Gabriel's Angel (19 page)

The cold fear was replaced by heat, and she managed to move then, though it was only to stiffen. “Then do it. Until you do, leave us alone.”

Still the same, Lorraine thought as she watched Laura's face. She spit a bit now when she was backed into a corner, but she was still easily maneuvered. It infuriated her now, as it always had, that her son had settled for so little when he could have had so much. Even in fury she never raised her voice. Lorraine had always considered derision a better weapon than volume.

“You should have taken the offer my husband and I made to you. It was generous, and it won't be made again.”

“You can't buy my baby, any more than you can buy back Tony.”

Pain flashed across Lorraine's face, pain that was real enough, sharp enough, to make Laura form words of sympathy. They could talk, had to be able to talk now, as one mother to another. “Mrs. Eagleton—”

“I won't speak of my son with you,” Lorraine said, and the pain vanished into bitterness. “If you had been what he needed, he'd still be alive. I'll never forgive you for that.”

There had been a time when she would have crumbled at those words, ready to take the blame. But Lorraine had been wrong. Laura was no longer the same. “Do you want to take my baby to punish me or to bind your wounds? Either reason is wrong. You have to know that.”

“I know I can and will prove that you're unfit to care for the child. I'll produce documentation that you made yourself available to other men before and after your marriage to my son.”

“You know that's not true.”

Lorraine continued as if Laura hadn't spoken. “Added to that will be the record of your unstable family background. If the child proves to be Tony's, there'll be a custody hearing, and the outcome is without question.”

“You won't take Michael, not with money, not with lies.” Her voice rose, and she fought to bring it back down. Losing her temper would get her nowhere. Laura knew all too well how easily Lorraine could bat aside emotion with one cold, withering look. She believed, she had to believe, there was still a way of reasoning with her. “If you ever loved Tony, then you'll know just how far I'll go to keep my son.”

“And you should know just how far I'll go to see to it that you have no part in raising an Eagleton.”

“That's all he is to you, a name, just a symbol of immortality.” Despite her efforts, her voice was growing desperate and her knees were beginning to shake. “He's just a baby. You don't love him.”

“Feelings have nothing to do with it. I'm staying at the Fairmont. You have two days to decide whether or not you want a public scandal.” Lorraine drew out her gloves again. The terror on Laura's face assured her that there was no risk of that. “I'm sure the Bradleys would be displeased, at the least, to learn of your past indiscretions. Therefore, I have no doubt you'll be sensible, Laura, and not risk what you've so conveniently acquired.” She walked out the door and down the steps to where a gray limo waited.

Without waiting for it to drive away, Laura slammed the door and bolted it. She was panting as though she'd been running. And it was running that occurred to her first. Dashing up the stairs, she raced into the nursery and began to toss Michael's things into his carryall.

They'd travel light. She'd only pack what was absolutely necessary. Before sundown they could be miles away. Headed north, she thought quickly. Maybe into Canada. There was still enough money left to help them get away, to buy them enough time to disappear. A rattle slipped out of her hand and landed with a clatter. Giving in to despair, she sunk onto the daybed and buried her face in her hands.

They couldn't run. Even if they had enough funds to keep them for a lifetime, they couldn't run. It was wrong, wrong for Michael, for Gabe, even for herself. They had a life here, the kind she'd always wanted, the kind she needed to give her son.

But what could she do to protect it?

Take a stand. Ride out the attack. Not cave in. But caving in was what she'd always done best. Lifting her head, she waited until her breathing had calmed. That was the old Laura's thinking, and that was exactly what Lorraine was counting on. The Eagletons knew how easily manipulated she had been. They expected her to run, and they would use that impulsive, erratic behavior to take her baby. They thought that if she was too tired to run she Would sacrifice her child to protect her position with the Bradleys.

But they didn't know her. They had never taken the time or effort to really know her. She wouldn't cave in. She wouldn't run with her son. She was damn well going to fight for him.

