His Unlikely Lover (Unwanted #3) (5 page)

“Pardon me?” he prompted, focusing his attention back on the lovely woman lounging beside him.

“I asked if you were okay? You seemed preoccupied.”

“I’m fine . . .” He nodded, glad that the sunglasses hid the lie in his eyes. He was so far from fine it was ridiculous. He wasn’t sure if he should talk to Bobbi about what had happened the night before or if he should leave it alone. This situation didn’t lend itself to any of the usual precedents. Any other woman and he would have known how to deal with the situation—acknowledge the attraction and do something about it. Despite knowing Bobbi better than most other people, he didn’t know her as a sexual being and it terrified him that he was suddenly so acutely aware of everything that made her female and desirable.

Sandro and Rick had headed toward the grill and were getting the fire started for the
braai
. Bryce and Max drifted over to the fire, as men tended to do at barbecues the world over, and a lively conversation about cricket started up before Sandro deftly diverted the conversation to
his
favorite sport and the men began to argue about the day’s forthcoming Italian Premier League football matches. Gabe made his excuses to Rosalie, who had flipped over onto her stomach and seemed to be snoozing beneath the warm sun, and pushed himself off the lounger to join the men—thinking that the distraction would be exactly what he needed. But after standing there for a few minutes, watching Sandro stoke the fire while Rick, his deaf brother, Bryce, and Max were engaged in a half-spoken, half-signed conversation about exactly how hot the coals should be before the meat went on the grill, Gabe found himself wandering away from the intense huddle of nouveau cavemen and toward the table where the women—who had been joined by Bronwyn—were sitting. They all looked up at the same time at his approach, making him wonder uncomfortably if they’d been talking about him. He briefly considered the notion that Bobbi may have confided in them about the night before but dismissed it almost immediately. Bobbi wasn’t the type of female who had girly chats with other women about man-related problems.

“Hey.” He nodded casually and moved to sit down in one of the free chairs. The strained silence that greeted him made him reconsider his former opinion—they’d
definitely
been talking about him and he could feel a flush stain his cheekbones.

“Gabe,” Bronwyn greeted with a regal nod.

“Great party last night, Theresa.” He canted his beer bottle toward the pretty redhead and she smiled her thanks. The usually gregarious group remained unusually quiet and Gabe forged ahead uncomfortably. “Do you think . . . uh, Bobbi will be down again? For lunch, I mean. Has she indicated that she’ll be down for lunch?”

“She’s not feeling up to company after last night,” Theresa said in a gentle voice that seemed to be brimming with accusation and Gabe tensed, expecting censure. “You know . . . after drinking too much? The noise level out here was too much for her to deal with.”

He slowly and silently exhaled the breath he’d been holding. His own guilty conscience was making his imagination run riot . . . or maybe not? Theresa couldn’t seem to meet his eyes and that pissed him off. He hadn’t done anything to warrant being treated like a damned sex offender.

“I’ll go up and check on her,” he mumbled, happy for a reason to leave the strained company and the excuse to go up and see Bobbi. He leapt to his feet, spilling some of his beer in the process, and rushed inside, not needing to look back to know that the women were watching his ignoble retreat.

CHAPTER THREE

T
he sharp knock on her door left no doubt in Bobbi’s mind as to whom was on the other side of the wooden barrier. She sucked in a deep, calming breath before walking over to open the door.

The first thing she noticed was that he had thankfully put on a pristine white T-shirt before coming to her door and had removed the sunglasses. It didn’t stop him from still looking incredible though, especially since his skin had bronzed a shade darker in the morning sun and contrasted attractively with the crisp whiteness of his shirt. She forced that thought from her mind and smiled up at him with just the right amount of friendliness and apology.

“Gabe,” she exclaimed, sounding absolutely
thrilled
to see him. “I was just coming down to have a chat with you.” She turned her back and walked back into her room, glancing over her shoulder to be sure he followed her inside. He was very careful to leave the door slightly ajar, probably terrified that she’d attack him again. She successfully hid her grimace by heading for the comfortably overstuffed pair of chairs that were situated beside a huge picture window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and sank down into one, curling her legs and dragging her feet up under her butt, trying to keep her posture as relaxed and nonconfrontational as possible. He warily sat down in the second chair, which was angled to face hers.

Unlike Bobbi he seemed tense, both feet were braced on the floor, giving him the appearance of someone who would bolt at the slightest provocation, and his hands were precisely placed on the armrests of the chairs with his fingers curled around the edges. He couldn’t seem to meet her eyes, which just about broke her heart.

“I’m sorry about last night.” She tried for casual but the words were soft, filled with regret, and the tiniest bit wistful. His throat worked as he swallowed.

“Yeah? Which part?” That threw her somewhat. She hadn’t expected him to ask for specifics.

“All of it. Getting drunk, kissing you . . .
touching
you.” She watched as his fingers clenched the armrests and brought her regard back up to his face. He had his eyes averted and was staring unseeingly out at the horizon, where the shimmering cobalt-blue ocean blended seamlessly with the azure blue of the sky.

“Why did you do it?” He asked, his voice gruff, and she blinked. This wasn’t the way she had pictured this conversation going at all. Gabe was supposed to gratefully latch on to the excuse to maintain the status quo of their friendship. He wasn’t supposed to ask speculative and penetrating questions.

“What?” She stalled for time, hoping to give him the chance to withdraw the question when he figured out that he was just drawing out the uncomfortable situation longer than was necessary.

“I asked why you did it?” He repeated, leaning forward to bring his sharp gaze onto her face and watching her every reaction with a maddeningly impersonal expression.

