Gabriel's Angel (5 page)

The longing leaped inside her, the foolish, impossible longing to be loved, held, desired, not for her face, not for the image a man could see, but for the woman inside.

“I'm getting tired,” she said, managing to keep her voice steady. “I think I'll go to bed now.”

He didn't move out of her way immediately. And his hand lingered. He couldn't have said what kept him there, staring at her, searching the eyes he found so fascinating. Then he stepped back quickly and shoved the door open for her.

“Good night, Gabe.”

“Good night.”

He stayed out in the cold, wondering what was wrong with him. For a moment, damn it, for a great deal longer than a moment, he'd found himself wanting her. Filled with self-disgust, he pulled out a cigarette. A man had to be sinking low to think about making love to a woman who was more than seven months along with another man's child.

But it was a long time before he could convince himself he'd imagined it.

Chapter 3

He wondered what she was thinking. She looked so serene, so quietly content. The pale pink sweater she wore fell into a soft cowl at her throat. Her hair shimmered to her shoulders. Again she wore no jewelry, nothing to draw attention away from her, nothing to draw attention to her.

Gabe rarely used models in his work, because even if they managed to hold the pose for as long as he demanded they began to look bored and restless. Laura, on the other hand, looked as though she could sit endlessly with that same soft smile on her face.

That was part of what he wanted to capture in the portrait. That inner patience, that . . . well, he supposed he could call it a gracious acceptance of time—what had come before, and what was up ahead. He'd never had much patience, not with people, not with his work, not with himself. It was a trait he could admire in her without having the urge to develop it himself.

Yet there was something more, something beyond the utterly feminine beauty and the Madonna-like calm. From time to time he saw a fierceness in her, a warriorlike determination. He could see that she was a woman who would do whatever was necessary to protect what was hers. Judging from her story, all that was hers was the child she carried.

She had more to tell, he mused as he ran the pencil over the pad. The bits and pieces she'd offered had only been given to keep him from asking more. He hadn't asked for more. It wasn't his usual style, once he'd decided an explanation was called for, to accept a partial one. He couldn't quite make himself push for the whole when even the portion she'd given him had plainly cost her so much.

There was still time. The radio continued to squawk about the roads that were closed and the snow that was yet to come. The Rockies could be treacherous in the spring. Gabe estimated it would be two weeks, perhaps three, before a trip could be managed with real safety.

It was odd, but he would have thought the enforced company would annoy him. Instead, he found himself pleased to have had his self-imposed solitude broken. It had been a long time since he'd done a portrait. Maybe too long. But he hadn't been able to face flesh and blood, not since Michael.

In the cabin, cut off from memories and reminders, he'd begun the healing process. In San Francisco he hadn't been able to pick up a brush. Grief had done more than make him weak. For a time it had made him . . . blank.

But here, secluded, solitary, he'd painted landscapes, still lifes, half-remembered dreams and seascapes from old sketches. It had been enough. Not until Laura had he felt the need to paint the human face again.

Once he'd believed in destiny, in a pattern of life that was meant to be even before birth. Michael's death had changed that. From that point, Gabe had had to blame something, someone. It had been easiest, and most painful, to blame himself. Now, sketching Laura, thinking over the odd set of circumstances that had brought her into his life, he began to wonder again.

And what, he asked himself yet again, was she thinking?

“Are you tired?”

“No.” She answered, but she didn't move. He'd stationed a chair by the window, angling it so that she was facing him but still able to look out. The light fell over her, bringing no shadows. “I like to look at the snow. There are tracks in it now, and I wonder what animals might have passed by without us seeing. And I can see the mountains. They look so old and angry. Back east they're more tame, more good-natured.”

He absently murmured his agreement as he studied his sketch. It was good, but it wasn't right, and he wanted to begin working on canvas soon. He set the pad aside and frowned at her. She stared back, patient and—if he wasn't reading her incorrectly—amused. “Do you have anything else to wear? Something off-the-shoulder, maybe?”

The amusement was even more evident now. “Sorry, my wardrobe's a bit limited at the moment.”

