Gabriel's Angel (18 page)

She was going to be ill, violently and humiliatingly ill, unless she succeeded in fighting back her rolling nausea. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why should you care?”

“Oh, my dear, I care about anything that has to do with Gabe. I intend to see him reach the very top, and I don't intend to watch him be dragged down. That's a lovely dress,” she added. Then she saw Amanda approaching and slipped away.

“Laura, are you all right? You're white as a sheet. Come, let me find you a chair.”

“No, I need some air.” Turning, she fled through the open glass doors and onto the smooth stone terrace beyond.

“Here, now.” Coming up behind her, Amanda took her arm and steered her to a chair. “Sit a minute before Gabe comes along. He'll take one look at you and pounce on me for insisting you come out and socialize too soon.”

“It's nothing to do with that.”

“And something to do with Marion.” Amanda took the water glass out of Laura's tightening grip. “If she led you to believe that there was something—personal—between herself and Gabe, I can only say its totally untrue.”

“That wouldn't matter.”

With a little laugh, Amanda cast a look back inside. “If you mean that, then you're a better woman than I. I've known one of my husband's former . . . interests for over thirty-five years. I'd still like to spit in her eye.”

With a laugh of her own, Laura drew in the softly scented evening. “I know Gabe's faithful to me.”

“And so you should. You should also know that Marion and Gabe were never lovers.” She moved her shoulders a bit. “I can't say that I know about all of my son's affairs, but I do know that he and Marion only have art in common. Now, what did she say to upset you?”

“It was nothing.” Laura brushed her fingers over her temples, as if to soothe away an ache. “Really, it was my own fault, overreacting. She only mentioned that she'd met my first husband.”

“I see.” Annoyed, Amanda turned her sharp-eyed glance into the drawing room again. “Well, I have to say I find it very insensitive to bring up the subject at your wedding reception. One would have thought a woman like Marion would have more taste.”

“It's over and it's best forgotten.” Straightening her shoulders, Laura prepared to go back in. “I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention any of this to Gabe. There's no reason to annoy him.”

“No, I agree. I'll speak with Marion myself.”

“No.” Laura picked up her glass again and sipped slowly. “If there's anything that needs to be said, I'll say it myself.”

Amanda's smile spread and she said easily, “If that's what you'd like.”

“Yes. Amanda . . .” A decision made quickly, she thought, was sometimes the best. “Could I leave Michael with you one day next week? I'd like to go into the gallery and see Gabe's paintings.”

***

Laura woke up out of breath and shivering. She struggled her way out of the nightmare to find herself in Gabe's arms.

“Just relax. You're all right.”

She drew in a big gulp of air, then let it out slowly. “Sorry,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair.

“Want anything? Some water?”

“No.” As the fear passed, annoyance took its place. The glowing dial of the alarm clock read 4:15. They'd been in bed for only three hours, and now she was wide-awake and restless.

With his arm still around her, Gabe lay back on his pillow. “You haven't had a nightmare since Michael was born. Did something happen at the party tonight?”

She thought of Marion and gritted her teeth. “Why do you ask?”

“I noticed that you seemed upset, and my mother annoyed.”

“Did you think that I had an argument with your mother?” That made her smile and settle more comfortably against him. “No, in fact we get along very well.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I didn't expect to make friends with her. I kept waiting for her to bring out her broom and pointed hat.”

He laughed and kissed her shoulder. “Just try criticizing my work.”

“I wouldn't dare.” Unconsciously she began to stroke her fingers through his hair. When she was here, like this, she believed she could handle anything that threatened her new family. “She showed me the mural in the parlor. The one with all the mythical creatures.”

“I was twenty, and romantic.” And he'd asked his mother a dozen times to have it painted over.

“I like it.”

“No wonder you get along with her.”

“I did like it.” She shifted so that she could rest her arms on his chest. There was only a little moonlight, but she could see him. She didn't realize that it was her first completely unstudied move toward him, but he did. “What's wrong with unicorns and centaurs and fairies?”

“They have their place, I suppose.” But all he was currently interested in was making love with her.

“Good. Then don't you think the side wall in Michael's room is the perfect place for a mural?”

He tugged at a curl that fell over her cheek. “Are you offering me a commission?”

“Well, I've seen a few samples of your work, and it's not bad.”

He tugged harder. “Not bad?”

