Gabriel's Angel (17 page)

Hunger leaped inside her until she was locked against him, her mouth seeking, avid, impatient. Then she was swept up into his arms. In the dim light she saw his eyes, only his eyes, their clear green darkened by need. Hers remained open and on his as he lowered her onto the bed.

She expected speed, a frenzy of greed and a drive for gratification. She wouldn't have thought less of him for it. Her love wouldn't have diminished. Against hers, his body was taut and straining. Circling her arms around him, she prepared to give him whatever he required.

But it wasn't speed he sought. And the greed was not only to take, but also to give.

When he ranged kisses over her throat, lingering, nibbling, she, too, went taut. She could only whisper his name as he continued the slow journey over her shoulders and down to the curve of her breasts, then up again, in teasing circles. Instinctively she turned her head, seeking his mouth, his jaw, his temple, as her body turned hot and cold with pleasure.

He needed to take care, for her. At the first touch, he'd been terrified. She had been with another man, she had had a child, but he knew the extent of her innocence. He'd seen it, hour after hour, when he'd painted her. He'd felt it each and every time he'd drawn her against him. If he was going to take that innocence, he was going to give her beauty in return.

She was so . . . responsive. Her body seemed to ebb and flow at the touch of his hands. Wherever he tasted, her skin grew warm. Yet even as she gave, and offered, there was a shyness about her, the slightest of hesitations. He wanted to take her beyond that.

Slowly, with movements that were little more than a whisper along her skin, he drew the gown downward, following the trail of lace with his lips. At her first moan, his blood swam. He hadn't known that a sound, only a sound, could be so alluring. With light, openmouthed kisses he sensitized her skin until she began to shiver beneath him. In the lamplight she was exquisite, her skin like marble, her hair like silver. Her eyes were full of needs and uncertainties.

As he had once used his skill, his insight, to draw her emotions on canvas, he used it now to set them free.

She had never known there could be such sensitivity between a man and a woman. Even through the clouds of pleasure and the steadily rising tide of desire, she sensed his patience. She had never been so driven to touch a man before. With her fingertips and her palms, with her lips and her tongue, she discovered him. The urge came, strong, just to hold him, to wrap tight around him and hold on.

Then, without warning, he was taking her up, making her arch and gasp in shock and indescribable delight. Her mind and body were drained of everything but sensation. For an instant there was a terror of being totally out of control. His name burst out of her as she was carried away by a climax so strong, so intense, that she was left limp and dazed in the aftermath.

“Please, I can't . . . I've never . . .”

“I know.” Strangely humbled, he lowered his lips to hers. He had wanted to give, had been driven to, but he hadn't known that in giving, so much would be returned to him. “Just relax. There's no hurry.”

“But you haven't—”

He laughed against her throat. “I intend to. There's time. I want to touch you,” he murmured, and began the slow, seductive journey again.

It wasn't possible. She would have said it couldn't be possible for her body to leap back in response to so gentle, so light, a touch. Yet within moments she was trembling again, aching again, wanting again. His tongue skimmed over her stomach, dipped to the curve of her thigh, until she was writhing, a victim now of her own desire and of the taste of heaven he'd already given her.

Then, impossibly, incredibly, she was tossed up and over again. This time, when she gasped and faltered, he slid into her.

Her moan merged with his.

Damp flesh pressed against damp flesh as they moved together. She'd never felt so strong, so utterly free, as she did now, joined as closely as was conceivable with Gabe.

She was everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd ever dreamed of. Indeed, it was like a dream now, with the bursts and shudders of pleasure ripping through him. With his face pressed against her throat, he could smell her lightly provocative fragrance, mixed with the pungent, earthy scent of passion. He would go to the grave remembering that dizzying combination.

Her breath was fast and frenzied in his ear. Her body was just as fast and frenzied beneath his. He could feel her nails as she dug heedlessly into his back.

He would remember all of it.

