Someone To Watch Over Me (Harlequin Super Romance) (4 page)

Isabella felt bad. She drove people away. And that hurt, too. But she couldn’t help it. Molly said the mind was an unpredictable thing.

As Isabella soberly went back to her work, she urged
her mind down a different road. She tried to picture what her life would be like fifty years from now. She didn’t particularly like the vision she conjured up—a wizened, skeletal version of the unhappy woman who gazed back at her each day from the bathroom mirror. Trini was right. They were all right. She couldn’t go on as she was. But how could she not be the spokes-person for her silent children?

Her icy lips formed the mantra she began and ended each day with. “When I see Julian properly punished, I’ll worry about getting my life back.”

G
ABE SETTLED
back into the soft leather seat of his luxury SUV and let Marc’s and Reggie’s endless talk swirl around him. They knew each other so well, Gabe could almost predict the path of their conversation. Reggie would talk for a while about the injured livestock he’d healed. Then Marc would jump in and expound on the virtues of the latest sports cars out on the market. Once they’d exhausted those subjects, their interest would undoubtedly veer toward women.

He grinned when their conversation did exactly that.

Moss, who’d changed from his suit into worn jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, stretched his lanky frame across Gabe’s middle set of seats. “So, Marc. Are you really serious about tying yourself down to Lizzy Woodruff?”

Marc darted a quick glance at Gabe before he turned sideways in his seat to see both his friends. An oddly dreamy expression softened his pewter-gray eyes. “Lizzy’s the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“How do you know?” Gabe jerked his eyes off the road long enough to frown at Marc.

From the back, Moss guffawed. “You said it yourself, Gabe, when you pointed out that little Lizzy’s daddy owns a string of car dealerships.”

Marc bolted upright. “That’s a dog-faced lie! Granted, I met Lizzy at one of her dad’s dealerships, where I went to scope out a car. But cars have nothing to do with why I’m going back to Utah to take our relationship to the next level.”

“I’m serious, Marc,” Gabe said. “How do you know Lizzy’s
the
one and only?”

“How did Coltrane know Summer was it for him?”

“I have no idea.” Gabe smacked the steering wheel. “Especially since he bombed completely back when he married Monica.”

“Now, she was a piece of work,” Reggie said.

“Yeah. But I remember envying Colt back then. Hell, we all did.”

“Our priorities were different, I guess,” Marc muttered.

Mossberger jumped in again. “In the Corps, we had stuff to prove. But even then we had each other. When Colt married Monica, it was like we lost something.” He shook his head. “Before he was captured in that operation that went bad, we thought we were invincible. Suddenly we were ordinary. Men with shortcomings. That changed us.”

Marc’s brows drew together over the bridge of his nose. “Jeez, Moss, you make us sound like a bunch of losers.”

Gabe sneaked a peek at Reggie in the rearview mirror. “I think Moss is trying to say that when we were faced with our own mortality, we woke up. On some level, we all knew Monica was a user. But tough guys like us were supposed to bag a trophy wife.”

“Yeah. Two by two is nature’s way. All God’s species come in pairs.”

“Spoken like a veterinarian,” Marc jeered. “This conversation’s getting too deep for me. Lizzy’s nothing like Monica. She works and she takes care of her grandmother. Best of all, she has a great sense of humor.”

Gabe grabbed Marc’s arm. “Wait. Maybe Moss is onto something. Guys usually get along when we hang out together. Once the pack breaks up and we’re shuffling around on our own, loneliness forces us to start searching for a mate. Someone to keep us company.”

“Marriage is about more than companionship,” Marc said. “Don’t either of you ever think about having kids?” he ventured hesitantly.

Leaning forward, Reggie planted his bony elbows on his knees. “I do. The old vet I trained under worked closely with the area elementary schools. He kept a petting zoo where city kids come to learn about animals. Some kids, well, they got to me, ya know? You guys’ll probably laugh me out of the car, but…I’ve been thinking about adopting. Not a baby. An older kid. I don’t have any prospects for a wife, but I ask myself, do I need a wife to make a home for a kid who has nothing and no one?”