The anger came then, and it felt wonderful. Anger was a hot, animate emotion, so unlike the icy numbness of fear. She'd stay angry, as Amanda had advised, because angry she would not only fight but fight rough and dirty. The Eagletons were in for a surprise.

***

By the time she reached the gallery she was in control again. Michael was safe with Amanda, and Laura was taking the first step of the route she'd already mapped out to see that he stayed safe.

The Trussalt Gallery was in a gracefully refurbished old building. Flowers, neatly trimmed and still wet from the recent rain, were grouped near the main entrance. Laura could smell roses and damp leaves as she pulled the door open.

Inside, skylights offered an open view of the still-cloudy sky, but the gallery itself was brilliant with recessed and track lighting. It was as quiet as a church. Indeed, as Laura paused to look, she could see that this was a place designed for the worship of art. Sculptures in marble and wood, in iron and bronze, were placed lovingly. Rather than competing with each other, they harmonized. As did the paintings aligned stylishly on the walls.

She recognized one of Gabe's, a particularly solemn view of a garden going to seed. It wasn't pretty; it certainly wasn't joyful. Looking at it, she thought of the mural he'd painted for his mother. The same man who believed enough in fantasies to bring them to life also saw reality, perhaps a bit too clearly. They had that in common, as well.

There were only a few patrons here on this rainy weekday afternoon. They had time to browse, Laura reminded herself. She didn't. Spotting a guard, she moved toward him.

“Excuse me, I'm looking for Gabriel Bradley.”

“I'm sorry, miss. He wouldn't be available. If you have a question about one of his paintings, you may want to see Ms. Trussalt.”

“No. You see, I'm—”

“Laura.” Marion breezed out of an alcove. She was wearing pastels today, a long, slim skirt in baby blue that reached to her ankles, with a hip-skimming sweater in soft pink. The quiet colors only accentuated her exotic looks. “So you decided to pay us a visit after all.”

“I'd like to see Gabe.”

“What a pity.” Without so much as a glance, Marion mentioned the guard aside. “He's not here at the moment.”

Laura curled her fingers tighter around the clasp of her purse. Intimidation from this quarter meant less than nothing now. “Do you expect him back?”

“As a matter of fact, he should be back before too long. We're booked for drinks in, oh—” she glanced at her watch “—half an hour.”

Both the glance and the tone were designed to dismiss her, but Laura was far beyond worrying about games. “Then I'll wait.”

“You're welcome to, of course, but I'm afraid Gabe and I have business to discuss. So boring for you.”

Weariness was a dull throb at the base of her skull. She had no desire to cross swords now. Her energy had to remain focused for a much more vital fight. “I appreciate your concern, but nothing about Gabe's art is boring for me.”

“Spoken like a little Trojan.” Marion tilted her head. There was a smile that had nothing to do with friendship in her eyes. “You're looking a bit pale. Trouble in paradise?”

And she knew. As clearly as if Marion had said it out loud, she knew how Lorraine had found her. “Nothing that can't be dealt with. Why did you call her, Marion?”

The smile remained in place, cool and confident. “I beg your pardon?”

“She was already paying good money for detectives. I only had a week or two longer at most.”

Marion considered a moment, then turned to fuss with the alignment of a painting. “I've always thought time was better saved than wasted. The sooner Lorraine deals with you, the sooner I can get Gabe back on track. Let me show you something.”

Marion moved across the gallery in a separate room, where the walls and floors were white. A sweeping spiral staircase, again in white, rose up in one corner. Above, balconies ran in a circle. A trio of ornamental trees grew under the staircase, fronted by a towering ebony sculpture of a man and a woman in a passionate, yet somehow despairing, embrace.

But it was the portrait that caught her attention, that drew it and demanded it. It was her own face that looked serenely back at Laura, from the portrait Gabe had painted during those long, quiet days in Colorado.