“Shows promise.” With a quick laugh, she ducked before he could pull her hair again. “Why don't you submit some sample sketches for consideration?”

“And my fee?”

He was smiling; her skin was warming. Laura began to think the nightmare had been a blessing in disguise. “Negotiable.”

“Tell you what. I'll do the mural on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you let me paint you again, nude.”

Her eyes widened. Then she laughed, sure he was joking. “You should at least let me wear a beret.”

“You've been watching too many old movies, but you can wear a beret if you like—just nothing else.”

“I couldn't.”

“All right, then, scratch the beret.”

“Gabe, you're not serious.”

“Of course I am.” To prove it, and to please himself, he ran a hand over her. “You have a beautiful body . . . long dancer's limbs, smooth white skin, a narrow waist.”

“Gabe.” She spoke to stop not his roaming hands but his conversation. She stopped neither.

“I've wanted to paint you nude since the first time we made love. I can still see the way you looked when I drew the nightgown away. Capturing that femininity, that subtle sexuality, would be a triumph.”

She laid her cheek on his heart. “I'd be embarrassed.”

“Why? I know what you look like. Every inch of you.” He cupped her breasts, scraping his thumbs lightly over her nipples. Her instant response rippled through him.

“No one else does.” Her voice was husky now. Hardly realizing it, she began to run her hands over him. The journey was long, lazy, thorough.

There was something incredibly exciting about the idea. No one else knew the secrets of her body, the dips and curves. No one else knew how a touch here, a stroke there, could make her shyness melt into passion. He did want to capture that on canvas, the beauty of her, the sweetness of her inhibitions. The fire of passion just discovered. But he could wait.

“I suppose I could just hire a model.”

Her head came up at that. “You—” The jealousy rose, so swift and powerful that it left her momentarily speechless.

“It's art, angel,” he said, amused and not at all displeased. “Not a centerfold.”

“You're trying to blackmail me.”

“You're very sharp.”

Her eyes narrowed. In deliberate seduction that surprised them both, she shifted so that her body rubbed tantalizingly over his. “Only if I get to choose the model.”

His pulse was thudding. As she lowered her head to brush kisses over his chest, he closed his eyes. “Laura.”

“No, Mrs. Drumberry. I met her tonight.”

He opened his eyes. But when she used her teeth to tug on his nipple he arched beneath her. “Mabel Drumberry is a hundred and five.”

“Exactly.” She chuckled but continued her explorations, with a growing sense of power and discovery. “I wouldn't trust you closed up in your studio with some sexy young redhead with lush curves.”

He started to laugh, but the sound became a moan as her hand ranged lower. “Don't you think I can resist a sexy young redhead?”

“Of course, but she wouldn't be able to resist you.” She rubbed her cheek along his jawline, which was already roughened with morning stubble. “You're so beautiful, Gabe. If I could paint, I'd show you.”

“What you're doing is driving me crazy.”

“I hope so,” she murmured, and lowered her mouth to his.

She'd never had the confidence to take charge, had never been sure enough of her skill or her appeal. Now it seemed right and wonderfully fulfilling to tease and taunt her man in passion.

His hands were in her hair, his fingers tangled and tense, as she dipped her tongue into his mouth and explored. Her moves were instinctive rather than experienced, and all the more seductive for it.

The power came to her not in a wild burst but with quiet certainty. She could be his partner here, his full partner. It was easy to show love, almost as easy as it was to feel it.

As she discovered him, she discovered herself. She wasn't as patient as he, not here. Strangely, in the daylight, the opposite was true. She saw him as a man who needed to move quickly, decisively, and if mistakes were made because of hurry they could be corrected or just as easily ignored. She was more cautious, more prone to think through alternatives before acting.

But in bed, in the role of the seductress, she found little patience in herself.

She was wild and wanton. Gabe found himself reaching for her, then being rocked helplessly by the sensations she brought to him. It was like having a different woman in bed, one who felt like Laura, smelled like Laura, one he wanted as desperately as he wanted Laura.

When her mouth came down on his, it was Laura's taste, yet somehow darker, riper. And her body was like a furnace as she moved over him.

He tried to remember that this was his wife, his shy and still-innocent wife, who required infinite care and gentleness. He had yet to release his full range of passion with her. With Laura he had taken his time, used every drop of his sensitivity.

Now she was stripping him down to the nerve ends.