Gabe tugged at his ear. “I’m not gonna laugh, Moss. Growing up, I kicked around the streets fighting hunger in my belly too often. After Russ Poston threw me out, a home like you’re talking about would’ve seemed like heaven.”

“Still, if you’d had your druthers,” Marc argued, “wouldn’t you have preferred having a mom
and
a dad? I sure want a kid of mine to have both.”

“Aha! So when’s the wedding?” Gabe drawled. At
the same time Reggie whooped and said, “Is Lizzy pregnant?”

Marc turned bright red. “It’s not like that with us. She, uh, we aren’t sleeping together…yet,” Marc qualified, growing ever more crimson.

“Whoa! I believe our ol’ buddy is dead serious about this little gal.” Moss slumped again. “Man, before long I’m gonna be the only one of the fearsome foursome who’s still single.”

“When did I get booted out of the club?” Gabe asked.

“You think I didn’t see you making cow eyes at that babe today?”

“What babe?” Marc’s flush subsided and a gleam flickered in his eyes. “What’d I miss? Gabe’s yanking my chain over Lizzy when he’s hot for some Callanton babe?”

“It’s true,” Moss declared over Gabe’s vociferous denial. “You mean you didn’t see him stalking that tall, black-haired caterer with his tongue hanging out?”

“Keep it up, Reggie,” Gabe warned, “and you’ll be out on the roadside hitching your way to the airport.”

“I see! You can razz me, but
your
woman’s off limits? No fair! Give with the details, pal.” Marc wasn’t about to let it go.

Gabe clammed up as he curled his hands around the steering wheel and kept his eyes on the road.

“She served us cake at the reception,” Reggie supplied for Marc’s benefit.

“I don’t remember even seeing her. You might’ve tipped me off,” Marc grumbled to Reggie. “So what’s her name?”

“You won’t drop this, will you?” Gabe blew out a stream of air, watching both men lean toward him.
When they only continued to leer owlishly, he reluctantly supplied her name. “Isabella. Isabella Navarro.”

When nothing but silence followed his admission, Marc gave another nudge. “How long have you two been dating? Jeez, Gabe, talk about
me
working fast. Colt said you were in and out of Callanton in a matter of days when you closed the agency’s deal on Summer’s ranch.”

“I’m not dating anyone.” Gabe’s head snapped around. “I…find her…attractive, that’s all. She gave me the brush-off. Now enough’s enough.”

“So what’s wrong with her?” Reggie queried. “She engaged or something?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong.” Marc echoed. “Women never brush you off, Gabriel.”

“She has good reason, okay?” Stalling, Gabe finally capitulated, and in fits and starts relayed the awful thing Summer had told him.

“Holy shit!” Marc and Reggie chorused, their voices laced with horror.

“Exactly. So now you see why it’d be plain stupid for a guy to even try and get anything going with her.”

“Why do I have a feeling you’re gonna do it anyway?” Reggie shrugged. “Otherwise, you’d have packed your bag and come to Idaho with me.”

“Naw,” Marc insisted, frowning at Reggie. “Gabe’s got more brains than any of us. You’ll be driving back to Sun Valley tomorrow, right? To kick back and get in a little spring skiing before Marley needs you to close my deal in Utah.”

“Well…this is great country. Maybe I’ll hang here until Marley phones.”

Reggie smacked a hand down hard on the back of
Gabe’s seat. “I knew it. You’re gonna make a play for the caterer.”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” Reggie shot back.

“No. But I may stay a few days. Maybe see what kind of ranch property’s come on the market since Coltrane thwarted those developers and arranged for SOS to save Summer’s ranch.” Gabe winced at what sounded like a lame excuse even to him.

Naturally, Reggie jumped right on his friend’s statement. “Hell, Gabe, you’re a banker. What do you know about ranch land? Or ranching, for that matter. I’ll bet you don’t even know which end of a horse to bridle.”