Then he remembered nothing, and he let himself go.

Chapter 9

There had been a time, a brief time, when Laura had dressed in elegant clothes and gone to elegant parties. She had met people whose names were printed in slick magazines and flashed in bold headlines in tabloids. She'd danced with celebrities and dined with princes of fashion. However much it had seemed like a dream, it had been real.

It was true enough that she had enjoyed her time modeling for Geoffrey. The work might have been hard, but she'd been young enough, untried enough, to have been dazzled by the glamour—even after ten hours on her feet.

He had taught her how to stand, how to walk, even how to look interested when fatigue was all but pouring out of her ears. He'd shown her how to use makeup to enhance subtly or strikingly, how to use her hair to express a mood.

All the things he'd taught her had helped her maintain an image during public events with the Eagletons. She'd been able to appear sophisticated and untroubled. At times, appearances were a great comfort.

She wasn't afraid she would embarrass herself or Gabe at the reception his parents were giving at their Nob Hill estate. But she wasn't certain she wanted to step back into that life again, either.

How might things have been if Gabe had been an ordinary man, a man of ordinary means? They might have found a little house with a little backyard and been swallowed up by anonymity. A part of her yearned for that, for the simplicity of it.

But that was wrong. Laura fastened the earrings she'd bought the week before, starbursts of blue stones. If Gabe had come from a different family and a different life, he wouldn't be the man she loved. The man she was almost ready to believe was beginning to love her.

There was nothing about him she wanted to change, not his looks, not his manner. She might wish occasionally that he would share with her a bit more of his thoughts and feelings, but she continued to hope that someday he would.

She wanted to be a full part of his life—lover, wife and partner. So far, she had come to be the first two.

When the door opened, she turned.

“If you're about ready, we'll—”

And he stopped and stared. This was the woman she'd only told him about, the one who had graced the covers of magazines and modeled silks and sables. Long-limbed and slender, she stood in front of the beveled mirror in a dress of midnight-blue. It was very simple, leaving her shoulders and throat bare, then caught like a wish at her breasts to fall ruler-straight to her feet.

She'd wound her hair up, swept it back, so that only a few wheat-colored curls escaped to tease her temples.

She was beautiful, gloriously so, yet even as he was drawn to her, he felt as though he were looking at a stranger.

“You look wonderful.” But he kept his hand on the knob and the room between them. “I'll have to paint you like this.”
Beauty on Ice
, he thought, cool, aloof and unapproachable.

“I took your advice on the color.” She picked up her purse, then clasped and unclasped it as she wondered why he was looking at her as though he'd never seen her before. “And I avoided bows.”

“So I see.” She should have sapphires, a collar of them, around her throat. “It's still a bit cool. Do you have a wrap?”

“Yes.” Irked by his tone, she walked to the bed and snatched up a wide silk scarf in a riot of jewel-like colors. It was then that he noticed that the back of the skirt was slit to the thigh.

“I imagine you'll create quite a stir in that little number.”

She cringed inwardly, but, falling back on appearances, she managed to keep her face calm. “If you don't like the dress, why don't you just say so?” She swirled the scarf over her shoulders. “It's too late to change, but believe me, I won't wear it again.”

“Just a minute.” He grabbed her hand as she started through the doorway. He could feel the smooth gold of her plain wedding ring on the index finger of her right hand. She was still his Laura, he thought as he linked his fingers with hers. He'd only had to look in her eyes to see it.

“I have to get Michael ready,” she mumbled, and tried again to move past him.

“Do you expect an apology because I'm human enough to be jealous?”

Her face went still, her eyes blank. “I'm not wearing it to attract other men. I bought it because I liked it and I thought it suited me.”

He brought a hand to her face and swore roundly when she jerked. “Look at me. No, damn it, not at him, at me.” Her eyes lashed back up to him. “Remember who I am, Laura. And remember this—I won't tolerate having my every mood, my every word, compared with someone else's.”

