You’d better roll on your back like a puppy, because she is going to beat you with a slipper.”

The door handle turned.

“Shh,”
Gabriel said.

She walked out, still in the lounge pants, and said, “Are we ready, gentlemen?”

Daniel pulled his pass card out of his wallet, stuck it into the elevator panel, and pressed the DOWN button. “Let’s go.”

Hannah walked into the elevator ahead of them, faced front, and leaned against the wall. She smacked her bag into the rail, and it made a clinking sound.

She stiffened with guilt and worry, but they didn’t say anything. They didn’t notice.

Okay. Just act cool.

Gabriel stood next to her and wrapped his arm around her.

She had to act natural; she couldn’t screw this up now. So she tilted her head onto his shoulder, and tried to pretend he was some other man. A guy who was honest and true, although in her experience men like that didn’t exist. She was out of the penthouse, and if she played her cards right, she’d be so gone Gabriel Prescott would never find her again.

The slick, deceitful bastard.

The elevator made a fast descent.

He kissed the top of her head.

She tried not to gag.

He tried to turn her face up to kiss her mouth.

She pulled away and whispered, “Not in front of Daniel!”

The doors opened, and she bounded out. She glanced both ways, then back at the guys and asked, “Which way?”

“To the left,” Daniel said.

“Come on!” She walked with the excess of energy that only the pure flame of absolute rage could give her.

The gym was marked with a discreet little sign, and Daniel used his pass card to let them in.

She surveyed the field of battle. This was a great gym. It was a perfect gym. It was clean. Mirrors covered one wall and a huge window covered the other. A machine dispensed bottles of water and energy drinks. There were four treadmills, four elliptical machines, four exercise bikes. There was an area to lift weights and do ab work, and eight professional gym-weight, massive black heavy machines.

Two women were on the treadmills, chatting, and they were sweaty and red-faced, so hopefully they’d be done soon.

Life was good.

“You guys go ahead. I’m going to change.” Hannah headed for the ladies’ room, and before the door shut behind her, she heard their low, worried buzz.

She wasn’t quite pulling off the carefree act, but they weren’t alarmed. Yet.

Going into one of the small dressing rooms, she placed the bag on the bench, careful to make no sound. She unzipped it and pulled out the workout clothes.

Perfect. A pair of black capri pants, a black hoodie, and a pink patterned tank. Not too flashy, just right. The shoes were good, too. In fact, the shoes were . . . She sighed in delight. She hadn’t been able to afford shoes like this for almost a year. Cross-trainers, white and pink, with good support. She was in heaven.

She didn’t waste time—didn’t want the guys to get nervous—but changed, cursing the bandage on her wrist as it caught on the sleeves coming off and going on. Her arm still hurt. But she’d had bigger challenges in her life, and this one wasn’t going to stop her now.

She tossed the lounge pants and top in the garbage. She was either going to make it out of here, or she wasn’t, but no matter what, she would never wear those damn clothes again.

They were tainted with memories.

Folding the hoodie, she placed it in the bottom of the bag, arranged everything to her satisfaction, and zipped the bag
most
of the way closed. She walked out in time to see the two women getting ready to walk out. She watched carefully, and all they did was push, and the door opened right up.

Great. No pass card needed.

She looked at the guys. “We’re alone.”

They grinned at her, grunted, and went on working the weights.

She’d suggested the right thing. They were both blissed out, doing man stuff, showing off.

Daniel stopped to strip off his T-shirt. The guy was a black-skinned god, his chest and arms corded with muscle and glistening with sweat, his legs shaped like an Olympic runner’s.

Gabriel kept his tee on, but she knew what he looked like, and the memory of his body made her perspire without lifting an ounce.

For a moment, her heart quailed. This was going to take timing and luck, and lately her luck had been nonexistent.

She raised her chin.

So it was time for her luck to change.

She put her bag beside an exercise bike, sat down, and set the resistance to nothing. She might have told the guys she wanted to work out, but in truth, for what she had planned, she would need all her strength. She started pedaling, scrutinized the room, and finalized her strategy.

In a chatty tone, she said, “So. When do you guys celebrate your birthdays?”

“A man as old as the boss never celebrates his,” Daniel said, and ducked and laughed when Gabriel flung a towel at him.

“I was abandoned, so I’m not sure when my birthday is.” Gabriel spoke matter-of-factly, without self-pity—a man simply stating the facts. “The Prescotts decided I was born on July Fourth, Independence Day, and my sisters always make sure there’s a cake along with the fireworks.”

“Neat.” His sisters sounded nice. Too bad the niceness hadn’t rubbed off. Zeroing in on her real target, she asked, “How about you, Daniel? When’s your birthday?”

“You going to buy me a present?” He grinned at her.

“Yes, something to prop up your poor, shriveled ego,” she snapped.

Now Gabriel laughed.

“She must be getting better,” Daniel spoke to no one in particular. “She’s grumpy.”

“I am not. I just want to know. . . .” She took a breath and calmed herself. “Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me, I can’t bake my special pie for you.”

“I do love me a pie,” Daniel said. “What kind?”

“Boston cream pie. A yellow cake filled with vanilla custard and topped with chocolate glaze.” She dangled her tastiest bait.

Daniel frowned as if he thought she was pulling his leg. “Doesn’t sound like pie to me.”

“I’ve had it. That custard is rich and the chocolate drizzles down the side and pools on the plate. . . .” Gabriel smacked his lips.

“But, Daniel, if you don’t want it . . .”
Come on
, she thought.
Come on, come on!

“Okay! My birthday’s April twenty-second.”

“What year?”

“Nineteen eighty-eight.”

With that, she had everything she needed.

Daniel put down his weight and frowned at her. “But April’s a long ways away. How am I going to wait?”

“When I go upstairs”—which if everything worked out as she intended, that would never happen—“you might be able to persuade me to do a little prebirthday baking.”

“Do I get a Boston cream pie, too?” Gabriel asked.

She smiled gaily, and joked, “You had better believe that you are both going to get your just deserts.”

Except, of course, she wasn’t joking.

After that, it was about a half hour—thirty long, agonizing minutes of waiting and watching—before she was able to say to Gabriel, “You need to stop.”