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“I need to be sure. I... I don’t want to do anything to upset you.”
Her eyes reflected the desire warming his veins. “Then let me make this perfectly clear. I, Gabrielle Dupré, want to make love to you, Deacon Santoro.”
That was all he needed to hear. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed. Nothing had ever looked so good—so right.
He knew after tonight that nothing would ever be the same for them, but he would deal with the aftermath later. Much, much later...
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING Gaby awoke alone.
She reached out, running her hand over Deacon’s pillow. It was cold to the touch. Her gaze searched the bedroom. There was no sign of him.
The convergence of disappointment, embarrassment and sadness left her grappling to keep a lid on her emotions. He regretted their night together. A sob caught in the back of her throat.
No. Don’t lose it now. You’re stronger than this.
As she looked to see the time, her gaze stumbled across a yellow rose on her bedside table. It hadn’t been there last night. She was certain of it.
She withdrew the rose from the vase. As she stared at its velvet petals, she wondered what Deacon was trying to tell her. Did he want to go back to being friends? Or was she reading too much in to it? Maybe, in this case, a rose was just a rose.
She glanced at the clock. She realized if she didn’t hurry, she’d be late to work. Finding out where her relationship now stood with Deacon would have to wait until later. She was expecting phone calls that morning about the fund-raiser. And no matter what happened between her and Deacon, she intended to do her best job.
She scrambled out of bed and rushed to get dressed. There was something else she needed to do that morning—conclude her arrangement with QTR. She may not know the exact circumstances of the accident, but she knew Deacon hadn’t been at fault and didn’t deserve any further bad press.
When she returned to the guesthouse, she knew she’d made a big mistake. Not the night she’d spent with Deacon. One minute, he’d been so tender and loving. Then in the next moment, he’d been hot and passionate. It was a night of surprises and delights. No, her problem was agreeing to do an exposé about him. Now that she knew about her aunt’s request, she was certain he was innocent. Her aunt would never have asked a killer to look after her. And now Gaby had to try to undo some of the damage.
So far QTR hadn’t printed anything that she’d given them, not that there was anything noteworthy. Hopefully it wasn’t too late to call off the arrangement.
Gaby retrieved the number of the editor at QTR. The phone rang and rang. She began to worry that no one would answer.
Suddenly there was a male voice. “Hello.”
Gaby was startled. This certainly wasn’t the perky young female editor that she’d been assigned to. “I’m sorry. I must have rung the wrong number.”
“This is Elle McTavish’s desk.”
Gaby swallowed down her nervousness. “I was hoping to speak with her.”
“And who is this?”
“Gaby, um, I mean Gabrielle Dupré. And who is this?”
“Thomas Rousseau.”
As in Quentin Thomas Rousseau II. Gaby’s stomach clenched. Oh, boy. She’d heard stories about the man. None of it was any good. He was legendary. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but she had the feeling that it wasn’t going to be good.
She gri
pped the phone tighter. “Could I leave a message for Ms. McTavish?”
“I’ve taken over for her.”
But he was the owner, not an editor. Gaby clenched the phone tighter. “I see. Then perhaps you are the person I should speak to.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve changed my mind about doing the story about Deacon Santoro.”
