Page 6 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 5

GAbrIEL

I freeze in place as Nero Andretti’s gaze finds mine through the glossy dark leaves of the camellia bushes. I should have left as soon as I realized the trio on the patio were talking Family business, but by then it was too late—I would only have called attention to myself. I was here when Jack and Nero first arrived, and I was hesitant to feel chased away by their presence.

Well. By Nero’s presence. I absolutely refuse to let that man interrupt my work. And since I have no interest in the work the Castellanis do outside these walls, I turned my mind to the problem at hand: extending the patio area in accordance with Julian Castellani’s wishes.

The placement of the camellia bushes was originally intended to close off the patio and make a backyard for staff, following an outdated convention of hiding service areas. But it’s an old-fashioned taste, and the Castellanis like to use the patio themselves along with the staff. I think removing the bushes, reshaping the space, will allow for a more pleasant aspect. It would also allow kitchen staff easier access to the herb garden that thrives in neat rows with a beauty all its own.

I came out here to do some sketching, see what my mind could come up with, and I successfully tuned out the discussion from the patio, the scent of earth and mulch overtaking the richer aromas of the lunch served a few yards away. Until the conversation turned suddenly from reminiscence and small talk to business, and the change in tone made my mind tune in again.

I should leave , I’d thought, my pencil stilling on the page. But something kept me there, even made me pay closer attention.

An unhealthy curiosity to know whether Nero Andretti might be sent out more often.

It would mean I could do more work by the pool area, since I wouldn’t have to worry about running into him there. Not that I’m afraid . It’s just annoying to work under his eyes, especially when he pretends to nap all the time, sprawled out like a lounging panther.

But now Nero seems to sense me, his dark eyes finding mine through a patch in the bushes where the leaves don’t quite meet. “A moment,” he says, reaching for something on the table. “This wine, Sandro, it’s no good. Undrinkable, my friend.”

I should run. I should leave my tools here, the paper and pencils, and get out of here. But I’m frozen in place, rooted as deeply as the camellia bushes, as Nero paces softly toward me, still listening and nodding to what Sandro is saying—something about…legs…

And then Nero is so close I could reach through the leaves and touch him, his eyes burning into mine. He holds a bottle of wine in his hand that I know costs hundreds of dollars, and as I watch, he pours it out calmly in the middle of the bushes, making sure that it splashes on my boots.

At least it’s not red , is the only thing my mind supplies. Red would discolor the leather, and I don’t want to buy a new pair just because the old ones are stained with a memory I’d rather not recall.

“Darian will be appalled,” is the only response I hear from Sandro Castellani. “I’ll let him know it has turned.”

The other two haven’t noticed me. So as quietly as I can, I take a few steps back from the bushes, turn, and hurry away to a different part of the estate.

I return later to gather up the things I left behind. I can’t seem to find the sketch I made of a potential rearrangement—it must have blown away in a breeze—but everything else is still there.

I round the bushes to take in the patio, consider if we might extend the seating area while we’re at it, and give a nod to Elise, who is clearing the remains of the lunch. Crystal and silver catch the sunlight as she stacks items carefully on a tray.

“Hi, Gabriel.” Her smile for me is genuine, at least, which is more than I’ve seen for many of the guests that come and go from Redwood Manor. “Did you enjoy last night?”

“I did,” I tell her honestly, remembering the exquisite food. “Chef Laurent is very talented.”

“He is.” She sighs, looking down at the expensive china in her hands, and drops her voice to conspiratorial level. “Heads up, Miss Snippy is coming out tomorrow to have a look at the preparations. I hear you have to butter her up?”

I nod, though my heart sinks. Roxy Rochford—sarcastically dubbed “Miss Snippy” by the staff, though not in Darian’s hearing—doesn’t have a great reputation at Redwood. Everyone, even Nero, has warned me that she’s difficult to deal with.

I don’t like difficult people. My philosophy is to bend with the wind rather than brace against it. Well, except where Nero is concerned. Perhaps he’s done me a favor by making me stand my ground over those trees—practice for a movie star’s demands.

“Is she really that bad?” I ask with a plaintive note.

Elise gives a grim smile, her tray balanced expertly as she negotiates the patio furniture. “If you ask me, no woman that rich and beautiful has the right to be so sour.”

“Perhaps the wedding is just making her a Bridezilla.”

“Oh, no. Miss Snippy is always the same—demanding and rude. If only her fans knew what she was really like…” She gives me a grin. “Sometimes I’m tempted to spill something on a gossip site. But I love working here too much, and besides, I need the job even more, now that…” She trails off.

