Gabriel's Angel (23 page)

Her lips curved. “Will you do it?”

“Yes.” He kissed her while she was still smiling. “Yes, it's time. I've known that, but I haven't been able to take the last step. I'll have Marion start the arrangements.” She stiffened, and though the change was only slight he drew her away to study her face. “Problem?”

“No, of course not.”

“You do a lot of things well, angel. Lying isn't one of them.”

“Gabe, nothing could please me more than you going ahead with this. That's the truth.”

“But?”

“Nothing. All of this has really put me behind schedule. I need to give Michael his bath.”

“He'll hold a minute.” He kept her with him by doing no more than running his hands down her arms. “I know there's some tension between you and Marion. I've already told you there's nothing between us but business.”

“I understand that. I've told you what I would have done if I thought otherwise.”

“Yes, you did.” Amusement moved over his face. She would have packed her bags and headed for the door, but she would have gotten no more than five feet. “So what's the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

“I'd prefer not going to Marion with this.”

“So would I.” Her chin came up. “Don't push this, Gabe. And don't push me.”

“Well, well.” He brought his hands to her shoulders as he nodded. “It's a rare thing for you to get that look on your face. Whenever you do, I have this deep-seated urge to drag you down on the floor and let loose.” When color flooded her face, he laughed and drew her closer.

“Don't laugh at me.” She would have twisted away, but his hands were firm.

“Sorry. I wasn't, really, more at the situation.” He thought that perhaps delicacy was called for, but then he rejected the idea. “Want to fight?”

“Not at the moment.”

“If you can't lie better than that, we'll have to keep you out of poker games,” he murmured, and watched her eyes cool. “I overheard your discussion with Marion at the gallery.”

“Then you obviously don't need me to spell things out for you. She believes I'm going to hold you back, prevent you from reaching your full potential, and she took steps to stop it. I realize that the Eagletons would have found us, probably in a matter of days, but I won't forgive her for calling them. The fact that you're associated with her gallery means I have to be polite to her in public, but that's the extent of it.”

His hands had tightened on her shoulders, and all amusement had been wiped from his face. “You're telling me that Marion called the Eagletons?”

“You just said you'd heard us, so—”

“I hadn't heard that much.” Deliberately he relaxed his hands, then took a step back. “Why didn't you explain this to me before so that we could have told her to go to hell?”

“I didn't think that you—” She stopped and stared at him. “Would you have?”

“Damn it, Laura, what more do I have to do to convince you that I'm committed totally to you and Michael?”

“But she said—”

“What difference does it make what she said? It's what I say, isn't it?”

“Yes.” She folded her hands but didn't lower her gaze. It was what he said. And not once had he ever said he loved her. “I didn't want to interfere when it came to your work.”

“And I won't tolerate Marion interfering in my life. I'll handle it.”

“How?”

Exasperated, he tugged his hand through his hair. “One minute you talk of my work as though I had an obligation to mankind to share it, and the next you act as though I'd have to go begging to find another gallery.”

“I didn't mean . . . You'll take your paintings out of Marion's gallery?”

“Good God,” he muttered, and took another turn around the room. “Obviously we need to talk—or maybe talking's not what's called for.” He took a step toward her, then swore when the phone rang. “Stay here.” With that he turned on his heel and strode out.

Laura let out a long breath. He'd said something about dragging her to the floor and letting loose. That was what had been in his eyes a moment before. And what would that have proved?

She moved to the crib to hand a fretful Michael his favorite rabbit. It would only have proved that he wanted and needed her. She had no doubts about that. Why shouldn't she be surprised that he would cut himself off from Marion for her? But not for her, really, Laura thought as she leaned over to nuzzle the baby. For himself. Marion had made the mistake of interfering.

Reasons didn't matter, she told herself. Results did. A great deal had been accomplished here this afternoon. He'd finally trusted her with his feelings about his brother. She'd been able to say the right things to convince him to show his work, and Marion was out of their lives.

“That should be enough for one day,” she murmured to Michael. But there was still an ache in her heart.

She wouldn't think about the Eagletons.

“He needs us, Michael.” That, too, should have been enough. Perhaps they were a replacement for someone he had loved and lost, but he had already given the baby unconditional love. He had given her a promise of his fidelity. That was more than she'd ever had, more than she had come to believe she would ever have. And yet it wasn't enough.

“Laura.”

She turned, annoyed because she was feeling weepy and dejected. “What is it?”

“That was Quartermain on the phone.” He saw the fear come first, then saw it vanish to be replaced by determination. “It's over,” he told her before she could ask. “The Eagletons' attorney contacted him a few minutes ago.”

“Over?” She could only whisper. The strength she'd built up, layer by layer, began to slip.

“They've pulled back. There'll be no custody suit. Not now, not ever. They don't want anything to do with the baby.”

“Oh, God.” She covered her face with her hands. The tears came, but she wasn't ashamed of them, not even when Gabe gathered her close. “Is he sure? If they change their minds—”

“He's sure. Listen to me.” He drew her back, just a little. He wasn't entirely certain how she would feel about the rest. “They're going to file papers claiming that Tony wasn't Michael's biological father. They want him cut off legally from any future claim to the Eagleton estate.”

“But she doesn't believe that.”

“She wants to believe that.”

She closed her eyes while relief and regret poured through her. “I would have tried to be fair, to let them see Michael. At least I want to believe I would have tried.”

“He'll lose his heritage.”

“The money?” When she opened her eyes, they were dark and damp. “I don't think that will matter to him. It doesn't to me. As far as family goes, he already has one. Gabe, I don't know how to thank you.”

“Then don't. You were the one who stood up to her.”

“I did.” She brushed the tears away, and then there was laughter as she threw her arms around him. “Yes, I did. No one's ever going to take him away from us. I want to celebrate. To go dancing, have a party.” She laughed again and squeezed him hard. “After I sleep for a week.”