“Yes, it's stunning.” Marion rubbed a finger over her lip as she studied it. She'd been tempted to take a knife to the canvas when Gabe had first unpacked it, but the temptation had faded quickly. She was too much a patron of the arts to let personal feelings interfere. “It's one of his best and most romantic pieces. It's been hanging only three weeks and I've already had six serious offers for it.”

“I've already seen the painting, Marion.”

“Yes, but I doubt you understand it. He calls it
Gabriel's Angel.
That should tell you something.”

“
Gabriel's Angel
,” Laura repeated in a murmur. The warmth spread through her as she took a step closer. “What should that tell me?”

“That he, like Pygmalion, fell a bit in love with his subject. That's expected now and again, even encouraged, as it often inspires great work such as this.” She tapped a finger against the frame. “But Gabe's much too practical a man to string out the fantasy for long. The portrait's finished, Laura. He doesn't need you any longer.”

Laura turned her head so that she could look directly at Marion. What was being said had run through her mind countless times. She told Marion what she had already told herself. “Then he'll have to tell me that.”

“He's an honorable man. That's part of his charm. But once things come to a head, once he realizes his mistake, he'll cut his losses. A man only believes in an image,” she said, with a gesture toward the portrait, “as long as the image is unsmeared. From what Lorraine tells me, you don't have much time.”

Laura fought back the urge to turn and run. Oddly, she discovered it didn't take as much effort this time. “If you believe that, why are you taking so much trouble to move me along?”

“No trouble.” She smiled again and let her hand fall away from the painting. “I consider it part of my job to encourage Gabe to concentrate on his career and avoid the kind of controversies that can only detract from it. As I've already explained, his involvement with you isn't acceptable. He'll realize that soon enough himself.”

No wonder she had called Lorraine, Laura thought. They were two of a kind. “You're forgetting something, Marion. Michael. No matter what Gabe feels or doesn't feel for me, he loves Michael.”

“It takes a particularly pitiful woman to use a child.”

“You're right.” Laura met her eyes levelly. “You couldn't be more right.” When Laura saw that retort had hit home, she continued calmly, “I'll wait here for Gabe. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell him when he gets back.”

“So you can run and hide behind him?”

“I can't see that Laura's reasons for coming to see me are your concern.”

Gabe spoke from the entranceway. Both women turned toward him. He could read fury on Marion's face and distress on Laura's. Even as he watched, both women composed themselves in their own way. Marion lifted her brow and smiled. Laura folded her hands and raised her chin.

“Darling. You know it's part of my job to protect my artists from panicky spouses and lovers.” Crossing to him, Marion laid a hand on his arm. “We're going to be meeting with the Bridgetons in a few minutes about the three paintings. I don't want you distracted and out of sorts.”

He spared her only the briefest of glances, but in it Marion saw that he had heard too much. “I'll worry about my moods. If you'll excuse us now?”

“The Bridgetons—”

“Can buy the paintings or go to hell. Leave us alone, Marion.”

She aimed a vicious glare at Laura, then stormed out of the room. Her heels echoed on the tile. “I'm sorry,” Laura said after a long breath. “I didn't come here to make waves.”

“Why, then? From the look of you, you didn't come to spend an afternoon in art appreciation.” Before she could answer, he was striding to her. “Damn it, Laura, I don't like having the two of you standing here discussing me as though I were some prize to be awarded to the highest bidder. Marion's a business associate, you're my wife. The two of you are going to have to resolve that.”

“I understand that completely.” Her voice had changed, hardened to match his. “And you should understand that if I believed you were involved with her in any way I would already have left you.”

Whatever he'd been about to say slipped completely away from him. Because he recognized the unshakable resolve in the statement, he could only stare at her. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. I've already lived through one marriage where fidelity meant nothing. I won't live through another.”

“I see.” Comparisons again, he thought. He wanted to shout at her. Instead, he spoke softly, too softly. “Then I've been warned.”

She turned away so that she could close her eyes for a moment. Her head was pounding ruthlessly. If she didn't take the time to draw herself in, she would throw herself into his arms and beg for help. “I didn't come here to discuss the terms of our marriage.”