She could feel the power, and it was glorious. Despite her excitement, her mind was clear as a bell. She could make him weak, she could make him desperate. She could make him tremble. Breathlessly she pressed her lips to pulse points that she found by instinct. His heart was racing. For her. She could feel his body shudder at her touch. When he groaned, it was her own name she heard.

She heard herself laugh, and there was something sultry in the sound. A feminine triumph. The clock in the hallway struck five, and the echo went on and on in her head.

Then his arms were locked around her and the sound that was coming from his throat was long and primitive. His control snapped like a rubber band stretched too far. Needs only half satisfied, so long held in check, flooded free. His mouth covered hers, bruisingly. But it wasn't a skip of fear she felt. It was a leap of victory.

Trapped in madness, they rolled across the bed, seeking, taking, demanding, with a kind of greed that made the mouth go dry and the soul shudder. The modest gown she wore was torn aside, seams ripping, lace shredding. His hands were everywhere, and they were far from gentle.

There was no shame. There was no shyness. This was freedom, a different kind from what he had already shown her. As desperate as he, she opened for him. When he plunged into her, the shock vibrated, wave after wave.

Fast and furious, they locked into their own rhythm, each driving the other.

Endless pleasure, sharp and edgy. Insatiable need spreading like wildfire. As she gave herself to him, as she asked and received more, Laura realized that, for the lucky, time could indeed stop.

Chapter 10

When the sky darkened, Laura was in the garden. It had become her habit to spend her mornings there while the baby slept or sat rocking in his swing in the sunlight. Since her arrival in Gabe's home, she'd found little to do indoors. The house almost took care of itself and, as she had once told him, Gabe was only sloppy when he painted.

More than that, there were too many rooms, too much space that she didn't yet feel a part of. In the nursery, which she'd decorated herself and where, through necessity, she spent many hours during the day and night, she felt at home. The rest of the house, with its heirlooms and its beautiful old rugs, its polished wood and its faded wallpaper, remained aloof to her.

But as spring had taken hold she had discovered an affinity and a talent for gardening, as well as a need for space and air. She liked the sunlight and the smells and the feel of the earth under her hands. She devoured books on plants, much as she had on childbirth, so that she could become familiar with flowers and shrubs and the care they required.

The tulips were beginning to bloom, and the azaleas were already ripe with blossoms. Someone else had planted them, but Laura had no trouble taking them to heart as her own. They flowered afresh every year. Nor did she feel awkward adding her own touches with moss roses and snapdragons.

Already she was planning to plant new bulbs in the fall, daylilies, windflowers, poppies. Then, over the winter, she would root her own spring flowers from seed, starting them in little peat pots that she would set in the sunroom on the east side of the house.

“I'll teach you how to plant them next year,” she told Michael. She could already imagine him toddling around the garden on short, sturdy legs, patting at the dirt, trying to snatch butterflies off blossoms.

He would laugh. There would be so much for him to laugh about. She would be able to catch him up in her arms and swing him around so that his eyes, which were still as stubbornly blue as hers, glowed and his laughter bounced on the air. Then Gabe would stick his head out of his studio window and demand to know what all the ruckus was about.

But he wouldn't really be annoyed. He'd come down, saying that if there was going to be so much noise he might as well forget about working for the morning. He'd sit on the ground with Michael in his lap and they'd laugh together about nothing anyone else would understand.

Sitting back on her heels, Laura wiped her brow with the back of a gloved hand. Dreaming had always been her escape, her defense, her survival. Now it didn't seem like any of those things, because she was beginning to believe dreams could come true.

“I love your daddy,” she told Michael, as she told him at least once every day. “I love him so much that it makes me believe in happy endings.”

When the shadow fell over her, Laura glanced up and saw the first dark clouds roll over the sun. She was tempted to ignore them, and she might have if she hadn't known it took more than a quick minute to gather up all her gardening tools, Michael's supplies and the baby himself.

“Well, the rain's good for the flowers, isn't it, sweetie?” She stored the tools and bags of peat moss and fertilizers in the small shed near the back door, then drew Michael out of the swing. With the acquired coordination of motherhood, she carried the baby, his little cache of toys and the folded swing indoors.

She'd barely started upstairs when the first crack of thunder had both her and Michael jumping. As he began to wail, she fought back her own longstanding fear of storms and soothed him.