“I’m not a banker, you idiot. I’m an accountant.”

“Close enough. Shoot, I just can’t picture you mucking out stalls.”

“So? Land’s always a good investment.”

That statement seemed to appease Gabe’s friends for the time being. They moved on to talk of other things until Gabe parked at the small yet bustling airport.

Marc and Reggie were booked on the same flight to Boise. From there, each would go his separate way. With the new heightened security, sans luggage or a ticket, Gabe wasn’t allowed to accompany the men beyond the passenger terminal. As the three longtime friends prepared to part, it again became evident that their lives were changing. No one wanted to say what all were patently aware of—this might be a more lasting goodbye. All cleared their throats awkwardly.

It was Gabe who finally threw up his hands. “Hell,” he growled, dashing at a sheen of moisture in his eyes. “Moss, take care, buddy. And phone.”

“And you e-mail me. I wanna know where you end up if you decide to chuck the job with SOS.”

Marc punched Gabe’s upper arm in manly fashion, but he’d grown strangely quiet.

Gabe, always the leader, grabbed first Reggie, then Marc, and gave them fierce short hugs. “Kenyon, I’ll see your ugly mug whenever Marley transfers funds for me to deal on that Utah ranch. Plan on me taking you and Lizzy to dinner someplace nice.”

Not waiting for Marc’s response, Gabe jammed his hands in his pants pockets, lowered his head and stalked out into the inky night. Dammit, hadn’t he learned by the age of two that tears made a man weak?

Both Reggie and Marc stepped to the entrance and hollered after Gabe. He tossed off a backward wave and hustled out to his vehicle, fast. This felt like an ending. But of what? An era? A good one to be sure. So, why did he feel as if he’d been cut adrift? Was it because his friends’ lives had seemingly fallen into place while he floundered back at square one?

That wasn’t true, either. He had money in the bank and two college degrees. And three staunch friends who’d lay down their lives for him. He had contacts in business if he wanted to make a career move. Last time he’d been at square one, he’d been a street punk living by the seat of his pants. It so happened that his proficiency with math came at an early age. By ten he was making book on the back streets of Houston. Successfully, too. Although in those days he’d lived with a permanent empty hole in his stomach.

At thirty-eight, he’d come too far and gone through too much to still feel like that scared kid with a big chip on his shoulder. Gabe thought back to the walls
he’d scaled since. The motto he’d learned to live by flashed in his head.
Forgive and forget.

His steps faltered when the next image that popped up was a sad-eyed Isabella Navarro. He hadn’t lied to his friends. A woman like her should be avoided at all cost.

Except…her haunting image lingered as he clicked the remote to open the doors of his Lexus. Nor did he shake the vision as he rolled down the driver’s window and breathed in the loamy scent of new-tilled fields as he drove back to his empty room at the Inn. Isabella’s face followed him to bed.

Gabe knew, long before sleep claimed him, that he would make the effort to see her again. And in spite of his own good sense and the unspoken agreement of his friends that she was trouble with a capital T, he planned to see her soon.

Tomorrow.

Surprisingly, his stomach felt better when he’d made that decision.

G
ABE LEFT HIS LODGING
the next morning armed with the address to Isabella’s Bakery. He’d been eating a hearty breakfast at the Green Willow most days, but had at some point during the night made up his mind to forego steak and eggs in favor of coffee and a doughnut. And an opportunity to see if, in the light of morning, he still felt attracted to the baker herself.

He finally located her bakery on a hidden side street, two blocks off Callanton’s main drag. He wondered how he’d missed it before, painted as it was in eye-popping orange. Luckily, in Gabe’s estimation, a large portion of the storefront was taken up with a plate glass window. That color was godawful.

A bell tinkled overhead when Gabe entered the shop. At once he was struck by homey scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and spicy sausage. There didn’t seem to be a soul around, although twin display cases brimmed with freshly baked pastries.