“I'm not trying to do that.”

“Maybe you're not trying to, but you do.”

“You expect me to turn my life around overnight. I can't.”

“No.” He ran his thumb over the ring again. “I don't suppose you can. But you can remember that I'm part of your new life, not your old one.”

“You're nothing like him.” It was becoming easier to let her hand relax in his. “I know that. I guess sometimes it's easier to expect the worst than to hope for the best.”

“I can't promise you the best.”

No, he wouldn't make promises he couldn't keep. That was the beauty of him. “You could hold me. That's as close as I need to get.”

When his arms came around her, he pressed her cheek against the shoulder of his black evening jacket. It smelled of him, and that made the last twists of tension dissolve.

“I suppose I was jealous, too.”

“Oh?”

She smiled as she drew back enough to look into his face. “You look so good tonight.”

“Really?” There was both discomfort and amusement in his tone.

“I've never seen you in evening clothes.” She ran her finger down the dark lapel, which rested against a crisp white shirt. “Sort of like Heathcliff in a tux.”

He laughed and cupped her face in his hands. “What a mind you have, angel. There's no hero in here.”

“You're wrong.” Her eyes were very solemn, very serious. “You're mine.” He shrugged, but she kept him close. “Please, just this once, let me say it without you brushing it aside.”

He just flicked a finger down her nose. “Don't expect me to walk around in armor too long. Let's get the baby. My mother knows how to make you miserable if you're late.”

He wasn't a hero. He certainly wasn't comfortable being seen as one. Gabe was much more at ease discussing his work or speculating on the Giants' chances during the rest of the baseball season. He preferred arguments to good deeds.

When someone saw you as heroic, you invariably let them down. They expected you to have the right answers, the key to the lock, the light in the dark.

Michael had seen him as a hero. And, of course, he had let his brother down.

Michael had loved parties like this, Gabe thought as he sipped at the champagne that seemed to flow endlessly. He had loved the laughter, the people and the gossip. Michael had been unashamedly fond of rumors and whispers.

People had loved him moments after meeting him. He had been outgoing, funny, and as warm with strangers as with friends. It was Michael who had been the hero, doing favors without tallying the score, always willing to help or simply to be enthusiastic about a project.

Yet he'd had that streak of temper and toughness that had balanced him, prevented him from being overly . . . overly good, Gabe supposed.

God, he missed him still, at times unbearably.

There were people here who had known Michael, who had raised a glass with him or swapped stories with him. Perhaps that was what made it seem worse tonight, being in their parents' home, where they had grown up and shared so much and knowing that Michael would never walk into that room again.

Somehow you went on. One part of your life closed up, and another opened. Gabe looked across the room to where Laura stood talking to his father.

Sometime between the moment she'd rolled down the window of a wrecked car and the moment she'd placed a newborn child in his arms he'd fallen in love with her. It had come not with trumpets and flares but with quiet, soothing murmurs.

If there were such things as angels, one had sent Laura to him when he'd needed her most.

She was grateful to him, and open enough to give him love and affection in return for what he had given her. There were days when he believed that would be enough, for today, and for the tomorrows they would have together.

Then there were the other times.

He wanted to grab her, to demand again and again that she look at him, see who he was, what he felt. That she forget what had happened before and trust in what was happening now. He wanted to erase, the way he might have blanked out a canvas, what had gone on before, all the things that had put shadows in her eyes, all the things that made her hesitate just that split second before she smiled.

But he knew better than most that when you painted over part of someone's life you stole something. Bad experience or good, what had happened to Laura had made her what she was, the woman he loved.

But loving as he did, and being a selfish man, he wanted to be loved back, completely, without the strings of gratitude or the shadows of vulnerability. Wanting wouldn't make it so, but time might. He could give her a little more of that.

