Young Love Murder (55 page)

While I’m putting forth so much effort, I decide to drag my getting-to-the-gym-tomorrow-ass onto the sofa too. Oh yeah, that’s much better. Reaching my hand up and back behind me, I feel around for my phone on the end table. There it is. 

Going into my email, I see that I have something from
[email protected]
. Does Jackson have a new email address? He used to sing that song to me when we were little. Basically, he did it to taunt me because the lyrics say ‘Annie’ this-and-that over and over again. Being a little sister, I let it get to me even though it wasn’t clever. 

I open the email and read the first sentence, coming to an abrupt stop. 

This is Gabriel. Marie gave me what I’m assuming is your email address. 

Damn matchmaking former Madams! Will their meddling ways never cease? Her expertise is in hooking up people for sex, not love. Of course, her advice to me the other day over the phone was to use sex for comfort, instead of food. Something about burning calories instead of stuffing them down my throat. Something about putting my mouth to much better use. You can take the Madam out of the brothel . . . .

I shake off my thoughts and get back to the unwanted email that’s probably going to send me to the bakery for the second time today. 

Baby, I will search for you forever. I won’t give up until I find you. We belong together, Annabelle. I know you feel it just as much as I do. Please email me back letting me know when and where we can meet. I’m desperate. Love you more than ever. 

Wow, if I was into stalkers, this email would probably melt my heart. For a while, I just sit there, not knowing how to reply. Then inspiration hits me. Very eloquently, I type: 

No hablo
inglés

Then I press ‘send’.

I start dozing off when my phone beeps again. Argh! I’m going to set my phone to play a lullaby whenever I get a text or email. “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” or something soothing like that. Maybe the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

I pick the phone up off my bloated belly, where I’d placed it before my five minute nap. I open the second email from Gabriel. Guess I should have picked a language other than Spanish because Gabriel totally habla espa
ñ
ol. After all, his dad was Hispanic and he grew up in Miami. Spanish is the unofficial second language there. 

Damn, now I’m thinking about Mexican bread. That stuff is delicioso. I should have joined Jackson on his assignment in Mexico City. Basically, Gabriel’s second email is the same as the first, but in Spanish. Along with a:

I know this is you, Annabelle.

Like I said, he’s speaking Stalkerish to me. Just to be a punk, I send him an entire email in French. Take that stalker boy!

He answers back in English thirty minutes later . . . . . 

I just had a hotel maid translate your email. No, I am not in love with your brother and using you to ‘get’ to him. And no, I don’t have Superman boxer briefs like Max. Mine are Spiderman. Aunt Lucy got them for us last Christmas. Attached to this email is a picture of me in them. By the way, I have to disagree with you. I am definitely useful for more than bringing you another loaf of bread. 

Are you in Paris? Would posting your picture at all the bakeries in the city help me find you? I’m staying at The Four Seasons. Room 212. Please call me.

The love of your life,

Gabriel

Okay, so maybe the picture of him in his underwear makes me laugh. And even in Spiderman boxer briefs, he’s still hot. I finally send him an email in English: 

I’m taking a nap. Don’t bug me for the next few hours, Stalker!

It’s dark when I wake up so I must have slept for a long time. Jackson bought this couch and trust a man to know how to pick out a comfortable couch. Checking my phone, I see that there are no new emails or text messages. Forcing myself to leave my comfortable horizontal position, I get up and throw away the mess on the floor. Wheeling out a vacuum, I clean up the crumbs from my feeding frenzy.
Now how did that happen?

After a nice long shower, I get dressed in a pair of black skinny jeans and a fitted scoop-neck red cashmere sweater. Now I’m bored. I pick up my phone and send Gabriel an email: 

I’m awake. Stalk away . . .

I’m surprised and possibly a little miffed when it takes a whole fifteen minutes for me to receive his reply: 

You’re not being very nice, Anna.

I laugh obnoxiously for my own benefit and email him back: 

Oh, I’m sorry.
‘
Cause we’re usually so nice to each other. Your gun or mine?

He responds: 

Just tell me if you’re in Paris.

Typing, I shake my head: 

I’m in Paris. And what?

His next email comes even faster:

Where can we meet?

I chuckle softly, typing: 

Well I kind of didn’t think we’d meet again until we were in hell.

He obviously doesn’t find me funny:

Ha, ha, ha. Just give me an address, even if it’s in hell.

Feeling that I’m safe giving it out to him, I type out my home address. I mean, what’s he going to do? Shoot me again? Now he knows I’ll shoot his ass back. I type out the address to my flat. Then I add: 

BYOB

He’s understandably confused: 

Bring my own beer?

I send him one last message:

No, Bring Your Own Bread . . . duh!

