Gabriel's Angel Read online

  As if to soothe, she leaned into him and lifted a hand to his cheek. Understanding. Acceptance.

  Her touch triggered the need crawling inside him, and his arms tightened and his mouth crushed down on hers. She responded with a moan that he barely heard, with a shudder that he barely felt. Tense, hungry, he fell victim to her as much as to his own demands.

  He had wanted before, casually and desperately and all the degrees in between. Why, then, did this seem like a completely new experience? He had held women before, known their softness, tasted their sweetness. But he had never known a softness, never experienced a sweetness, like Laura’s.

  He took his mouth on a slow, seeking journey over her face, along her jawline, down her throat, drinking in, then devouring. His hands, long and limber, slipped under her full shirt, then roamed upward. At first the slender line of her back was enough, the smooth skin and the quick tremors all he required. Then the need to touch, to possess, grew sharper. As his mouth came back to hers, he slid his hand around to cup, then claim, her breast.

  The first touch made her catch her breath, pulling air in quickly, then letting it out again in a long, unsteady sigh. How could she have known, even blinded by love and longings, how desperately she’d need to have his hands on her? This was what she wanted, to be his in every way, in all ways. The confusion, the doubts, the fears, drained away. No memories intruded when he held her like this. No whispers of the past taunted her. There was only him, and the promise of a new life and an enduring love.

  Her knees were trembling so she braced her body against his, arching in an invitation so instinctive that only he recognized it.

  The room smelled of paint and was bright with the sun that streamed through the uncurtained windows. It was empty and quiet. He could fantasize about pulling her to the floor, tugging at her clothes until they were skin-to-skin on the polished hardwood. He could imagine taking her in the sun-washed room until they were both exhausted and replete.

  With another woman he might have done so without giving a thought to where or when, and little more to how. But not with Laura.

  Churning, he drew her away from him. Her eyes were clouded. Her mouth was soft and full. With a restraint he hadn’t known he possessed, Gabe swore only in his mind.

  “I have work to do.”

  She was floating, drifting on a mist so fine it could only be felt, not seen. At his words, she began the quick, confused journey back to earth. “What?”

  “I have work to do,” he repeated, stepping carefully away from her. He detested himself for taking things so far when he knew she was physically unable to cope with his demands. “I’ll be in the studio if you need me.”

  If she needed him? Laura thought dimly as his footsteps echoed down the hall. Hadn’t she just shown him how much she needed him? It wasn’t possible that he hadn’t felt it, that he hadn’t understood it. With an oath, she turned and walked to the window. There she huddled on the small, hard seat and stared down at the garden, which was just beginning to bloom.

  What was there about her, she wondered, that made men look at her as a thing to be taken or rejected at will? Did she appear so weak, so malleable? She curled her hands into fists as frustration spread through her. She wasn’t weak, not any longer, and a long time, in some ways a lifetime, had passed since she had been malleable. She wasn’t a young girl caught up in fairy-tale lies now. She was a woman, a mother, with responsibilities and ambitions.

  Perhaps she loved, and perhaps this time would be as unwise a love as before. But she wouldn’t be used, she wouldn’t be ignored, and she wouldn’t be molded.

  Talk was cheap, Laura thought as she propped her chin on her knees. Doing something about it was a little costlier. She should go in to Gabe now and make herself clear. She cast a look at the door, then turned back to the window. She didn’t have the courage.

  That had always been her problem. She could say what she would or would not do, but when it came down to acting on it she found passivity easier than action. There had been a time in her life when she’d believed that the passive way was best for her. That had been until her marriage to Tony had fallen viciously apart. She’d done something then, Laura reminded herself, or had begun to do something, then had allowed herself to be pressured and persuaded to erase it.

  It had been like that all her life. As a child she hadn’t had a choice. She’d been told to live here or live there, and she had. Each house had had its own sets of rules and values, and she’d had to conform. Like one of those rubber dolls, she thought now, that you could bend and twist into any position you liked.

