Someone To Watch Over Me (Harlequin Super Romance) (18 page)

“Uh…any time,” he offered magnanimously. Although the promise had no more than slipped past his lips when Gabe realized it’d be next to impossible to keep. He
wanted
sexual strings. But, Gabe knew he had to be patient. This wounded woman didn’t need a lover now. Until she figured out she did, he’d wait. He’d be her protector, her friend, her guardian.

By God, he’d be her fortress through this whole messy trial.

G
ABE SAT
beside Isabella, interpreting the legal jargon, while she took notes. Their arms brushed on occasion. His doggedly pragmatic dissection of each transcript helped her stay focused so that her mind didn’t drift off on other tangents.

“You’re good at legalese,” she said when they had two cases left to go. “I mean, you instinctively zero in on the facts that make each argument unique. What on earth made you decide to change occupations? And to raise sheep, of all things?”

“Now you sound like Marc and Reggie. They ganged up on me during my last visit to Utah. They’re both convinced I’m certifiable.” Rocking back in his chair, Gabe rubbed a hand over the bristle of his five o’clock shadow.

She closed the book they’d finished and set it aside before dusting off the next one. “Must be a male mid-life thing.” Isabella found Gabe’s marker and let the pages fall open.

He stifled a yawn. “It’s funny, but I dreamed up the idea of owning a farm at Coltrane and Summer’s wedding reception. Believe it or not, what you just suggested crossed my mind. So, let me pose a question to you. Is it so difficult to imagine me spending the rest of my days herding sheep?”

Isabella analyzed him, much as she’d done that day
at the Quinns’ reception. Only then he’d been oblivious to her stares. She saw things now that weren’t evident then. His strong but lean hands were capable of incredible tenderness. A fine sensitivity ran true and deep within his striking blue eyes.

He gave a nervous laugh. “You’re having to work too hard at that assignment, Isabella. I think I get the picture.”

“Actually, I was thinking you’re a bit of a mystery. Undoubtedly a man of many talents who could do whatever he set his mind to.”

“You’re a diplomat.”

She uncapped and recapped her pen. “I don’t want to be. I want to be a woman who forms opinions and speaks her mind.”

Gabe stilled her busy fingers, wishing he could rid them of their tremor. “If you ask me, the world needs more diplomats. Shall we finish up the cases we have out, refile the books, then decide if we need to meet again tomorrow night?”

“Yes. Let’s.” Isabella was vaguely disappointed that Gabe had chosen to change the subject. She wanted him to understand what she’d endured living with Julian—the subtle oppression he’d hidden from her until after the children were born and she was trapped. But why would Gabe understand? And if he did begin to put the pieces together, might he blame her for not leaving Julian sooner?

Flipping to a clean page on her pad, Isabella chanced to see her watch. “Goodness, we’ve been at this nearly three hours.”

“Tedious process. It’s the stuff lawyers don’t have time for once they accept a new case on top of a hundred ongoing ones. Most hire second-and third-year
law students for the type of work you’re wading through.”

“I knew nothing about lawyers until Summer decided to divorce Frank Marsh. I…I followed her example.” Isabella choked up. “You have no idea how I regret taking that first step. Toni and Ramon paid for my mistake.”

“Not your fault, Isabella. Maybe the divorce made Julian crazy. And maybe he would’ve gone berserk anyway.”

“The divorce certainly provoked him, but Julian wasn’t crazy,” she said so loudly that her words echoed back from the cavernous racks of law books.

Gabe berated himself for opening his mouth. Isabella’s mind was closed to the slightest suggestion that her ex suffered from mental problems. “Can you dissect the last two cases alone? If so, I’ll start putting these books away.” He pushed out of his chair and picked up four volumes.

Isabella turned to watch his retreating back. Good as he was to look at, it was a crying shame he was so pigheaded. Avoidance of truth—that was how the counselor she’d gone to for a short time would have labeled the way Gabe abruptly changed the subject whenever something came up that he didn’t care to discuss. But from the sound of it, his childhood hadn’t been rosy. And who was she to judge anyone? She hadn’t liked what the counselor had to say, so she’d quit her sessions. She’d told her family time and money were the main reason she’d stopped going. They all thought she was coping admirably.

Rolling her shoulders, Isabella pulled the book closer. The visits to the psychologist began too soon after she’d opened the garage door on a scene that
would live forever in her mind. How could anyone who hadn’t walked in her shoes presume to know what she needed?