I know what she’s thinking about. “I was very sorry to hear about your niece last night,” I tell her. “I wonder if there’s not something the Castellanis could do for her? Darian said they would be willing?—”

“I’ve begged her enough times that I’m going to do damage to our relationship if I raise it again,” she says shortly. “No. She says it’s one thing to accept charity from me, since I’m blood. But she won’t hear of taking money from anyone else, even if it wasn’t …well, you know.”

Dirty money. Yes. I know.

But there’s nothing more to say, and Elise and I both have work to get on with, so I bid her goodbye and head back around the camellia bushes. But as I round them, I walk straight into a solid wall—or what feels like a solid wall, anyway, built out of expensive cologne and Italian couture.

“You!” I gasp, my hands reflexively bracing against his chest before I can stop them.

I’ve walked straight into the one man I would prefer never to see again. Worse, he grasps me by my biceps to steady us both, his hands burning through my work shirt like brands.

And the power of his grip suggests I’m his prisoner rather than someone he’s trying to help.

“I believe the usual expression in English is, ‘Excuse me,’” he says wryly.

“What are you doing, skulking around in the bushes?”

“I came to ask you the same thing, little gardener. Why were you listening in on the conversation over lunch?”

“I wasn’t listening,” I tell him quickly, too quickly. But the last thing I need is for the Castellanis to think I’m a rat. In their world, just as in mine, rats get exterminated. “I was working. And I’m a landscape architect , as you very well know. Julian is thinking of moving these bushes to make a larger entertaining area out back?—”

“So you will tear down living things for Julian Castellani, but not for me?” His voice holds a soft darkness that makes my skin prickle.

I know he’s only teasing. I can tell by the sparkle in those eyes, usually so cold, but I have no idea how to respond.

He gives a half-smile and presses a piece of paper to my chest. “I wanted to find you to give you this,” he says. “You left it behind.”

I look down at my hands, which have automatically clutched at his. He slides his away from under mine slowly, and I hope he can’t feel the way my heartbeat picks up. I’m looking at the sketch I made of the new garden area, with the camellia bushes moved and a larger patio. I look up at Nero suspiciously. “You took this.”

“Why would I take your garden sketch, when you know my feelings on plants? What was it you said last night—that I delight in their devastation and destruction?”

I feel my cheeks warm. “I had a bit too much to drink last night,” I admit. “I might have gone overboard.”

“No apologies necessary. It was a pleasure to have you in my home, Gabriel.”

There it is again—my name from his lips. It sounds almost unholy, the way he says it. Or maybe it’s just the way he’s looking at me.

“I wasn’t apologizing,” I say, because I seem determined to make an enemy of this man. “I was just…explaining.”

“Well, then, I accept your explanation.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask him, exasperated. “I thought this was the regular time for your second pool nap of the day.”

He laughs, actually laughs, as though I’m making a joke instead of trying to insult him. “Yes, I have somewhere to be. I think you heard that yourself over lunch, didn’t you? Or did you leave before I shared my plans for the afternoon? I’d be happy to fill you in if you want to keep tabs on me?—”

“Certainly not,” I snap. “I actually do have work to do today.”

“Oh? The preparations for Roxanne Rochford tomorrow, perhaps? The very best of luck to you. I hope this Elise will not be moping around about her child; Ms. Rochford would find it tedious.”

“It’s Elise’s sister’s child, and that’s a horrible thing to say.”

A flash of impatience clouds his face. “Why does everyone care so much about this Elise, anyway? She’s just a housemaid.”

“And I’m just a gardener,” I say coldly, “who had better be on his way.”

But he falls into step with me as I turn and begin walking away. “Your drawing is very good, by the way. Are you an artist?”

My feet slow as I glance down at the sketch in my hand, puzzled by his meaning. It’s not exactly awful, but it’s no Turner landscape. “No, I just do some rough drawings to try things out, or help explain my vision to clients.”

“But do you like art?”

I look at him blankly as I slow to a stop. “Sure,” I say after an awkward pause. “I guess.”

“Jack told me over lunch that his boyfriend, Miller Beaumont, has an exhibition opening soon.”

Nero seems to be expecting something from me. I refuse to let my mind wander down the path he’s laid out for me, no doubt bordered by poisonous blooms. “I hear he’s very talented. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Andretti?—”

“Nero,” he says, his voice like velvet. “Please, call me Nero.”

But I can’t force the name out of my mouth, so I just give him a quick nod and, for the third time today, hurry away from the camellia bushes.

Is this some new form of torture, I wonder? Is Nero Andretti, not satisfied with teasing and taunting me, now actually flirting with me?