Someone laughed across the room. Glasses chinked. There was a scent of wine, flowers and women's fragrances. The night had cooperated with a full moon, and its glow shimmered just outside the open terrace doors. The room was ablaze with lamplight. Wanting a few moments away from the crowd and the noise, he slipped upstairs to check on his son.

***

“The boy looks more like you every time I see him,” Cliff was saying.

“Do you think so?” The thought had Laura lighting up. Perhaps she was vain after all.

“Absolutely. Though no one would believe you were a new mother, the way you're looking tonight.” He patted her cheek in the way that always made her feel shy and delighted. “My Gabe has excellent taste.”

“Shame on you, Cliff, flirting with a beautiful woman when your wife's not looking.”

“Marion.” Cliff bent down from his rangy height to give the newcomer a kiss. “Late as always.”

“Amanda's already scolded me.” She turned, sipping at her champagne, to give Laura a thorough study. “So this is the mysterious Laura.”

“My new daughter.” Cliff gave Laura a quick squeeze around the shoulders. “An old friend, Marion Trussalt. The Trussalt Gallery handles Gabe's paintings.”

“Yes, I know. It's nice to meet you.” She wasn't a beautiful woman, Laura thought, but she was oddly striking, with her sleek cap of black hair and her dark eyes. She wore a flowing rainbow-colored sheath that managed to be both arty and sophisticated.

“Yes, it is, since we have Gabe in common.” Marion tapped a finger on the rim of her glass and smiled, but her eyes didn't warm. Laura recognized carefully polished disdain when she saw it. “You have his heart, and I his soul, you might say.”

“Then it would seem we both want the best for him.”

“Oh.” Marion raised her glass. “Absolutely. Cliff, Amanda told me to remind you that hosts are supposed to mingle.”

He grimaced. “Slave driver. Laura, be sure to work your way over to the buffet. You're getting too thin already.” With that he went to do his duty.

“Yes, you're amazingly slender for someone who had a child—what was it? A month ago?”

“Almost two.” Laura shifted her glass of sparkling water to her other hand. She didn't deal well with subtle attacks.

“Time flies.” Marion touched her tongue to her upper lip. “It's odd that in all that time you haven't stirred yourself to come down to the gallery.”

“You're right. I'll have to come down and see Gabe's work in a proper setting.” She steadied herself. Under no circumstances was she going to allow herself to be intimidated or to fall into the trap of reading between the lines. If Gabe had ever had any kind of romantic involvement with Marion, it had ended. “He relies on you, I know. And I hope you'll be able to persuade him to go through with a new showing.”

“I haven't decided that's really a good idea for the time being.” Marion turned to smile at someone across the room who had called her name.

“Why? The paintings are wonderful.”

“That isn't the only issue.” She turned back to give Laura a quick, glittering look. She hadn't been Gabe's lover, nor had there ever been any urge on either side to make it so. Her feelings for Gabriel Bradley went far beyond the physical. Gabe was an artist, a great one, and she had been—and intended to go on being—the catalyst for his success.

If he had married within his circle, or chosen someone who could have enhanced or furthered his career, she would have been pleased. But for him to have wasted himself, and her ambitions, on a beautiful face and a smeared reputation was more than Marion could bear.

“Did I mention that I knew your first husband?”

If she had thrown her drink into Laura's face she would have been no less shocked. The cocoon that she had been able to draw around herself and Michael suffered its first crack.

“No. If you'll excuse me—”

“A fascinating man, I always thought. Certainly young, and a bit wild, but fascinating. A tragedy that he died so young, before he ever saw his child.” She tilted her glass back until only a sheen of bubbles remained.

“Michael,” Laura said evenly, “is Gabe's child.”

“So I'm told.” She smiled again. “There were the oddest rumors just before and just after Tony died. Some said that he was on the verge of divorcing you, that he'd already removed you from the family home because you were, well, indiscreet.” With a shrug, Marion set her glass aside. “But that's all in the past now. Tell me, how are the Eagletons? I haven't spoke with Lorraine for ages.”