He rose and began to pace, to the fire, to the window, back to the table. When he strode over to take her face in his hand and turn it this way and that, she sat obligingly. After three days of posing, she was used to it. She might have been an arrangement of flowers, Laura thought, or a bowl of fruit. It was as if that one moment of awareness on the snow-covered porch had never happened. She'd already convinced herself that she'd imagined that look in his eyes—and, more, her response to it.

He was the artist. She was the clay. And she'd been there before.

“You have a completely feminine face,” he began, talking more to himself than to her. “Alluring and yet composed, and soft, even with the angular shape and those cheekbones. It's not threatening, and yet, it's utterly distracting. This—” his thumb brushed casually over her full lower lip “—says sex, even while your eyes promise love and devotion. And the fact that you're ripe—”

“Ripe?” She laughed, and the hands that had clenched in her lap relaxed again.

“Isn't that what pregnancy is? It only adds to the fascination. There's a promise and a fulfillment and—despite education and progress—a compelling mystery to a woman with child. Like an angel.”

“How?”

As he spoke, he began to fuss with her hair, drawing it back, piling it up, letting it fall again. “We see angels as ethereal creatures, mystic, above human desires and flaws, but the fact is, they were human once.”

His words appealed to her, made her smile. “Do you believe in angels?”

His hand was still in her hair, but he'd forgotten, totally forgotten, the practical reason for it. “Life wouldn't be worth much if you didn't.” She had the hair of an angel, shimmery-blond, cloud-soft. Feeling suddenly awkward, he drew his hand away and tucked it in the pocket of his baggy corduroys.

“Would you like to take a break?” she asked him. Her hands were balled in her lap again.

“Yeah. Rest for an hour. I need to think this through.” He stepped back automatically when she rose. When he wasn't working, he took great care not to come into physical contact with her. It was disturbing how much he wanted to touch her. “Put your feet up.” When she lifted a brow at that, he shifted uncomfortably. “It recommended it in that book you leave lying around. I figured it wouldn't hurt for me to glance through it, under the circumstances.”

“You're very kind.”

“Self-preservation.” Things happened to him when she smiled like that. Things he recognized but didn't want to acknowledge. “The more I make sure you take care of yourself, the less chance there is of you going into labor before the roads are clear.”

“I've got more than a month,” she reminded him. “But I appreciate you worrying about me—about us.”

“Put your feet up,” he repeated. “I'll get you some milk.”

“But I—”

“You've only had one glass today.” With an impatient gesture, he motioned her to the sofa before he walked into the kitchen.

With a little sigh of relief, Laura settled back against the cushions. Putting her feet up wasn't as easy as it once had been, but she managed to prop them on the edge of the coffee table. The heat from the fire radiated toward her, making her wish she could curl up in front of it. If she did, she thought wryly, it would take a crane to haul her back up again.

He was being so kind, Laura thought as she turned her head toward the sound of Gabe rummaging in the kitchen. He didn't like her to remind him of it, but he was. No one had ever treated her quite like this—as an equal, yet as someone to be protected. As a friend, she thought, without tallying a list of obligations, a list of debts that had to be paid. Whether he listed them or not, someday, when she was able, she'd find a way to pay him back. Someday.

She could see the future if she closed her eyes and thought calm thoughts. She'd have a little apartment somewhere in the city. Any city. There would be a room for the baby, something in sunny yellows and glossy whites, with fairy-tale prints on the walls. She'd have a rocking chair she could sit in with the baby during the long, quiet nights, when the rest of the world was asleep.

And she wouldn't be alone anymore.

Opening her eyes, she saw Gabe standing over her. She wanted, badly, to reach up, to take his hands and draw in some of the strength and confidence she felt radiating from him. She wanted, more, for him to run his thumb along her lip again, slowly, gently, as though she were a woman, rather than a thing to be painted.

Instead, she reached up to take the glass of milk he held. “After the baby's born and I finish nursing, I'm never going to drink a drop of milk again.”

“This is the last of the fresh,” he told her. “Tomorrow you go on powdered and canned.”

“Oh, joy.” Grimacing, she downed half the contents of the glass. “I pretend it's coffee, you know. Strong, black coffee.” She sipped again. “Or, if I'm feeling reckless, champagne. French, in fluted crystal.”

“It's too bad I don't have any wineglasses handy. It would help the illusion. Are you hungry?”

