Someone to Watch Over Me

It was Gabe who finally threw up his hands. “Hell,” he growled, dashing at a sheen of moisture in his eyes. “Moss, take care, buddy. And phone.”

“And you e-mail me. I wanna know where you end up if you decide to chuck the job with SOS.”

Marc punched Gabe’s upper arm in manly fashion, but he’d grown strangely quiet.

Gabe, always the leader, grabbed first Reggie, then Marc, and gave them fierce short hugs. “Kenyon, I’ll see your ugly mug whenever Marley transfers funds for me to deal on that Utah ranch. Plan on me taking you and Lizzy to dinner someplace nice.”

Not waiting for Marc’s response, Gabe jammed his hands in his pants pockets, lowered his head and stalked out into the inky night. Dammit, hadn’t he learned by the age of two that tears made a man weak?

Both Reggie and Marc stepped to the entrance and hollered after Gabe. He tossed off a backward wave and hustled out to his vehicle, fast. This felt like an ending. But of what? An era? A good one to be sure. So, why did he feel as if he’d been cut adrift? Was it because his friends’ lives had seemingly fallen into place while he floundered back at square one?

That wasn’t true, either. He had money in the bank and two college degrees. And three staunch friends who’d lay down their lives for him. He had contacts in business if he wanted to make a career move. Last time he’d been at square one, he’d been a street punk living by the seat of his pants. It so happened that his proficiency with math came at an early age. By ten he was making book on the back streets of Houston. Successfully, too. Although in those days he’d lived with a permanent empty hole in his stomach.

At thirty-eight, he’d come too far and gone through too much to still feel like that scared kid with a big chip on his shoulder. Gabe thought back to the walls he’d scaled since. The motto he’d learned to live by flashed in his head. Forgive and forget.

His steps faltered when the next image that popped up was a sad-eyed Isabella Navarro. He hadn’t lied to his friends. A woman like her should be avoided at all cost.

Except…her haunting image lingered as he clicked the remote to open the doors of his Lexus. Nor did he shake the vision as he rolled down the driver’s window and breathed in the loamy scent of new-tilled fields as he drove back to his empty room at the Inn. Isabella’s face followed him to bed.

Gabe knew, long before sleep claimed him, that he would make the effort to see her again. And in spite of his own good sense and the unspoken agreement of his friends that she was trouble with a capital T, he planned to see her soon.

Tomorrow.

Surprisingly, his stomach felt better when he’d made that decision.

CHAPTER THREE

GABE LEFT HIS LODGING the next morning armed with the address to Isabella’s Bakery. He’d been eating a hearty breakfast at the Green Willow most days, but had at some point during the night made up his mind to forego steak and eggs in favor of coffee and a doughnut. And an opportunity to see if, in the light of morning, he still felt attracted to the baker herself.

He finally located her bakery on a hidden side street, two blocks off Callanton’s main drag. He wondered how he’d missed it before, painted as it was in eye-popping orange. Luckily, in Gabe’s estimation, a large portion of the storefront was taken up with a plate glass window. That color was godawful.

A bell tinkled overhead when Gabe entered the shop. At once he was struck by homey scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and spicy sausage. There didn’t seem to be a soul around, although twin display cases brimmed with freshly baked pastries.

Gabe stood alone, studying available choices for several seconds, before the louvered café doors that led to a back room crashed open. Isabella Navarro, dressed in a style similar to what she’d worn at the reception, rushed out. Flour streaked her face and hair.

She stopped dead in the act of wiping a powdery substance off her buttery fingers.

“Oh…uh…may I help you?” she murmured, a note of wariness creeping into her voice the instant she recognized the man standing at her counter.

Gabe felt as though he’d been slammed in the stomach. No, he needn’t have wondered if the attraction had faded overnight. Even in her disheveled state, he found this woman more compelling than ever.

She approached him cautiously. “Did Summer send you all the way into town to return the leftover plastic dinnerware? I told her that wasn’t necessary. After all, she paid for that many.”

Gabe realized he’d continued to stare at her without responding. “What? Oh, no. I stopped by for coffee and maybe a doughnut for breakfast.”

She processed that news, thinking it must be nice to have a job where you could stroll in for breakfast at ten o’clock. Everyone she knew, herself included, had breakfast finished by five. But why kid herself? Gabe Poston didn’t just happen to wander into her out-of-the-way bakery. Unless she was mistaken, he had a purpose for everything he did. And for some reason, she’d become his current purpose. The thought sent a long-dormant flutter of sexual awareness to her lower abdomen. It was accompanied by a swift punch of fear.

Gabe rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he walked up and down past the gleaming display cases. “I’m afraid I don’t see anything quite as simple as a doughnut. Care to offer a recommendation?”

A slight smile played at one corner of her lips. However brief, it was the first positive emotion Gabe had witnessed. Best of all, along with the tiny smile, he thought he saw an ever-so-minute spark come into her dark eyes. Gabe knew then that he wouldn’t be satisfied until he heard her laugh. Or better yet, saw that spark flame with…desire.

“For my clientele,” she was saying, “I stock mostly Basque pastries. If you want something warm I have polvoróns due to come out of the oven in—” she glanced at the clock hanging on the back wall “—less than a minute,” she said, beginning to edge backward toward the café doors. “Coffee’s on the sideboard there to the left of the door. Regular, decaf and two specialty blends. Help yourself. Takeout cups and lids are on the shelf above if you want your food to go,” she called over the squeaky door hinges.

