Gabriel's Angel (2 page)

The cabin could barely be seen through the snow, even when he stopped in front of it. But what Laura could see, she loved. It was a squat rectangle of wood with a covered porch and square-paned windows. Smoke puffed from the chimney.

Though it was buried under snow, there was a path of flat rocks leading from the lane to the front steps. Evergreens mantled with white trooped around the corners. Nothing had ever looked as safe and warm as this snow-decked little cabin in the mountains.

“It's lovely. You must be happy here.”

“It does the job.” Gabe came around to help her down. She smelled like the snow, he thought, or perhaps more like water, the pure, virginal water that poured down the mountain in the spring. “I'll take you in,” he told her, knowing both his reaction and his comparison were ridiculous. “You can warm up by the fire.” Gabe opened the front door and waved her in. “Go ahead. I'll bring in the rest.”

He left her alone, snow dripping wet from her coat onto the woven mat inside the door.

The paintings. Laura stood just where she was and stared openmouthed at the paintings. They covered the walls, they were stacked in corners, they were piled on tables. Only a few were framed. They didn't need the ornamentation. Some were half finished, as though the artist had lost interest or motivation. There were oils, in colors vivid and harsh, and watercolors in soft, misty hues that might have sprung from dreams. Shrugging out of her coat, Laura moved in for a closer look.

There was a scene from Paris, the Bois de Boulogne. She remembered it from her honeymoon. Looking at it made her eyes swim and her muscles tense. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to look at it until her emotions settled.

An easel was set near the window, where the light would come in and fall on the canvas. She resisted the temptation to go over and steal a look. She already had the sensation that she was trespassing.

What was she going to do? Laura gripped her hands together tightly as she let the despair come. She was stranded, her car wrecked, her money dwindling. And the baby— The baby wasn't going to wait until she made things right.

If they found her now . . .

They weren't going to find her. Deliberately she unlaced her hands. She'd come this far. No one was going to take her baby, now or ever.

She turned as the door to the cabin opened. Gabe shifted the bags he'd carried inside, leaving them jumbled together in a pile. He, too, shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook by the door.

He was as lean as his face had indicated. Though he might have been a bit under six feet, the spare toughness of his build gave the illusion of more height, more power. More like a boxer than an artist, Laura thought as she watched him kick the clinging snow from his boots. More like a man of the outdoors than one who came from graceful mansions and gentle blood.

Despite what she knew of his aristocratic background, he wore flannel and corduroy and looked perfectly suited to the rustic cabin. Laura, who came from humbler stock, felt fussy and out of place in her bulky Irish knit sweater and tailored wool.

“Gabriel Bradley,” she said, and gestured widely toward the walls. “My brain must have been scrambled before. I didn't put it together. I love your work.”

“Thanks.” Bending, he hefted two of the bags.

“Let me help—”

“No.” He strode off into the kitchen, leaving Laura biting her lip.

He wasn't thrilled to have her company, she thought. Then she shrugged. It couldn't be helped. As soon as it was reasonably safe for her to leave, she would leave. Until then . . . Until then Gabriel Bradley, artist of the decade, would have to make do.

It was tempting just to take a seat and passively stay out of his way. Once she would have done just that, but circumstances had changed her. She followed him into the adjoining kitchen. Counting the baby she carried, there were three of them in the little room, and it was filled to capacity.

“At least let me make you something hot to drink.” The ancient two-burner stove looked tricky, but she was determined.

He turned, brushed against her belly and was amazed at the wave of discomfort he felt. And the tug of fascination. “Here's the coffee,” he mumbled, handing her a fresh can.

“Got a pot?”

It was in the sink, which was filled with water that had once been sudsy. He had been trying to soak out the stains from the last time he'd used it. He moved to get it, bumped her again and stepped back.

“Why don't you let me take care of it?” she suggested. “I'll put this stuff away and start the coffee, and you can call a tow truck.”