He calmed down much more quickly than she as she walked and rocked and murmured reassurances. Though the rain held off, she could watch the fury raging in the sky through Michael's windows. Lightning slashed, turning the light from gray to mauve, then back to gray, in the blink of an eye.

Eventually he began to doze, but she continued to hold him, as much for her own comfort as his.

“Silly, isn't it?” she murmured. “A grown woman more afraid of thunder than a tiny baby.” As the rain began to lash at the house, she made herself set the sleeping child in his crib so that she could close the windows.

At least that would keep her busy, Laura told herself as she moved from room to room to shut the windows against the pelting rain. Still, each time thunder boomed she jerked back. It wasn't until she started back into the nursery, telling herself she'd curl up on the daybed and read until the storm passed, that she remembered Gabe's studio. Thinking only of his work, she rushed down the hall.

She was grateful that the storm hadn't knocked out the power. The lights flared on at a touch. It seemed that her luck had held. The floor was wet by the ribbon of windows, but none of his paintings were stored there. Laura hurried down the line, shutting each one until the rain was muffled by the glass.

She started to do the practical thing and go for a mop, but then it struck her that this was the first time she had been in Gabe's studio alone. He'd never asked her not to go in, but the lack of privacy she'd lived with most of her life had made her fastidious about respecting that of others. Now, though, with the lights bright overhead and the thunder rolling in the distance, she felt comfortable there, as she did in the nursery. As she had in the cabin in the mountains.

The room smelled of him, she realized. It held that mixture of paint and turpentine, with the powdery addition of chalk, that often clung to his clothes and his hands. It was a scent that invariably put her at ease, even though it was also a scent that invariably aroused her. Like the man, she thought, the scent drew her emotions. She could love him and be comforted by him, just as she could be excited and confused by him.

What did he want from her? she wondered. And why? She thought she understood part of it. He wanted the solidity of family, an end to his own loneliness and passion in bed. He'd chosen her for those things because she'd been as anxious to give them as he was to take them.

It could be enough, or nearly enough. Her problem was, and continued to be, a quiet longing for more.

Shaking off the mood, she tried to picture him there in that room, alone, working, envisioning.

So much had been done here, she thought, so many hours creating, perfecting, experimenting. What made one man different from another in the way he saw and expressed what he saw? Crossing to his easel, she studied his work in progress.

A painting of Michael. The deep and simple pleasure of it had her hugging herself. There was a rough sketch tacked to the easel, and the portrait on canvas was just beginning to take shape. She could see that even since the sketch, which he'd drawn perhaps a week before, Michael had changed and grown. But because of this she would always be able to look back and see him exactly as he'd been in that one precious moment of time.

With her arms still crossed over her breasts, she turned to study the room. It was different without Gabe in it. Less . . . dramatic, she thought. Then she laughed a little, knowing he would hate that description.

Without him it was a wide, airy room, largely empty. On the floor were dried drops and smears of paint that could have been there for a week or a year. A small pedestal sink was built into one corner. She saw a towel tossed carelessly over its lip. There were shelves and a worktable with equipment scattered on them. Paints and bottles, jars crammed with brushes, pallete knives, hunks of charcoal and balled-up rags. Unframed canvases were stacked against the walls, much as they had been in Colorado. He hadn't hung anything here.

She wondered why she hadn't thought before to ask Gabe if he had anything she might hang in Michael's room. The posters she'd chosen were colorful, but one of Gabe's paintings would mean more. With that in mind, she knelt down and began to go through canvases.

How easily he drew out emotion. One of his pastel landscapes would make you dreamy. Next an edgy, too-realistic view of a slum would make you shudder. There were portraits, too—an impossibly old man leaning on a cane at a bus stop, three young girls giggling outside a boutique. There was a spectacular nude study of a brunette sprawled on white satin. Instead of jealousy, it raised a feeling of awe in Laura.

She went through more than a dozen, wondering why he'd stacked them so carelessly. Many were unframed, and all were facing the wall. Each one she held left her more astonished that she could be married to a man who could do so much with color and brush. More, each painting gave her a closer look at who he was. She could sense the mood that had held him as he'd worked. Rage for this, humor for that. Sorrow, impatience, desire, delight. Whatever he could feel, he could paint.

These didn't belong here, she thought, frustrated that he would close them up in a room where no one could see them or appreciate them or be touched by them. His signature was dashed in each corner, with the year just below. Everything she found had been painted no more than two years before, and no less than one year.