“It's a myth about eating for two, and if I gain much more weight I'll begin to moo.” Content, she settled back again. “That painting of Paris . . . did you do it here?”

He glanced over at the work. So she'd been there, he thought. It was a moody, almost surreal study of the Bois de Boulogne. “Yes, from old sketches and memory. When were you there?”

“I didn't say I'd been to Paris.”

“You wouldn't have recognized it otherwise.” He took the empty glass out of her hand and set it aside. “The more secretive you are, Laura, the more it makes me want to dig.”

“A year ago,” she said stiffly. “I spent two weeks there.”

“How did you like it?”

“Paris?” She ordered herself to relax. It had been a lifetime ago, almost long enough that she could imagine it had all happened to someone else. “It's a beautiful city, like an old, old woman who still knows how to flirt. The flowers were blooming, and the smells were incredible. It rained and rained, for three days, and you could sit and watch the black umbrellas hurrying by and the blossoms opening up.”

Instinctively he put a hand over hers to calm the agitated movement of her fingers. “You weren't happy there.”

“Paris in the spring?” She concentrated on making her hands go limp. “Only a fool wouldn't be happy there.”

“The baby's father . . . was he with you there?”

“Why does it matter?”

It shouldn't have mattered. But now, whenever he looked at the painting, he would think of her. And he had to know. “Did you love him?”

Had she? Laura looked back at the fire, but the only answers were within herself. Had she loved Tony? Her lips curved a little. Yes, she had, she had loved the Tony she'd imagined him to be. “Very much. I loved him very much.”

“How long have you been alone?”

“I'm not.” She laid a hand on her stomach. When she felt the answering movement, her smile widened. Taking Gabe's hand, she pressed it against her. “Feel that? Incredible, isn't it? Someone's in there.”

He felt the stirring beneath his hand, gentle at first, then with a punch that surprised him. Without thinking, he moved closer. “That felt like a left jab. Makes you feel as though it's fighting to get out.” He knew the feeling, the impatience, the frustration at being trapped in one world while you longed for another. “How does it feel from the other side?”

“Alive.” Laughing, she left her hand over his. “In Dallas they put a monitor on, and I could hear the baby's heartbeat. It was so fast, so impatient. Nothing in the world ever sounded so wonderful. And I think . . .”

But he was looking at her now, deeply, intently. Their hands were still joined, their bodies just brushing. Even as the life inside her quickened, so did her pulse. The warmth, the intimacy, of the moment washed over her, leaving her breathless and full of needs.

He wanted to hold her, badly. The urge to gather her close and just hold on was so sharp, so intense that he hurt. He dreamed of her every night when he struggled for sleep on the floor of the spare room. In his dreams they were curled in bed together, with her breath warm on his cheek and her hair tangled in his hands. And when he woke from the dreams he told himself he was mad. He told himself that again now and moved aside.

Though they were no longer touching, he could feel, as well as hear, her long, quiet sigh.

“I'd like to work some more, if you're up to it.”

“Of course.” She wanted to weep. That was natural, she told herself. Pregnant women wept easily. Their emotions ran on the surface, to be bruised and battered without effort, and often without cause.

“I've got something in mind. Hold on a minute.”

She waited, still sitting, while he went into the spare room. Moments later he came back holding a navy blue shirt.

“Put this on. I think the contrast between the man's shirt and your face might be the answer.”

“All right.” Laura went into the bedroom and stripped off the big pink sweater. She started to draw an arm through the sleeve and then she caught his scent. It was there, clinging to the heavy cotton. Tough, and unapologetically sexual. Man. Unable to resist, she rubbed her cheek over it. The material was soft. The scent was not, but somehow even the scent of him made her feel safe. And yet, foolish as it seemed, it made her feel a dull, deep tremor of desire.

Wasn't it wrong to want as a woman, to want Gabe as a man, when she carried such a responsibility? But it didn't seem wrong when she felt so close to him. He had sorrows, too. She could see them, sense them. Perhaps it was that common ground, and their isolation, that made her feel as though she'd known him, cared about him, for so long.

With a sigh, she slipped into the shirt. What did she know about her own feelings? The first, the only, time she'd trusted them completely had brought misery. Whatever emotions Gabe stirred in her, she would be wise to keep gratitude in the forefront.