Val held firm. “I’ll have my helicopter and pilot here on standby.”

Hunter offered a slight nod. “I’ll send my staff on, then.”

A breath escaped.

“I hope you like pasta, Mr. Blackwell,” Gabi’s mother said as she led them away from the island tarmac.

“Please, call me Hunter.”

“We’re still a long way from first names.” Gabi’s mother dismissed him with a wave.

Chapter Thirteen

The mental scoreboard in Hunter’s head was plunged toward the murky depths of hell.

Valentino hated him. His dark, watchful gaze and short tone didn’t need definition.

Margaret . . . or Meg, as Gabi referred to her sister-in-law, was close to impossible to read. From her words and watchful gaze, Hunter knew she’d be happy to see him gone.

And Gabi’s mom . . . forget it. The woman told him, repeatedly, that he wasn’t good enough for her daughter. You don’t speak Italian. What’s wrong with you? Why go through all the effort to marry my daughter and not know her language? Call me Mrs. Masini . . . first names are for friends and family . . . and right now, you’re neither.

Hunter’s head swam with the woman’s insults.

For one brief moment, he wanted to remind the lady about his net worth . . . but knew she didn’t give a crap about his bank balance.

Gabi . . . Gabi was the woman’s concern.

The strange twist was Gabriella herself. She let her family deliver their verbal punches for a few hits, and then diverted the conversation.

Gabi didn’t deny, nor did she agree . . . she listened and diverted.

He might be able to eat while on the island after all.

They’d taken residence in the special guest villa beside Val’s main residence. Gabi had suggested they have their own space. At first, he thought maybe she was saving him from a twenty-four-hour inquisition of her family . . . but as it stood, he realized Gabi assured she wouldn’t have to take the room she’d shared with her ex.

He barely noticed the ocean views before he strode into the villa and began setting his things inside the bathroom he’d be sharing with his wife.

He hesitated as he plugged in his electric shaver.

Wife.

How had he managed to move through life without acquiring one of those?

With a sigh, he shook his head, looked past the title, and remembered what Gabi was.

An acquisition to suit his needs for a short duration of time.

Dark, lush hair . . . soulful eyes that displayed more emotion than she’d ever know . . . wit and courage he hadn’t expected . . . a body he’d coveted more than any bible verse he’d ever read.

An acquisition, he reminded himself.

Temporary.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

Gabi stood on the other side of the door to the adjoining bathroom, a pair of high heels in her hands. “Dinner is at six. Did you want to shower first?”

Translation: I want to shower and you’re in the bathroom.

“You go ahead.”

A genuine smile reached her eyes. “Dinner is causal. You brought casual . . . right?”

“It’s a tropical island. I didn’t bring a suitcase full of suits.”

Those dark eyes followed him as he exited the bathroom and she shut the door.

When the water turned on, he imagined his naked wife . . . Gabi . . .

Yeah, he should probably think of something else.

He reached into the side pocket of his jacket, and then patted his back pockets . . . oh, yeah . . . his cell phone was sitting in a hotel vault, or worse, Gabi’s brother was searching his contacts . . . perhaps messages . . .

He tapped his fingers against his thigh.

His phone had a password, he reminded himself.

Hard to hack through a password.

Or was it?

The water from the shower turned off, and his brain raced from cell phones to skin.

They had four nights on the island. Four.

He’d been in more hostile environments than this . . . four days wasn’t that long.

“The shower’s yours,” Gabi called from the other side of the villa. She’d taken the larger of the two rooms. The bathroom had two doors, one to the room she occupied and the other to the rest of the apartment suite.

He stepped into the bathroom. The steam raced against his skin, as did the scent of the floral soap Gabi used.

The door to her room was cracked, and he caught a glimpse of her wrapped in a large bath towel as she padded around her suite.

Bare shoulders and bare knees shouldn’t make every part of his anatomy tighten . . . but they did.

Feeling like a peeping pervert, he silently closed the door and shed his clothing.

Cold showers and a warm climate.

Four days, he reminded himself. How hard could that be?

Holy hell . . . four days?

She emerged from her room in simple spaghetti-strapped silk that flowed over her curves and made then damn near invisible. They weren’t.

Gabi’s hair was tossed into what appeared to be a mess on the top of her head, which he knew many women paid close to two hundred bucks to have done for them. Her makeup was minimal . . . a little gloss, a touch at her eyes. She didn’t need it.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asked when she caught him staring.

He considered diverting his obvious gawking, then decided against it.

“You’re stunning.”

The hand she’d brought to her face to wipe fictitious dirt away fell to her side.

And Gabriella Masini Blackwell blushed.

Before she could say a thing, he added, “This island has relaxed you already and we’ve only been here two hours.”

She looked at her feet, then out the massive glass doors that disappeared when opened. “It’s hard to take in that view and not feel your heartbeat slow.”