“I’d planned to eat here,” he informed her loudly, sauntering behind the display case in order to peer at her over the still quivering louvered doors. “What’s a polvorón? Is that what smells so good?” he asked.

Donning oven mitts, Isabella grabbed a spatula as she opened a wall-mounted oven and pulled out a tray filled with steaming round biscuits. “Polvoróns are cakelike biscuits made from finely ground almond and icing sugar. They sort of melt in your mouth. Especially when they’re hot.”

“They aren’t very big,” Gabe said, sounding more uncertain after seeing the first batch set out on cooling racks.

“Ah.” That one word held a wealth of meaning. “I’ll bet doughnuts aren’t your normal morning sustenance.” For some reason, conversation seemed easier this morning than it had yesterday, although his apparent interest in her was still puzzling.

Knowing he’d been caught, Gabe tried to cover a sheepish look. He managed a rueful shake of his head; she was more observant than he would’ve suspected.

Now Isabella was quite sure this man had reasons other than food for showing up at her shop. She should probably confront him with that very question. Except that, deep down, she didn’t want to know his reasons. She just needed to keep him at arm’s length. Once Julian had pursued her, too, and she’d been flattered. She’d been so wrong about him. For six interminable years, she’d tried every way possible to fix their marriage. Now, every day she was faced with knowing she should’ve tried harder. If she had, maybe Toni and Ramon wouldn’t have paid the ultimate price for her weakness in giving up and walking out on Julian.

Her eyes stung as they always did when she thought of her children. Her hands shook so hard, she almost dropped the hot pan of polvoróns.

Gabe saw, hoping his presence wasn’t the cause of her distress. He cleared his throat, endeavoring to sound nonthreatening. “It was after midnight when I got back from driving my friends to the airport. I overslept and figured it was too late to indulge in a big country breakfast. The clerk at the Inn said I might be able to get something light here.” And his nose might grow a foot for that big fib.

“I’m afraid the only breakfast dish I have left is migas.” Isabella managed to gain control of her emotions. “I can add a thick slice of jamón if you like. It’ll cost you four-fifty total. The unsmoked imported Jabugo ham I use is costly, but once you taste it, I guarantee you won’t ever settle for less again.”

“Terrific.” Gabe refused to show his ignorance, even if he didn’t have a clue what migas might be. Jamón, he deduced, was ham. A thick piece would definitely tide him over until lunch.

“Find a table. I’ll bring it right out,” Isabella said, wanting him to stop hanging over her kitchen door. Something about Gabe Poston unnerved her, and his smile sent shock waves to her already jittery stomach. In an attempt to still the butterflies, Isabella rubbed her belly. The next time she looked up after warming the breadcrumb, herb, hot pepper and tomato mixture she’d cut into generous squares, he’d disappeared from her doorway.

Thank heavens. Otherwise she might not trust herself to slice the ham with the meat knife her brother Rick had sharpened to a razor’s edge just last night.

Gabe smiled hugely when she delivered his piping hot meal. “Since you aren’t brimming over with customers, how about joining me for a cup of coffee? I’m sure you’ve already eaten, or I’d offer to share my breakfast.”

“But…I couldn’t. Just because I don’t have customers right now doesn’t mean I’m not busy. I’m catering a business lunch for the Apple Growers’ Association. There’s only me to assemble sandwiches until my sister Trini gets out of her class at eleven-thirty.” A mask slid over her features as she turned away from Gabe’s table.

“Okay, suit yourself.” He picked up his fork and dug into his food as if her refusal was no big deal. In case she glanced back to check his reaction, he made a show of calmly spreading out the morning paper he’d bought at the Inn. Once he knew she was gone, he stared blankly into the murky depths of his coffee instead of popping that first bite into his mouth. Gabe called himself all kinds of fool for going to such trouble to befriend a woman who clearly would rather he take a flying leap off a short pier.

So why was he expending the effort? Had his recent birthday precipitated some major life crisis? Not wanting to fully examine his intentions toward Isabella Navarro, Gabe swallowed his first forkful of the still-steaming migas.

He gasped. His tongue felt on fire. His eyes watered. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Yelping feebly, Gabe attempted to haul in a deep breath, which only increased the burning. Gagging, he stumbled toward the kitchen, hoping to beg a glass of water.

He exploded into Isabella’s kitchen, which sent the swinging doors crashing into the walls. One hand was outstretched; the other he’d wrapped around his throat.

The minute she caught sight of his red face and bulging eyes, she dropped the carving knife with which she’d been cutting thick slices of home-baked bread. “What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Are you choking?” She reached for the wall phone.

“H…ot!” Gabe managed to get a word past his blistered vocal cords. He stood there dancing from foot to foot, pointing repeatedly at her sink. Isabella finally got the message. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, reached into the fridge and poured him a tall glass of milk. “Here, drink this. Slowly. It’ll coat the inside of your mouth and throat.”

Once he’d done that and the pain had subsided, letting his tense features relax, Isabella chewed nervously on her lower lip. “I’m really sorry. We Basques throw Rocoto chiles into practically everything. They’re not even at the top of the chile heat scale. You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he croaked. But he downed the rest of the milk and held out his glass for more. She filled it again, this time in full control of her shaking hands.

“I think you fed me a ball of fire on purpose.”