Gabe stood alone, studying available choices for several seconds, before the louvered café doors that led to a back room crashed open. Isabella Navarro, dressed in a style similar to what she’d worn at the reception, rushed out. Flour streaked her face and hair.

She stopped dead in the act of wiping a powdery substance off her buttery fingers.

“Oh…uh…may I help you?” she murmured, a note
of wariness creeping into her voice the instant she recognized the man standing at her counter.

Gabe felt as though he’d been slammed in the stomach. No, he needn’t have wondered if the attraction had faded overnight. Even in her disheveled state, he found this woman more compelling than ever.

She approached him cautiously. “Did Summer send you all the way into town to return the leftover plastic dinnerware? I told her that wasn’t necessary. After all, she paid for that many.”

Gabe realized he’d continued to stare at her without responding. “What? Oh, no. I stopped by for coffee and maybe a doughnut for breakfast.”

She processed that news, thinking it must be nice to have a job where you could stroll in for breakfast at ten o’clock. Everyone she knew, herself included, had breakfast finished by five. But why kid herself? Gabe Poston didn’t just
happen
to wander into her out-of-the-way bakery. Unless she was mistaken, he had a purpose for everything he did. And for some reason, she’d become his current purpose. The thought sent a long-dormant flutter of sexual awareness to her lower abdomen. It was accompanied by a swift punch of fear.

Gabe rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he walked up and down past the gleaming display cases. “I’m afraid I don’t see anything quite as simple as a doughnut. Care to offer a recommendation?”

A slight smile played at one corner of her lips. However brief, it was the first positive emotion Gabe had witnessed. Best of all, along with the tiny smile, he thought he saw an ever-so-minute spark come into her dark eyes. Gabe knew then that he wouldn’t be satisfied until he heard her laugh. Or better yet, saw that spark flame with…desire.

“For my clientele,” she was saying, “I stock mostly Basque pastries. If you want something warm I have
polvoróns
due to come out of the oven in—” she glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall “—less than a minute,” she said, beginning to edge backward toward the café doors. “Coffee’s on the sideboard there to the left of the door. Regular, decaf and two specialty blends. Help yourself. Takeout cups and lids are on the shelf above if you want your food to go,” she called over the squeaky door hinges.

“I’d planned to eat here,” he informed her loudly, sauntering behind the display case in order to peer at her over the still quivering louvered doors. “What’s a
polvorón?
Is that what smells so good?” he asked.

Donning oven mitts, Isabella grabbed a spatula as she opened a wall-mounted oven and pulled out a tray filled with steaming round biscuits. “
Polvoróns
are cakelike biscuits made from finely ground almond and icing sugar. They sort of melt in your mouth. Especially when they’re hot.”

“They aren’t very big,” Gabe said, sounding more uncertain after seeing the first batch set out on cooling racks.

“Ah.” That one word held a wealth of meaning. “I’ll bet doughnuts aren’t your normal morning sustenance.” For some reason, conversation seemed easier this morning than it had yesterday, although his apparent interest in her was still puzzling.

Knowing he’d been caught, Gabe tried to cover a sheepish look. He managed a rueful shake of his head; she was more observant than he would’ve suspected.

Now Isabella was quite sure this man had reasons other than food for showing up at her shop. She should probably confront him with that very question. Except
that, deep down, she didn’t want to know his reasons. She just needed to keep him at arm’s length. Once Julian had pursued her, too, and she’d been flattered. She’d been so wrong about him. For six interminable years, she’d tried every way possible to fix their marriage. Now, every day she was faced with knowing she should’ve tried harder. If she had, maybe Toni and Ramon wouldn’t have paid the ultimate price for her weakness in giving up and walking out on Julian.

Her eyes stung as they always did when she thought of her children. Her hands shook so hard, she almost dropped the hot pan of
polvoróns.