“Fine. There's milk. Fresh.”

She smiled. “I don't suppose you have any tea.”

“No.”

“Milk's fine, then. Thank you.”

When he left, Laura busied herself in the kitchen. It was too small for it to be complicated. She used her own system in storing the goods since it appeared Gabe had none. She'd only emptied the first bag when he reappeared in the doorway.

“Phone's out.”

“Out?”

“Dead. We lose service a lot when there's a storm.”

“Oh.” Laura stood holding a can of soup. “Is it usually out for long?”

“Depends. Sometimes a couple hours, sometimes a week.”

She lifted a brow. Then she realized that he was perfectly serious. “I guess that puts me in your hands, Mr. Bradley.”

He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “In that case, you'd better call me Gabe.”

Laura frowned down at the can in her hand. When things got bad, you made the best of them. “Want some soup?”

“Yeah. I'll, ah . . . put your things in the bedroom.”

Laura simply nodded, then began to search for a can opener.

She was a piece of work, all right, Gabe decided as he carried Laura's suitcase into his room. Not that he was an expert when it came to women, but he wasn't what anyone would have called a novice, either. She hadn't batted an eye when he'd told her that the phone was dead and they were effectively cut off from the outside world. Or, to put it more precisely, that she was cut off from everyone but him.

Gabe glanced into the streaked mirror over his battered dresser. As far as he knew, no one had ever considered him harmless before. A quick, cocky smile flashed over his face. He hadn't always been harmless, when it came right down to it.

This, of course, was an entirely different situation.

Under other circumstances he might have entertained some healthy fantasies about his unexpected guest. That face. There was something haunting, something indefinable, about that kind of beauty. When a man looked at it, he automatically began to wonder and imagine. Even if she hadn't been carrying a child, the fantasies would have remained only that. Fantasies. He'd never been enthusiastic about flings and one-night stands, and he certainly wasn't in any shape for a relationship. Celibacy had been the order of the day for the past few months. The desire to paint had finally seduced him again. Gabe needed no other love affair.

But as for more practical matters, he did have a guest, a lone woman who was very pregnant—and very secretive. He hadn't missed the fact that she'd told him only her first name and hadn't volunteered any information about who she was and where and why she was traveling. Since it was unlikely that she'd robbed a bank or stolen secrets for terrorists, he wouldn't press too hard right now.

But, given the strength of the storm and the seclusion of the cabin, they were likely to be together for a few days. He was going to find out more about the calm and mysterious Laura.

What was she going to do? Laura stared at the empty plate in her hand and saw a hint of her reflection. How could she get to Denver or Los Angeles or Seattle—or any huge, swallowing city that was far enough away from Boston—when she was trapped here? If only she hadn't felt that urgent need to move on this morning. If she'd stayed in that quiet little motel room another day she might still have had some control over what was happening.

Instead, she was here with a stranger. Not just any stranger, Laura reminded herself. Gabriel Bradley, artist—wealthy, respected artist from a wealthy, respected family. But he hadn't recognized her. Laura was certain of that. At least he had yet to recognize her. What would happen when he did, when he found out who she was running from? For all she knew, the Eagletons might be close family friends of the Bradleys. The gesture of her hand over the mound of her stomach was automatic and protective.

They wouldn't take her baby. No matter how much money and how much power they wielded, they wouldn't take her baby. And if she could manage it they would never find her or the child.

Setting down the plate, she turned her attention to the window. How odd it was to look out and see nothing. It gave her a nice, settled feeling to know that no one could see in, either. She was effectively curtained off from everyone. Or nearly everyone, she corrected, thinking again of Gabe.

Perhaps the storm had been a blessing. When there was no choice, she found it best to look on the bright side. No one could follow her trail in this kind of weather. And who would think of looking for her in some tiny, out-of-the-way cabin in the mountains? It felt safe. She would cling to that.