“Why did I get drunk?” She deliberately misunderstood, hoping again that he would grab onto
this
avenue of escape. There was a long pause while he continued to study her with those eyes that missed nothing. She kept her friendly smile pasted to her face but was gradually aware with each passing second how very fake it must look to this man who knew her so well.

“You know what I meant, Bobbi, but if you want me to spell it out—
why
did you kiss me and w
hy
did you touch me?” He leaned forward even more, bringing his elbows to his thighs and clasping his hands loosely together in the empty space between his knees.

“I was drunk.” It was all she could do not to stammer. She kept her eyes up and kept that damned fake smile plastered on her face.

“You said I was your date,” he reminded her, and she froze for the briefest of seconds before forcing a laugh out of her tight throat. She managed another one and then another until the sound that emerged
almost
resembled her natural laughter.

“Oh my God, Gabe . . . you had me going. So serious . . .
Why did you kiss me? Why did you touch me?
” She did a terrible impression of his voice, deepening her own to try and mimic his. “But the date thing? You
know
how drunk I was when I said that! Why else would I have said it? I thought you were angry with me or something, but you’re having me on aren’t you? Don’t scare me like that!”

His eyes had narrowed on her laughing face, but he leaned back in his chair and allowed a small smile to play about his lips. He seemed content to let her latch on to what she considered to be an “out.”

“I’m not angry with you, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I was worried about you. I still am . . . you haven’t eaten much today.”

This
was the Gabriel Braddock she had fallen in love with, the one who treated her with a gruff tenderness when he was alone with her, who cared about her well being and always seemed to want what was best for her. When she was growing up, she had loved him like her own brother. In fact, in some ways, she loved him more than any of her brothers.

Billy, Edward, and Clyde had never listened to her aching desires to be like the taller and prettier girls at school. They hadn’t been the ones to comfort her at fifteen, when she had lamented her lack of feminine curves. None of them had been interested in her disastrous crush on Timothy Carfield, the handsome captain of the rugby team. Gabe was the only one who had been there for her during those painful teenage years, before she had adjusted to the changes in her own body and admitted to herself that she would never be like those girls in school, that she had no
desire
to be like any of them. He had listened, he had advised and had always known exactly how to cheer her up whenever her adolescent fantasies of fitting in had ended in disaster. So often she had trudged home from school and straight to the Braddock house to tell Gabe about whatever humiliation she’d had to endure that day. Depending on the scope of the catastrophe, he would produce ice cream, take her to the movies or drive her down to the closest junkyard—his least favorite place in the world—where she could happily scrounge around for car parts. And so often, he had simply hugged her and told her that everything would be okay.

Bobbi had no pride where this man was concerned. She was desperate to keep him in her life and if it meant slowly bleeding to death from every tiny, slashing wound that his romantic indifference inflicted on her, then so be it.

Still the last day and a half had exhausted her and she just wanted to get home and lick her latest wounds in private.

“I don’t really want to stay for lunch. I just want to get home and sleep,” she told him, and he frowned at her sudden mood shift.

“You haven’t eaten yet,” he reminded.

“I’m not hungry. I feel too sick to eat, and I’d really prefer to go home. If you’re hungry we could stop for some fast food or something.” It was a thirty-minute drive from the affluent coastal suburb of Clifton, Cape Town, where Sandro and Theresa lived to Bobbi’s and Gabe’s homes in Constantia, which was a suburb located in the heart of the Cape Winelands. On a clear day like today, in his sleek Lamborghini, Gabe could do it in less time than that.

“If you’re sure?” he asked with marked reluctance.

“I’m sorry. I’ve totally ruined this weekend for you, haven’t I?” She felt awful about that. She would have to take a minibreak from Gabe after this weekend, focus on her business, and maybe spend more time with her female friends.

“You haven’t ruined it,” he said with a slight smile. “Not at all.”

Gabe watched the relief flood into her expressive amber eyes and the tension seep from her shoulders. She had tried to be so casual and unaffected but had failed miserably. He knew her too well to be fooled by the lighthearted act she’d just put on for him. Something fundamental had shifted in their relationship, and while she was desperately scrambling to take them back to where they had been before The Kiss, Gabe perversely wanted her to acknowledge that she had kissed him and touched him because she had wanted him. Not because she had been drunk and exercising flawed judgement. He knew that he was being an idiot. He should have grabbed onto the lifeline she had thrown him and their friendship with both hands, but it just
grated
to see her sitting there trying so desperately to look relaxed.

On the positive side, she looked like herself again. She was wearing an old pair of denim shorts that had been hacked off at mid-thigh and her favorite Pink Floyd
T-shirt, which was faded and torn in places. Her hair, which he had never paid particular attention to before, was a silky mess that was long in the front—with her side-parted fringe sliding over her left eye—and short in the back, just brushing at the nape of her neck. The glossy black stuff sleekly conformed to the pretty shape of her head, and while it hadn’t been styled in ages, it still gave her an appealing gamine quality, which when combined with her pretty, thickly lashed amber eyes, flawless golden skin, and irregular features, made him want either to ruffle her hair in affection or kiss her senseless. And therein lay the negative side of the situation: she looked like Bobbi again, his familiar and lovable best friend, his unkempt Runt, but damned if he didn’t still
want
her. It wasn’t an easy thought to adjust to, and it made him feel vaguely uncomfortable—like it was somehow
wrong
to want a girl he had known for most of his life.

He cleared his throat and tested a perfectly bland smile on her—it seemed to work because she relaxed even further.