Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 53965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he says coldly, cutting me off. “You’re going to help me with the rest of that money I need.”
“And how on earth would I do that. You want me to pass the offering plate for, what, the other two million you need to hit your goal on that land deal in Costa Rica?”
His eyes harden dangerously, but he smiles.
“I need you to marry me, Gabriel.”
I arch a brow. “Well you could take me someplace nice first and ask like a gentleman, Paul, I mean really.”
He stares at me. “Is everything a fucking joke to you?” he growls lowly. “I mean you need to marry me to my fiancée, Lizzie.”
I make a face and whistle lowly. “Hey, Paul? The gun you’re pointing at me aside, I need to do you a favor and save you a whole lot of shit later. You really shouldn’t marry Lizzie.”
He grins, and he starts to laugh. “Actually marry her? Jesus Christ, Gabriel, no. No fucking way. Lizzie Purcell is trash, but her family is beyond rich, and I promised to cut her on a small percent if she helps me, since she just found out she’s being written out of her dad’s will.”
I frown. “What exactly am I helping you with?”
“You’re marrying us. If we’re married before that new will goes into effect, I can basically help myself to her dad’s money in her trust fund.”
I shake my head. “Paul, you’re doing a shell game, right?”
He frowns.
“The con,” I sigh. “The game you’re playing, it’s called a shell game. You’re putting everything through a trust so you look legit, and then bullshit companies owned by you suck it dry.”
“Yeah, and?”
I wince. “Well, if you’re married, the fund dissolves, and the donations go back from whence they came.”
You fucking idiot, I manage to refrain from saying out loud.
Paul starts to laugh. “No shit, Gabriel. That’s why you’re marrying us. Because you’re a bullshit fake preacher, but everyone thinks you’re the real deal. It means the town clerk will push it through, and I’ll get joint access to her accounts. And then the trust stays right where it is because we’re not really married, since you’re a phony piece of shit.”
I say nothing, and I just look at him.
He grins triumphantly.
“You’re going to help me, Gabriel. Or I tell this whole goddamn town what you are. And it won’t hurt you, I know that, asshole,” he sneers. “You’ll just do what you always do and leave and never come back.”
His smile widens.
“But it’ll kill Delilah. Twice—once when you leave, and then when the whole town hates her for harboring and abetting you, knowing full well that you were a con man.”
My mouth stays shut, and my eyes hold his as he chuckles and waves the gun at me.
“I don’t care what you’re doing with my sister, Gabriel. I mean, my dad might, and he’s probably legitimately going to kill you when he finds out. But before then, you help me, and you might have a shot of making the Mexican border before he runs you off the road. So what do you say, asshole?”
“You’re making a mistake,” I growl thinly.
He shakes his head. “Get my fucking money, Gabriel. Or I’ll nail you to a fucking cross.”
Chapter Fourteen
Delilah
“Well, someone was up late!”
I look up from my lunch in horror, my face draining of color. But my mother is just smiling at me in her usual way, and I take a shaky breath. I force a smile to my own face, and shrug.
“Oh, yeah, kinda went down the rabbit hole with Melanie about charitable outreach to third world counties, and if converting them to Christ is something that needs to be part of that, or if just helping how you can is the more Christian thing to do, without worrying about who they’ll pray to after.”
I almost stumble over my own words, and I’m, immediately a little started by just how easily the lie rolled off my tongue. Because discussing missionary work with Melanie Krupa is not what I was doing last night. No, last night, I was letting myself go, with Gabriel.
I was… sinning, I suppose, but in the most incredible way I’ve ever imagined sin to feel. I lost myself with him, and yet, I feel found.
I blush. I also feel a little sore, but in a deliciously heated way that’s still sending little fluttering feelings through my core.
My father, sitting across from me at the table on the back porch, puts down the political thriller he’s re-reading for the fortieth time, and he grins. “Well, shoot, Christina,” he chuckles, glancing at my mother. “She’s your daughter all right with those smarts.”
I roll my eyes and look back at my sandwich to avoid the shame of lies on my face. To be clear, I don’t feel bad about last night. I don’t feel like I’m going to Hell, or lost, or damned. But I do feel bad about lying to my own parents.