“Okay.” Gabe fixed the cue stick in her hand, showing her how to hold it correctly. He then arranged her arms on the table and told her how to make a perfect shot. “This one should be easy. Kiss shot. Our goal is to make balls one and three kiss before the cue ball sends them into the pockets.” He marionetted her hand and told her to hit. Her tap was weak. It didn’t pack enough force to send the balls down the holes. Understandable. She was new to this game.
But what he was curious about was what she was doing in this place. The club belonged to him, and he knew for sure he hadn’t approved a membership for a man named Marvin Jackson. It didn’t take a genius to see she was up to something.
She looked disappointed about the shot. “I…uhm… I’ve never played this game before.”
“I can see that. No worries.” He arranged her arms and hands to make the next shot. “Is your name really Catherine?”
She froze. “Yeah,” she said indignantly, straightening her posture. “Catherine Kovac.”
“Kovac. Eastern European surname. Serb?”
“Croatian. My father is Croatian. My mother is Jordanian.”
“I thought you had Middle Eastern blood in you. Your skin”—Gabe touched the exposed part of her shoulder and her forearm—“is very exotic. Café au lait. It just so happens I’m very fond of the drink, as well.”
Her indignation turned into a blush. “Th-thanks.”
“Now, Cat. What really brings you here? I know there’s no gentleman named Marvin Jackson in your planned engagement.”
Her cheeks reddened. Gabe found her very cute. Everything about her was cute, from her straight, raven hair, which she wore down to her tailbone, to her big, dark fawn eyes, shapely nose, and petulant chin. Not to mention her petite figure with curves in all the right places. Her waist was dainty, but her hips and ass were every man’s fantasy. Full, firm, and perfect for mounting in a hot, sweaty fucking session.
She sighed, throwing her hands up. “Okay, you caught me. Are you going to call the cops?”
“For trespassing in a private club?” Gabe pretended to ponder. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“That certainly could be arranged.”
She hesitated for a moment before
she decided to come clean. “I’m a private investigator.”
This pretty little thing? Gabe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Charming. What are you investigating?”
“You.”
“Naturally. What are you trying to find out about? My business dealings? My sordid affairs?”
Her eyes widened with interest. “You’re currently dating someone?”
“Which gossip tabloid sent you?” Gabe hadn’t dated in more than seven years, since the woman he had been seeing, Michelle Dally, had suddenly committed suicide by jumping from her sixty-storey apartment building. The media had hounded him to the point where he had had no privacy any longer. Since then, he had kept his appearances in public minimal and every move he had made had been done in absolute secrecy. He denied all interviews and never partook in social events.
“I’m not a reporter; I’m a PI.”
Gabe narrowed his eyes. She didn’t seem to be lying. He trapped her with his bulk. Her back was against the edge of the pool table and his arms flanked her petite body. He thought this type of intimidation would squeeze the truth out of her. But his lion mistook it for another step in the mating dance. Fuck. Gabe could practically feel his beast going frisky under his skin, ready to claw out at any time to claim this woman.
“All right, Miss PI. Why are you here?”
“I was hired by a woman named Judith Rossi.”
The name didn’t ring a bell. Cat studied his face with eager determination. Damn. She was terminally pretty. Gabe wanted to kiss her until she fainted.
“You know her?” she asked.
“Should I?”
“My client”—Cat cleared her throat—“strongly feels you murdered her brother, Cameron Rossi, fourteen years ago in Africa.”