She rubbed idly at her stomach, at the almost constant pain there. She’d only copied two items out of the book. Yet when Gabe returned for the second batch, she slammed it shut and added it to his stack. Resolutely, she drew the last one toward her.

“Did you decide whether or not to come back tomorrow?” Gabe asked, sliding into the empty chair next to her again.

“Can I let you know later? Tomorrow afternoon I meet with James Hayden to go over my deposition. I’ll show him what we’ve gathered and see if he thinks any of it’s relevant. How many more cases in this state haven’t we looked at?”

“We’ve covered about half.”

“There are that many?” She traced the gold lettering on the outside of the book as she closed it. “One day my life history will be laid bare just like these. Other people, complete strangers, will read it, and maybe cite us as an example.”

The pupils of her eyes had become black holes of despair. Gabe thought this exercise was taking too great a toll on her already brittle constitution. “Answer me truthfully, Isabella. Did you eat anything at all before you came here tonight?”

“If I had, I probably would’ve embarrassed both of us by losing it all over Larkin Crosley’s law books.”

Gabe pried the last book out of her hand. “I’m taking you out for a decent meal. And none of this two little pieces of pizza crap.”

“This late, there’s nothing open.”

“We’ll drive to Burns. They have several restaurants
open until at least eleven. And a pancake house that’s twenty-four hours a day.”

“Breakfast might be palatable. I can’t believe I’ve agreed to drive fifteen minutes for something I could whip up in ten.” She stood rather clumsily and gathered her notes.

“You’re not driving. I am. Bacon and eggs will hit the spot, provided the cook doesn’t toss in a handful of chiles.” He winked.

“I’ll never live down those
migas.
You think I haven’t noticed how thoroughly you inspect any morsel that comes out of our kitchen?”

He shut out the lights in Larkin’s office, locked the door and guided Isabella to the stairs. “I guess you heard how your brothers-in-law scalded my lungs with that battery acid they call hard cider?”

“The fact that you laughed made a big hit with them.” She gazed on him favorably, too, as he opened the passenger door and handed her into the SUV. “For a man who describes himself as having been a bad-ass kid, you have impeccable manners.”

“The Corps taught me, ma’am. You’ve heard of that book,
All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten?
Well, the Marine Corps was my kindergarten. And when they signed me on, they taught me a bunch of new rules. For starters, I disliked taking orders. The Corps is built around giving—and taking—them.” He paused for a moment. “When push comes to shove, I owe Coltrane, Moss and Marc for recognizing I wasn’t as tough inside as I tried to let on. I owe those three a lot. Maybe everything I am.”

“The fact that you let them influence you is a testament to your adaptability, Gabe. I’ve read that guys who grow up in big families like mine do best in the
military. If you’re an only child, you probably never had to share with a soul.”

“I grew up fast, that’s for sure. But maybe it forced me to interact with a broad range of people.”

Isabella pulled her sweater more tightly around her and stared at the moonlit scenery as it flew past. “I had a wonderful childhood. Happy. Loving. Supportive. As a result, I came away with false expectations that my life would always be that way.”

Gabe glanced over and realized she was twisting a nonexistent ring around the third finger of her left hand. Not for the first time in their brief history, he floundered, having no idea what to say to her. He decided to stick to something neutral.

“There are CDs in the center console. See if there’s one you like. I’m warning you, though, I don’t have highbrow tastes in music.”

“Do men and women ever agree on music or movies?” She opened the console and rummaged through the stored discs. “I take that back. You have a lot of stuff I enjoy.” Selecting an early Beach Boys CD, she popped it in the player. “California Girls” blared out. Adjusting the volume, she settled back, wearing an actual smile.

Gabe wasn’t about to confess that it wasn’t his CD, but one of three Mossberger had left in the SUV the weekend of Coltrane’s wedding.

“What did you and your husband do for fun?”

She rolled her head in his direction, never lifting it from the headrest. “Together?” She had to think hard. “Well, we have a week-long celebration on
Jueves Gordo.
Fat Thursday. There’s a carnival, and street dances. The men do a lot of drinking and we all gorge
ourselves. Everyone parties so much that on
Viernes Flaco
we all flake out. Nobody goes to work.”

“Thin Friday?” Gabe laughed.

“Very good. You’re picking up Euskera.”

“So what else?”

