His Seductive Revenge. Susan Crosby

her portrait—Oh. I see your point.”

      “Your great-granddaughter will like knowing how she comes by her looks.”

      “I yield to your expertise, Gabe. However, I don’t believe we need to show quite so much ‘looks.’”

      His body had grazed hers as he moved a little closer. He fingered her dress strap where it touched her shoulder blade. Her flesh tightened under his knuckles. “It will be tasteful enough to hang in the White House.”

      Gabe recalled the breath she’d held for a long time, then her silent assent. She was pitifully easy to read, and far too open with him for her own good. Plus, she was ripe for an affair, hungry to experience sexual freedom, which was part of the reason she’d embarked on a life independent of her father—even if she hadn’t acknowledged it to herself yet.

      He understood the risk she was taking—be thrived on risks, after all—but he had to prevent the marriage-merger of Cristina and Jason. Could he do that without sleeping with her? His original plan had included intimacy—the graphically imagined rumpled sheets and morning sun. How else could he entice her away, not only from Jason’s persistent pursuit, but from her father’s influence?

      It was a test of his own character, Gabe decided. Ethics weren’t foreign to him, after all. But he had to be very, very careful this time. A seduction—and yet, not. A little heartbreak would be unavoidable, perhaps. Something bearable. Something memorable. Even educational. She wouldn’t be so gullible again.

      “If you hurt someone for your own gain, the victory is hollow, hijo.” He ignored his mother’s voice that seemed to speak directly into his conscience, disappointment weighing heavily in the words. However, it wouldn’t be his victory alone, but Sebastian’s. The reward justified the risk.

      Gabe focused on Cristina again as Jason, seated now, pointed to something in the program. She nodded, her shimmering hair bouncing softly.

      “This place reeks of money,” the woman seated beside Gabe announced.

      He took his eyes off Cristina to smile at his companion as he eyed her concession to getting dressed up—a black silk tunic and palazzo pants that she’d probably borrowed. She hated dressing up. In fact, he hadn’t seen her wear a dress since her wedding gown years ago. “You look beautiful, Les.”

      “Save your slick charm for someone who’s susceptible, Gabriel.”

      He smiled leisurely as he stretched an arm across the back of her chair. “I thought you’d be feeling pretty mellow after all the wine you had with dinner.”

      “Well, I’m not.”

      He studied her for a minute, then dragged his chair closer and covered her hands, clenched tightly in her lap, with his. “You want to talk about it, Les?”

      “No.” She blew out a breath. “No, thanks,” she said, more gently. “I know you’ll listen, Gabe. I just need to work some things out by myself.”

      “Ben?”

      She looked away. “Who else?”

      The lights faded. Anticipation built into an anxious silence. Then music washed over them, transporting the audience to another world.

      “It’s not his fault, you know,” Leslie whispered, leaning closer. “It’s no one’s fault.”

      Gabe didn’t agree, but this wasn’t the time or place. “Let the music take you away for a while,” he said. He should be heeding his own advice, he supposed, but he watched Cristina instead—and wondered if she was holding hands with Jason Grimes.

      

      Cristina hated her—the woman she spotted with Gabe during intermission. She was tall and model slender. Her short auburn hair framed a face so perfect she didn’t seem to need makeup. And she had enough nerve to wear pants to opening night.

      Hate wasn’t a strong enough word, not when envy and resignation got tossed into the mix, as well. And they looked so...comfortable together, her arm looped through his, her head pressing his shoulder as they laughed together.

      Cristina sipped the wine Jason had brought her, before he excused himself, heading in the direction of the men’s room. And she waited for Gabe to notice her across the crowded lobby.

      Why hadn’t he told her he was coming tonight when she’d said she was? Perhaps he was hoping they wouldn’t run into each other. Their relationship couldn’t be public knowledge because Alejandro De La Hoya was a secret. A dark, magnificent secret.

      She shivered and looked away, recalling their shopping expedition yesterday—his interest in each new dress she tried on, his sudden intensity when she’d finally slipped into the champagne silk. His silent and complete approval, communicated by the way his posture turned military, his eyes narrowed and lips compressed. He’d moved behind her, looking in the mirror as she turned side to side.

      “Not exactly the stuff of grand portraits,” she’d said.

      “It’s perfect.”

      His gaze had drifted down her, made a slow return trip, then locked with hers. “Perfect.”

      Again she’d hoped he would kiss her. Again he ignored her unspoken wish. There was just that feathery touch where her strap grazed her skin. At first she’d thought she imagined it, then heat spread from that one spot. Tentacles of fire flashed down her veins.

      “Ready to go back in, Cris?”

      Reality yanked her out of the memory. Jason blocked her view of Gabe, who either had not seen her—or didn’t want to be seen with her. What did he think, that she would fawn over him in front of his date? He was probably used to that, but—

      “I’m ready, Jason,” she said, but the enjoyment of the evening evaporated like the fading sizzle of a summer rain hitting a scorched sidewalk.

      

      Gabe watched Cristina until the lights faded again. She’d spent the minute or so before intermission ended looking around the auditorium, something she hadn’t done before the first act. He knew the moment she’d spotted him. He pretended not to notice.

      Leslie leaned in his direction. “So, who’s the gorgeous redhead you’ve been eyeing all night and pretending not to?”

      “You’re observant”

      “Observing’ what I do for a living, Gabe. She’s your kind of woman, I think. Do you know her?”

      “Her name is Cristina Chandler.”

      Leslie’s gasp was audible above the music.

      “Chandler? Are you crazy?”