“What are you saying? Hunter Blackwell is therapy?”

“Perhaps.” She rinsed the cup and set it on a towel to dry before turning. “I realized the path I set since Alonzo hasn’t been healthy. Hunter offered me an opportunity to break the cycle. He will be a safe companion for a few months, then we can go our separate ways and perhaps I’ll be able to find trust in men again.”

Gwen moved beside her, set her cup inside the sink. “I want to believe you.”

Gabi met the other woman’s gaze. “Then do.”

A knock on the door interrupted the moment.

A floral delivery van sat in the driveway, the media cameras were poised and ready.

Gabi opened the door to the face of a bewildered teen. “Mrs. Blackwell?”

That was going to take some time to get used to. “Yes.”

He handed her what looked like a dozen roses . . . velvet red. “Can you sign here?”

She did. “Let me get a tip.”

“It’s all taken care of. Have a nice day.”

“How lovely,” Gwen said behind her.

Gabi set the flowers next to those Hunter had sent her earlier in the week. Each bouquet was different . . . from tropical ensembles to lilies . . . the roses were a new direction.

The card held simple instructions. Formal dress, seven tonight. H.B.

Gwen glanced over her shoulder. “The flowers are a nice touch.”

“For the cameras, I’m sure.”

Gwen gathered her purse and kissed Gabi’s cheek. “It appears you have a date with your husband.”

“Does that sound as strange to your ears as it does mine?”

Gwen laughed and placed a hand on her arm. “Do be careful.”

“I am. And please, if the masses begin to talk, remind everyone that I thought I loved a man who nearly killed me and I managed to survive. Hunter needed a wife and I’m filling a role. There are no emotions involved and no one is trying to end my life.”

“If you truly believe that, then do me a favor,” Gwen said. “Try and enjoy yourself.” Her hand reached up and patted the side of her face. “The lines of worry etch across your beautiful eyes, making it very difficult to believe you’re not scared out of your mind.”

Gabi brought both hands to her face, forced the muscles under her fingertips to relax. “The sooner your temporary husband knows your past, the easier it will be for him to set you at ease. Without the knowledge, he’s bound to stumble upon a panic button and leave you running.”

The image of the wine cellar was proof of that. But confiding in Hunter wasn’t an option.

She’d have to tiptoe through the minefield Alonzo had left in his wake. She’d done a good job for nearly a year and a half.

What was another eighteen months?

Charles had to double-park the limo outside of her Tarzana home. Gabi felt her pulse rise when the driver walked her to the car.

The media swarmed. “Mrs. Blackwell . . . a moment of your time?”

“Is it true you’re pregnant with Hunter Blackwell’s child?”

The questions kept coming. She answered none of them as she slid into the backseat.

Hunter wasn’t inside, which surprised her.

It didn’t take long for Charles to pull away, or long for the media to jump in their cars and follow.

“A year and a half of this,” she mumbled to herself.

On the other hand, the stretch limo wasn’t an awful way of traveling. It beat the sweaty palms and worry she was going to run into someone while driving Hunter’s James Bond car. She should probably tell him she wasn’t proficient behind the wheel.

She supposed the conversation would come up when he saw the tiny dent in the bumper. A dent she managed while avoiding a cameraman and hitting the neighbor’s garbage can. Which, again, wasn’t really her fault. If the paparazzo wasn’t there, it wouldn’t have happened.

Gabi found the button that lowered the glass between her and the driver. “Are they still following us?” she asked, unable to tell with the darkened windows in the back.

“’Fraid so, Mrs. Blackwell.”

She looked out the back window and saw several sets of lights. “Are we picking Hunter up?”

Charles maneuvered the large car around the corner and onto the freeway. “He asked that I deliver you to his residence.”

She glanced at the fitted full-length gown complete with spaghetti straps that held the dress in place, and high heels that would be better off walking into a concert hall than a penthouse suite. Then again, she’d never seen Hunter’s home, the home she refused outright.

She sat back to enjoy the drive and realized she’d be alone with Hunter once they arrived on Melrose. And if escrow closed in two weeks as planned, they’d be alone together often.

Her nerves began a slow dance down her spine and to the tips of her fingers where she tapped them against the seat.

“Would you care for music, Mrs. Blackwell?”

“Yes—No, I . . .” This wasn’t a good sign. “Tell me, Charles, how is it you always seem to be available to be my driver?”

She met the man’s eyes through the rearview mirror. His pleasant, unthreatening smile helped.

“Mr. Blackwell requested my service. Said he wanted to know who was driving his wife around.”

“Oh . . .” she wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“He said that trusting your drivers was important to the both of you. I really appreciate your endorsement.”

She was about to tell him that she hadn’t gone out of her way to endorse him but realized that wouldn’t come out right. “Did he say anything else?”