“There’s a group in the community dedicated to preserving Basque dances and costumes. My daughter, Antonia, attended a class at the Basque Center Saturday mornings. She loved dancing. And flowers. And butterflies.”

A mantle of gloom at once descended on Isabella.

Gabe kicked himself. Wasn’t there
any
topic that didn’t risk reminding her of her loss? The upbeat music filling the vehicle seemed all wrong.

Isabella must have thought so, too. She reached over and punched the eject button. Soberly, she returned the disc to its case.

He was fairly sure that the military psychologist he’d seen—the man who’d helped him forgive his parents’ transgressions in order to get on with his life—would say Isabella needed to talk about her good memories. Gabe was in no way inclined to test his theory, however. Eventually, her silence got to him. He was relieved when they reached their destination.

“We can’t not talk for the entire meal,” he said after they’d parked, walked into the chain restaurant and been seated and given menus by the hostess. In all that time they hadn’t exchanged a word.

“I’m sorry.”

“For…?” He raised his eyes from the open menu.

“I’m not good company.”

“Your company’s just fine, Isabella. I’d like to find some common ground. Subjects we can discuss in or
der to learn more about each other—preferably without causing you grief.”

“I am grieving, Gabe. Always. You don’t seem to understand that I’ll live in a state of grief forever.”

Gabe tore his gaze away from her unhappy face, but he couldn’t concentrate on his menu. If he really believed she’d never stop grieving, he might as well pack it in and forget all about her. But he couldn’t see himself abandoning her. Time. She needed time. Also patience and unwavering support. Those worked; he knew that from experience.

Closing the menu, Gabe pushed it to the edge of the table. “Darn. No
migas.
” A mischievous smile replaced his frown. “I’m going to settle for plain, boring number four. Does anything here appeal to you? Me, maybe?” He wagged his eyebrows.

“A waffle,” she said, ignoring his attempts at humor. “Papa used to take us kids to this restaurant after the Sheepherder’s Ball. I always got a waffle with strawberries and whipped cream. They have it under seasonal items.”

Gabe signaled the waitress. “Is it possible to get a strawberry waffle tonight?”

“Yeah. Got some nice California berries this week.” The waitress cracked her gum. “Would you be wantin’ that waffle with cream, sir?”

“Whipped. And it’s for the lady. I’ll take your number four. Eggs scrambled. And coffee black, please.” He indicated that Isabella should order her own beverage.

“Hot tea, I think.” She listened to the waitress name ten or so varieties. “I’ll try cinnamon spice.”

They both watched the waitress rip their order sheet off her pad and clip it on the cook’s carousel.

“Tell me what ideas you have for renovating John’s house.” Isabella introduced a new subject out of the blue.

Gabe drummed his fingers on the table as the waitress delivered their drinks. “Summer gave me the name of a builder who’s done work for her,” he said after the waitress had gone. “He’ll swing by tomorrow and give me an estimate. I gather he’s a fair architect. He knows my house and says it’s well built. We agreed that most of what I need is cosmetic, but I’d like the master bedroom enlarged, a screened porch added all the way across the back of the house, and skylights installed in the two bathrooms.”

“That sounds more than cosmetic to me. Will you remove a wall between the large bedroom and one of the smaller ones?”

“No, I’ll leave the three smaller bedrooms as they are.”

“What does a bachelor need with four bedrooms?”

Gabe hesitated. They were chatting genially and he didn’t want her to clam up again. But she was waiting expectantly. “I’m not getting any younger,” he mumbled. “Lately I’ve been thinking about starting a family. Not until the house is spruced up, and I settle on a direction for my future,” he hurriedly added.

That was enough to make Isabella close down again. It was fortunate for both of them that the waitress brought their order. She set the strawberry confection in front of Isabella, then plopped a sizzling plate of pancakes, bacon and eggs in front of Gabe. With a flourish, she produced catsup, Tabasco and the bill from a deep apron pocket before warming Gabe’s coffee. “More hot water?” she asked Isabella.

“Uh, no thanks. This…ah…waffle seems much bigger than I remember it as a kid.”

The waitress cracked her gum. “Same size. Kids gobble them up. Adults rarely finish one. I’ve yet to bring one to an adult who didn’t gasp. It’s sad that the stuff we loved as kids never quite measures up to our memories. If you’d rather order something else, I’ll take that back to the kitchen.” She pulled out her order pad.