had on his face. “What kind of deal did you work out, uncle?”
“Let’s just say,” Dante spread his hands out, a gesture Gabriel knew meant Dante was confounded. “From the way the girl negotiates for herself, she should be well worth the trouble.”
Trouble? “You mean she didn’t let Luvici do the talking?”
“Not once money came into the conversation. She obviously thought Francis was under appreciating her worth.” He smiled wryly as he shook his elegant head. “It really was good to see such…gumption in someone of her generation.”
“If you can equate gold digging with gumption,” Gabriel scoffed, “then sure, she’s a catch.”
“I’m just saying, if she’s that persuasive and convincing, then she should be in her element when it comes to fooling your parents…and your Uncle Remy.” Dante scowled as he checked his watch. “He’d love nothing more than to discredit you…and you father. He is second in line.”
“Not with Micah and me in the picture. More like fourth in line.”
“Fine. But he still would cherish the opportunity to disgrace you, especially so publically. Delia is a very dangerous liability—”
“Delia is the woman I’m in love with!” Gabriel cut across his uncle. “That hardly makes her a disgrace!”
But Gabriel’s glower diminished at the weary look in his uncle’s eyes.
“Don’t delude yourself.” Dante said as he stood to leave. He clasped his nephew around the shoulders, his hands warm but firm. “Whether this bit of subterfuge succeeds or not, she will never be accepted by the family. And for as long as you keep this relationship going, then you will be vulnerable.”
Before he left the room he turned back to Gabriel. “By the way, you should procure a picture of Miss Hart and display it on your desk. It will look more than a little strange not to.”
Gabriel grimaced, feeling like he was choking on his own heart as he fought not to howl with the pain. “Of course, uncle,” he said. “Good idea.”
Dante left the room. He hadn’t brought anything into the room, but Gabriel suddenly felt his office was cluttered with thoughts he was indeed lending a blind eye to. He just couldn’t see a world without Delia in it. And if he had to lie to his parents, and so many more, and if he had to pretend to be involved with an opportunist grifter like Lucy Hart, he would gladly do so. Anything not to lose Delia…
~*~
Life at Four Corners High School became much more interesting. With Lucy’s far superior and sexier wardrobe, and the return of her well coifed and manicured beauty, what also returned to Lucy was the attention of her fellow man…and, unfortunately, her fellow women.
Guys followed her around between classes, swarmed around her at her locker like flies. Some would do all sorts of wild things to get her attention. Mock grappling matches, cursing—belittling each other’s characters, athletic prowess, and man-hoods. This she kind of enjoyed. She’d missed having constant male attention.
In contrast, she disliked the attention she now received from the female populace at Four Corners High. Where, back at her old school, she’d been the queen bee of every aspect of her High School society. Cheer Squad Captain, Student Body President (which she’d won by a landslide—apparently a landslide of fearful, sycophantic and rather hateful subjects) she was dating the captain of the football and wrestling squad (same guy,) and she’d been crowned Home Coming Queen only a few days before her father had been arrested for tax evasion and immigrant slave trafficking. All the popular girl’s had groveled at her Jimmy Choo’s—though she now knew they’d both feared and hated her—and all other girls had fled at the sight of her—more fear and hatred.
But at Four Corners, her sudden appearance upgrade had caused an aftershock of overtly hateful girls, in all social brackets. The Goth chicks made nasty hissing sounds, and threw little wads of paper at Lucy’s head. The art chicks and the brain-trust girls joined forces and filled the girl’s restrooms with derogatory artwork (resplendent with nasty remarks scrolled underneath) and some rather clever math equations slandering Lucy with statistics of her obvious whoredome, and logistics on how buoyant her “Fake Tits” were.
The cheerleaders were more subtle. They leered and sneered, made mean little quips whenever Lucy passed by, and even tried slamming her against a bank of lockers once. They’d tried, but Lucy was well versed (to her now reluctant horror) in cheerleader war strategies.
There had been two of them—the rest of the squad was watching from