She heard him moving around in the next room, heard the sound of his boots on the hardwood, the thud of a log being added to the fire. After so many months alone she found even the sound of another human being a comfort.

“Mr. Bradley . . . Gabe?” She stepped through the doorway to see him adjusting the screen in front of the fire. “Could you clear off a table?”

“Clear off a table?”

“So we could eat . . . sitting down.”

“Yeah.”

She disappeared again while he tried to figure out what to do with the paints, brushes, canvas stretchers and general disorder on the picnic table that had once served as a dining area. Annoyed at having his space compromised, he spread his equipment throughout the room.

“I made some sandwiches, too.” Using a bent cookie sheet as a makeshift tray, she carried in bowls and plates and cups. Embarrassed and edgy, Gabe snatched it from her.

“You shouldn't be carrying heavy things.”

Her brows lifted. Surprise came first. No one had ever pampered her. And certainly her life, which had rarely been easy, had been hardest over the past seven months. Then gratitude came, and she smiled. “Thanks, but I'm careful.”

“If you were careful, you'd be in your own bed with your feet up and not snowbound with me.”

“Exercise is important.” But she sat and let him set out the dishes. “And so's food.” With her eyes closed, she breathed in the scents. Hot, simple, fortifying. “I hope I didn't put too much of a dent in your supplies, but once I got started I couldn't stop.”

Gabe picked up half a sandwich that was thick with cheese, crisp bacon and sliced hothouse tomatoes. “I'm not complaining.” The truth was, he'd gotten into the habit of eating right out of the pan over the kitchen sink. Hot food made with more care than hurry tasted one hell of a lot better from a plate.

“I'd like to pay you back, for the bed and the food.”

“Don't worry about it.” He scooped up clam chowder while he studied her. She had a way of sticking out her chin that made him think of pride and will. It made an interesting contrast with the creamy skin and the slender neck.

“That's kind of you, but I prefer paying my own way.”

“This isn't the Hilton.” She wore no jewelry, he noted, not even a plain gold band on her finger. “You cooked the meal, so we'll call it even.”

She wanted to argue—her pride wanted to argue—but the simple truth was, she had very little cash, except for the baby fund she'd scrupulously set aside in the lining of her suitcase. “I'm very grateful.” She sipped at the milk, though she detested it. The scent of his coffee was rich and forbidden. “Have you been here long, in Colorado?”

“Six months, seven, I guess.”

That gave her hope. The timing was good, almost too good. From the looks of the cabin, he didn't spend much time poring over the newspapers, and she hadn't noticed a television. “It must be a wonderful place to paint.”

“So far.”

“I couldn't believe it when I walked in. I recognized your work right away. I've always admired it. In fact, my—someone I knew bought a couple of your pieces. One of them was a painting of a huge, deep forest. It seemed as though you could step right into it and be completely alone.”

He knew the work, and, oddly enough, he'd had the same feeling about it. He couldn't be sure, but he thought it had been sold back east. New York, Boston, perhaps Washington, D.C. If his curiosity about her persisted, it would only take a phone call to his agent to refresh his memory.

“You didn't say where you were traveling from.”

“No.” She continued to eat, though her appetite had fled. How could she have been foolish enough to describe the painting? Tony had bought it, or rather had snapped his fingers and arranged for his lawyers to buy it on his behalf because Laura had admired it. “I've been in Dallas for a while.”

She'd been there almost two months before she'd discovered that the Eagletons' detectives were making discreet inquiries about her.

“You don't sound like a Texan.”

“No, I suppose I don't. That's probably because I've lived all over the country.” That was true enough, and she was able to smile again. “You're not from Colorado.”

“San Francisco.”

“Yes, I remember reading that in an article about you and your work.” She would talk about him. From her experience men were easily distracted when the conversation centered on themselves. “I've always wanted to see San Francisco. It seems like a lovely place, the hills, the bay, the beautiful old houses.” She gave a quick gasp and pressed a hand to her stomach.