A little voice in my head named Reason wants to know what the hell I’m doing by inviting Gabriel over. I logically tell that voice that I’ll need to confront Gabriel to get him to go home to New York. Reason calls me a liar. I tell Reason where he can shove it. Reason must be a guy, because only a male can be that big of a pain in the ass.

And three hours later, Gabriel still hasn’t shown up, or answered my ‘Where the hell are you?’ email. Four hours later, I’m thinking that he was murdered on his way here. Four and a half hours later, I’m knocking on room 212 at The Four Seasons, ready to kick some ass.  

Max answers in his underwear, looking surprised to see me. And I have to admit, looking like he’s a little scared of me. I give him a wry look, “Don’t worry. I won’t shoot you unless you shoot me first. Now, where the hell is your cousin?”

He visibly relaxes and leans his shoulder against the doorframe. “What do you need him for when I’m right here?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh plea-”

I’m cut off by a French accent, a female one, “Max, come back to bed!”

Crossing my arms, I raise my eyebrows at him, giving him my best sweet smile. “Now Max, what do you need
me
for when you have
her
?”

He laughs good-naturedly. “He’s in his room.” With that, Max leaves the door open for me and saunters back into his own room. Whatever. Hope he’s aware that French chicks can carry STDs too.

Wow, this hotel suite is just asking for two twenty-year-old guys to trash it. The foyer leads to a sitting room filled with pretentious period furniture, with two bedrooms branching off on either side.

Not bothering to knock on what I can now assume is Gabriel’s door, I barge in. There better not be a French girl in here with him too. Because I just don’t think there are enough bullets in the world for that scenario. No French girls, but what do I find? Oh, just Gabriel lounging on the bed, on top of a cream and baby blue damask comforter, reading a goddamn book!

He looks up, as though surprised to see me. I take in the fact that he’s not even dressed except for a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. I shut the door firmly behind me and narrow my eyes at him. “You didn’t show up.” Well, that much is obvious. 

Very carefully, he dog-ears the corner of the page he’s on and shuts the book. It doesn’t escape my notice that the front cover looks like the paranormal romances I’ve seen at the bookstores in airports, with a ripped dude on the front cover and tribal tattoos covering his naked torso. Gabriel gives me a serene look. “Oh yeah, the time must have ran away with me.” He taps the cover of the paperback. “This is a really good book.”

Clenching my fists, I tell him, “I gave you my home address. Not even Brent has that.”

At Brent’s name, I can see a tick in his jaw. “Is Brent so special that he’s a ‘Not even Brent’?” Score one for Annabelle.

Giving him a false look of guilt, I wave a hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. “He’s the past, it’s not important.”

That gets Gabriel’s ass off the bed real quick and within kicking distance of me. “You dated Brent when I thought you were dead? When I was
mourning
you?”

Okay, I can’t hold it back, I burst out in laughter. “I’m just messing with you. I would never date Brent. Anyone who’s shared a slut with my brother is on the not-even-if-he-were-the-last-man-on-earth list. I was just saying that because, besides Jackson, he’s my best friend.”

Gabriel looks somewhat placated, but still plenty irritated, and to my amusement, very pouty. “I want to be your best friend.”

Giving him a pointed look, I say to him, “Gabriel, you were
never
my friend.”

He shrugs. “We were young, only testing the waters of being in a serious relationship. Things are different now.”

Ignoring his confidence, I ask, “So, when you were mourning me, did you cry into your pillow every night?”

His sly smile should have warned me of the nature of his next comment, “I did something in bed thinking about you every night.”

A laugh escapes, despite not wanting to encourage him. “You’re a pervert.”

He steps closer. “Nope, I’m just a man in love and devoted to the only girl that will ever do.”

I dodge the arms he’s trying to wrap around me. “So, you don’t still think I’m a murdering bitch in need of being put down?”

His arms still manage to find themselves around my waist as he pulls my body up against his larger one. In a condescending voice he says softly, “Aw baby, you’re still a murdering bitch, but you’re my murdering bitch.” 

“Bastard,” I mutter, even though he’s just saying it like it is. Then, feeling like a stupid girl, I shyly ask him, “What about that girl I saw you at the restaurant with?” Yes, even an assassin can feel embarrassed every once in a while. And I’m damn embarrassed to be acting like the jealous ex.

“What girl?” he plays dumb, looking confused. “The only girl I saw was you.”

Is that my heart melting? Oh hell no! That traitorous organ has caused me enough trouble. Glowering at him, I push him away from me. Walking over to his suitcase, where it’s sitting atop a hotel luggage rack against the wall, I rudely start rifling through it. I wonder if I’ll find anything interesting.

“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously and I can feel the heat from his hotness as he comes up behind me.

“None of your business,” I say irritably. Really, I’m just using nosiness as an excuse to put some distance between us. I pull out another paranormal romance. Is he for real? I spin around, asking, “What’s up with your reading material?”