Gabe saw, hoping his presence wasn’t the cause of her distress. He cleared his throat, endeavoring to sound nonthreatening. “It was after midnight when I got back from driving my friends to the airport. I overslept and figured it was too late to indulge in a big country breakfast. The clerk at the Inn said I might be able to get something light here.” And his nose might grow a foot for that big fib.

“I’m afraid the only breakfast dish I have left is
migas.
” Isabella managed to gain control of her emotions. “I can add a thick slice of
jamón
if you like. It’ll cost you four-fifty total. The unsmoked imported Jabugo ham I use is costly, but once you taste it, I guarantee you won’t ever settle for less again.”

“Terrific.” Gabe refused to show his ignorance, even if he didn’t have a clue what
migas
might be.
Jamón,
he deduced, was ham. A thick piece would definitely tide him over until lunch.

“Find a table. I’ll bring it right out,” Isabella said, wanting him to stop hanging over her kitchen door. Something about Gabe Poston unnerved her, and his smile sent shock waves to her already jittery stomach.
In an attempt to still the butterflies, Isabella rubbed her belly. The next time she looked up after warming the breadcrumb, herb, hot pepper and tomato mixture she’d cut into generous squares, he’d disappeared from her doorway.

Thank heavens.
Otherwise she might not trust herself to slice the ham with the meat knife her brother Rick had sharpened to a razor’s edge just last night.

Gabe smiled hugely when she delivered his piping hot meal. “Since you aren’t brimming over with customers, how about joining me for a cup of coffee? I’m sure you’ve already eaten, or I’d offer to share my breakfast.”

“But…I couldn’t. Just because I don’t have customers right now doesn’t mean I’m not busy. I’m catering a business lunch for the Apple Growers’ Association. There’s only me to assemble sandwiches until my sister Trini gets out of her class at eleven-thirty.” A mask slid over her features as she turned away from Gabe’s table.

“Okay, suit yourself.” He picked up his fork and dug into his food as if her refusal was no big deal. In case she glanced back to check his reaction, he made a show of calmly spreading out the morning paper he’d bought at the Inn. Once he knew she was gone, he stared blankly into the murky depths of his coffee instead of popping that first bite into his mouth. Gabe called himself all kinds of fool for going to such trouble to befriend a woman who clearly would rather he take a flying leap off a short pier.

So why was he expending the effort? Had his recent birthday precipitated some major life crisis? Not wanting to fully examine his intentions toward Isabella Na
varro, Gabe swallowed his first forkful of the still-steaming
migas.

He gasped. His tongue felt on fire. His eyes watered. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Yelping feebly, Gabe attempted to haul in a deep breath, which only increased the burning. Gagging, he stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping to beg a glass of water.

He exploded into Isabella’s kitchen, which sent the swinging doors crashing into the walls. One hand was outstretched; the other he’d wrapped around his throat.

The minute she caught sight of his red face and bulging eyes, she dropped the carving knife with which she’d been cutting thick slices of home-baked bread. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Are you choking?” She reached for the wall phone.

“H…ot!” Gabe managed to get a word past his blistered vocal cords. He stood there dancing from foot to foot, pointing repeatedly at her sink. Isabella finally got the message. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, reached into the fridge and poured him a tall glass of milk. “Here, drink this. Slowly. It’ll coat the inside of your mouth and throat.”

Once he’d done that and the pain had subsided, letting his tense features relax, Isabella chewed nervously on her lower lip. “I’m really sorry. We Basques throw Rocoto chiles into practically everything. They’re not even at the top of the chile heat scale. You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he croaked. But he downed the rest of the milk and held out his glass for more. She filled it again, this time in full control of her shaking hands.

“I think you fed me a ball of fire on purpose.”

“No. I swear.” She frowned faintly. “I didn’t know what was wrong with you. But if you could’ve seen
the look on your face…” She broke off, tightly hugging the gallon milk container.

In a remote portion of his brain, it registered with Gabe that he’d finally broken through her shell. He’d probably presented quite a sight barreling through the swinging doors like a lunatic.