She turned the last canvas over and was caught immediately. It was another portrait, and this one had been painted with love.

The subject, a young man of no more than thirty, was grinning, a bit recklessly, as though he had all the time in the world to accomplish what he wanted to do. His hair was blond, a few shades lighter than Gabe's, and brushed back from a lean, good-looking face. It was a casual study, full-length, with the subject sprawled in a chair, legs spread out and crossed at the ankle. But, despite the relaxing pose, there was a sense of movement and energy.

She recognized the chair. It sat in the parlor of the Bradley mansion on Nob Hill. And she recognized the subject by the shape of the face, which was so much like her husband's. This was Gabe's brother. This was Michael.

For a long time she sat there, holding the painting in her lap, no longer hearing the storm. The lights flickered once, but she didn't notice.

It was possible, she discovered, to grieve for someone you hadn't even known, to feel the loss and the regret. That Gabe had loved his brother deeply was obvious in each brush stroke. Not only loved, she thought, but respected. Now more than ever she wished he trusted her enough to speak of this Michael, his life and his death. In the sketch of the baby Gabe had tacked on the easel she had seen this same kind of unconditional love.

If he was using the baby to help him get over the loss of his brother, should she begrudge him that? It didn't mean he loved their Michael any less. Still, it made her sad to think of it. Until he talked to her, opened up his emotions to her as he did in his work, she would never really be his wife and Michael would never really be his son.

Gently she turned the canvas back to the wall and replaced the others.

***

When the rain stopped, Laura decided to call Amanda and follow through with her decision to visit the gallery. If she wanted Gabe to take another step toward her, she would have to take another toward him. She'd avoided going to the gallery, not for all the reasons she had given, but because she hadn't felt comfortable in her role as wife to the public person, the well-known artist. Insecurity, she knew, could only be overcome by taking a confident step forward, even if that step took all the courage you could muster.

She'd grown, Laura told herself. In the past year she'd learned not just to be strong but to be as strong as she needed to be. She might not have reached the peak, but she was no longer scrambling for a foothold at the bottom of the hill.

It was as easy as asking. After her thanks were brushed aside Laura hung up the phone and glanced at her watch. If Michael stuck to his usual schedule, he would wake within the hour and demand to be fed. She could take him to Amanda—the first big step—then drive to the gallery. She glanced down at the dirt-stained knees of her jeans. First she had to change.

The doorbell caught her halfway up the stairs. Feeling too optimistic to be annoyed by the interruption, she went to answer it.

And the world crashed silently at her feet.

“Laura.” Lorraine Eagleton gave a brisk nod, then strode into the hall. She stood and glanced idly around as she drew off her gloves. “My, my, you've certainly landed on your feet, haven't you?” She tucked her gloves tidily in a buff-colored alligator bag. “Where is the child?”

She couldn't speak. Both words and air were trapped in her lungs, crowding there so that her chest ached. Her hand, still gripping the doorknob, was ice-cold, though the panicked rhythm of her heart vibrated in each fingertip. She had a sudden, horrible flash of the last time she had seen this woman face-to-face. As if they had just been spoken, she remembered the threats, the demand and the humiliation. She found her voice.

“Michael's asleep.”

“Just as well. We have business to discuss.”

The rain had cooled the air and left its taste in it. Watery sunlight crept through the door, which Laura still hadn't closed. Birds were beginning to chirp optimistically again. Normal things. Such normal things. Life, she reminded herself, didn't bother to stop for personal crises.

Though she couldn't make her fingers relax on the doorknob, she did keep her eyes and her voice level. “You're in my home now, Mrs. Eagleton.”

“Women like you always manage to find rich, gullible husbands.” She arched a brow, pleased that Laura was still standing by the door, tense and pale. “That doesn't change who you are, what you are. Nor will your being clever enough to get Gabriel Bradley to marry you stop me from taking what's mine.”

“I have nothing that belongs to you. I'd like you to leave.”

“I'm sure you would,” Lorraine said, smiling. She was a tall, striking woman with dark, sculpted hair and an unlined face. “Believe me, I have neither the desire nor the intention to stay long. I intend to have the child.”

Laura had a vision of herself standing in the mist, holding an empty blanket. “No.”

Lorraine brushed the refusal aside as she might have brushed a speck of lint from her lapel. “I'll simply get a court order.”