“It's a date.” He found her lips with his, then held them there as she melted into him. Another beginning, he thought, and this time they'd take the first step properly. “I want to call my parents and let them know.”

“Yes, right away.” She pressed against him for a moment longer. “I'll give Michael his bath, and then we'll be down.”

It was nearly an hour before she came downstairs, bringing a more contented Michael with her. The baby, fresh from his bath, was awake and ready to be entertained. Because her jeans had gotten wet, she'd changed into a pale lavender shirt and slacks. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and both she and Michael smelled of soap and soft talc. Gabe met her at the foot of the stairs.

“Here, let me have him.” He curled his arm around the baby and tickled his belly. “Looks like you're ready to go field a few grounders.”

“So do you.” Envious, Laura muffled a yawn. “You haven't had any more sleep than I have. How do you manage it?”

“Three decades of clean living—and a body accustomed to all-night poker games.”

“Your father wants to play. Maybe Michael could sit in.”

“Maybe.” He tipped her chin up with his finger. “You really are ready to drop, aren't you?”

“I've never felt better in my life.”

“And you can barely keep your eyes open.”

“That's nothing five straight hours of sleep wouldn't fix.”

“I've got something to show you. Afterward, why don't you go up and take a nap? Michael and I can entertain ourselves.” His thumb traced along her jawline. Until Laura, he hadn't known that the scent of soap and powder could be arousing. “Once you've rested, we can have our private celebration.”

“I'll go now.”

He laughed and caught her arm before she could start back up. “Come see first.”

“Okay, I'm too weak to argue.”

“I'll keep that in mind for later.” With the baby in one arm and the other around Laura, he walked into the parlor.

She'd seen the painting before, from the first brush strokes to the last. Yet it seemed different now, here, hung over the mantel. In the gallery, she had seen it as a beautiful piece of work, something to be studied by art students and patrons, a thing to be commented on and discussed, dissected and critiqued. Here, in the parlor, in the late afternoon, it was a personal statement, a part of all three of them.

She hadn't realized just how much she'd resented seeing it in Marion's gallery. Nor had she known that seeing it here would make her feel, as nothing else had, that she had finally come home.

“It's beautiful,” she murmured.

He understood. It wasn't vanity or self-importance. “I've never done anything in my life that compares to this. I doubt I will again. Sit down, will you?”

Something in his tone had her glancing over at him before she settled on the couch. “I didn't know you intended to bring it home. I know you've had offers.”

“I never had any intention of selling it. I always meant it for here.” Resting the baby on his hip, he walked over to the portrait. “As long as I've lived here, I haven't done anything, or found anything, that I wanted to hang in that spot. It goes back to fate again. If I hadn't been in Colorado, if it hadn't been snowing, if you hadn't been running. It took what had happened to you, and what had happened to me, to bring us together and make this.”

“When you were painting it, I wondered why you seemed so driven. I understand now.”

“Do you?” With a half smile, he turned back to her. “I wonder just what you understand, angel. It wasn't until a little while ago that I realized you have no idea what I feel for you.”

“I know you need me, me and Michael. Because of what happened to all of us, we're able to make things better.”

“And that's it?” He wondered if he was pushing too far, but he thought that if he didn't push now it might be too late. “You said you loved me. I know gratitude's a big part of that, but I want to know if there's anything more.”

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to look.” He held out a hand. When she didn't move, he walked over to her and drew her to her feet. “Look at the portrait and tell me what you see.”

“Myself.”

It seemed to be the day for showdowns, Gabe thought. He quickly carried the sleeping Michael upstairs to the nursery and put him in the crib. Going back down to Laura, he took her by the shoulders and, holding her in front of him, made her face the portrait. “Tell me what you see.”

“I see myself as you saw me then.” Why was her heart hammering? “I seem a little too vulnerable, a little too sad.”

Impatience had him giving her a quick shake. “You don't see enough.”

“I want to see strength,” she blurted out. “I think I do. And I see a woman alone who's ready to protect what's hers.”

“When you look at her eyes. Look at them, Laura, and tell me what you see.”

“A woman falling in love.” She shut her own. “You must have known.”

“No.” He didn't turn her toward him. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her so that they both continued to face the portrait. “No, I didn't know, because I kept telling myself I was painting what I wanted to see. And what I was feeling myself.”

Her heart leaped into her throat and throbbed there. Whatever he could feel, he could paint. That had been her own conclusion. “What are you feeling?”

“Can't you see it?”

“I don't want to see it there.” She turned to grip the front of his shirt. “I want to hear it.”

He wasn't sure he had the words. Words came so much less easily than emotion. He could paint his moods, and he could shout them, but it was difficult to speak them quietly when they mattered so much.

He touched her face, her hair, then her hand. “Almost from the first you pulled at me in a way no one ever had before and no one ever will again. I thought I was crazy. You were pregnant, totally dependent on me, grateful for my help.”

“I was grateful. I'll always be grateful.”

“Damn it” was all he could manage as he turned away.

“I'm sorry you feel that way.” She was calm now, absolutely, beautifully calm, as he glared at her. She'd remember him like this always, she thought, with his hair tousled from his hands, a gray shirt with the sleeves shoved up to the elbows and his face full of impatience. “Because I intend to be grateful for the rest of my life. And that has nothing to do with my intending to love you for the rest of my life.”

“I want to be sure of that.”

“Be sure. You didn't paint what you wanted to see, you never do. You paint the truth.” She took one step toward him, the most important step she'd ever taken. “I've given you the truth, Gabe. Now I have to ask for it. Are your feelings for me tied up in that portrait, in that image, are they an effect of your love for Michael, or are they for me?”