Conciliatory again, Isabella waved a hand toward the door. “Go on back and eat before your food gets cold. I’ll bring a pitcher of milk to your table.”

“Somehow I doubt that stuff’s gonna get cold anytime soon,” Gabe muttered. “So, milk is better than water to put out the fire?”

“According to chile tests, yes. Although the burning sensation rarely lasts more than a minute.”

“Says you. Seemed a lot longer.” At the moment Gabe wasn’t up to sparring with her on the subject of chiles. He retreated with his glass of milk and as much dignity as he could scrape together. He said nothing when she arrived at his table bearing milk and more information he didn’t care about.

“The Rocotos are the small, dark-red pieces in the
migas.
You should have no trouble picking them out. Habanero and Santaka chiles are several times hotter,” she said, setting the cut-glass milk pitcher on top of his newspaper.

Gabe shook his head. “Don’t most restaurants put triple stars or something on the menu to flag food that’s extra spicy? You need a fire truck painted next to this stuff.” With that, he moved the pitcher and began separating sections of his newspaper. He’d bought it because he wanted to relax over a cup of coffee and take a gander at the real estate section.

Isabella took the hint, and slipped his bill under the
pitcher. After a last worried frown aimed at his bent head, she returned to the kitchen.

Damn, but his tongue still felt numb. Picking up the fork he’d dropped at the start of his fool’s dance, Gabe prodded the innocent-looking side dish. He wondered about Isabella’s impression of him and decided he must’ve come across as a complete jerk. He grimaced at the thought.

Gabe dug into his
migas
with a new determination. If Isabella and her family ate five-alarm stuff like this regularly, he was damn well going to choke it down with a straight face.

It took him half a pitcher of milk, but in time he cleaned his plate. Well, except for three big chunks of pepper. And boy, had she been right about the ham. Terrific stuff.

Full and mostly satisfied, Gabe pushed his plate aside. He settled down to read the paper, raising his head only briefly when the outer door opened. Seeing four elderly women, not one of whom he knew, Gabe dismissed them with an impersonal smile.

They, however, stopped their chatter to scrutinize him curiously.

But he’d found something interesting in the ads. Reading soon claimed his attention again. Two large farms, plus a ranchette, were listed for sale within the boundaries he’d learned made up the Basque community. The Inn’s clerk had circled the area on Gabe’s map after he’d made a few casual inquires this morning. The lonely clerk loved to talk. She was more than happy to educate him on all the local lore. The primary fact of interest to Gabe was that the richest soil in the area lay within the Basque territory.

If he bought a farm—although Gabe wasn’t at all
sure he should—he’d want it to pay. His friends teased him by calling him
the banker.
It wasn’t really a joke; his attitude was that of a banker. A successful one. He was financially cautious, always sought as much information as possible and only took judicious risks. Gabe noticed the guys didn’t complain when he’d steered them toward investments that made them rich.

In the middle of checking the last column of ads, it became apparent to him that Isabella’s customers, who’d been yammering in the background in both English and Basque, had suddenly begun to whisper. Cocking an ear, he soon suspected he was the topic of their hushed conversation. What could they be saying about him?

Jeez, maybe men didn’t frequent Isabella’s bakery. Afraid he might be breaking some local taboo, he quickly folded his paper and tucked it under one arm. He gave the women huddled around one of the display cases a wide berth as he extracted his wallet. Dropping his cash and the bill next to the cash register, Gabe acknowledged the now-silent group with a nod. Then he beat a hasty retreat.

Q
UITE FRANKLY
, Isabella was overjoyed to see him leave. She’d grown weary of fending off the questions from her Aunt Carmen’s friends. They weren’t accustomed to finding a strange man seated in her bakery at midmorning when they came in to do their daily shopping. Yet when she started to punch Gabe’s payment into the cash register, she saw he’d left a ten-dollar bill to cover a four-fifty meal. “Wait!” she called to his disappearing back. “Mr. Poston. Gabe…you forgot your change.”