  Too much of the child had remained with the woman, until the woman had been with child.

  The only positive action she felt she’d ever taken in her life had been to protect the baby. And she had done it, Laura reminded herself. It had been terrifying and hard, but she hadn’t backed down. Didn’t that mean that buried beneath years of quiet compliance was the strength she’d always wanted to have? She had to believe that and, if she did, to act on it.

  Loving Gabe didn’t mean, couldn’t mean, that she would sit quietly by while he made decisions for her. It was time to take a stand.

  Rising, she walked out of the empty nursery and started down the hall. With each step her resolve wavered and had to be shored up again. At the door to his studio, she hesitated again, rubbing the heel of her hand on her chest, where the ache of uncertainty lodged. Taking one last breath, she opened the door and walked in.

  He was by the long bank of windows, a brush in his hand, working on one of the paintings that had been stacked half-finished against the wall of the cabin. She remembered it. It was a snow scene, very stark and lonely and somehow appealing. The whites and cold blues and silvers gave a sense of challenge.

  Laura was glad of it. A sense of challenge was precisely what she needed.

  He hadn’t heard her come in, so intent was he on his work. There were no sweeping strokes or bold slashes now, only a delicacy. He was adding details so minute, so exact, that she could almost hear the winter wind.

  “Gabe?” It was amazing how much courage it could take to say a name.

  He stopped immediately, and when he turned the annoyance on his face was very apparent. Interruptions were never tolerated here. Living alone, he hadn’t had to tolerate them.

  “What is it?” He clipped the words off, and he didn’t set down his brush or move from the painting. It was obvious that he intended to continue exactly where he’d left off the moment he’d nudged her out of his way.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  She nearly said yes, but then she brought herself up short. “No.” She left the door open in case the baby should cry out and walked to the center of the room.

  Her stomach twisted, knotted. Her chin came up. “Or, if it can, I don’t want it to.”

  He lifted a brow. He’d heard that tone in her voice only a handful of times in the weeks they’d been together. “All right, but make it fast, will you? I want to finish this.”

  Her temper flared too quickly to surprise her. “Fine, then, I’ll sum it up in one sentence. If I’m going to be your wife, I want you to treat me like one.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She was too angry to see that he was stunned, and too angry to recognize her own shock at her words. “No, you don’t. You’ve never begged anyone’s pardon in your life. You don’t have to. You do exactly what suits you. If that means being kind, you can be the kindest man I’ve ever known. If it means being arrogant, you take that just as far.”

  With deliberate care, he set his brush down. “If there’s a point to this, Laura, I’m missing it.”

  “Do you want me or don’t you?”

  He only stared at her. If she continued to stand in the pool of light, her eyes dark and defiant, her cheeks flushed with color, he might beg. “That’s the point?” he said steadily.

  “You tell me you want me, then you ignore me. You
kiss me, then you walk away.” She dragged a hand through her hair. When her fingers tangled with the ribbon that held it back, she tugged it out in annoyance. Pale and fragile, her hair fell around her shoulders. “I realize the main reason we’re married is because of Michael, but I want to know where I stand. Am I to be a guest here who’s alternately indulged and ignored, or am I to be your wife?”

  “You are my wife.” With his own temper rising, he pushed himself off his stool. “And it’s not a matter of me ignoring you. I’ve simply got a lot of work to catch up on.”

  “You don’t work twenty-four hours a day. At night—” Her courage began to fail. She thrust out the rest of the words. “Why won’t you make love with me? ”

  It was fortunate that he’d set his brush down, or else he might have snapped it in half. “Do you expect performance on demand, Laura?”

  Embarrassed color flooded her cheeks. That had once been expected of her, and it shamed her more than she could say to think she’d demanded it. “No. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I only thought it was best that you know how I felt.” She took a step back, then turned to go. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Laura.” He preferred, much preferred, her anger to the humiliation he’d seen. And caused. “Wait.” He started after her when she whirled around.

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “All right.” There was still fire in her, he saw, and he wasn’t entirely sure he should be relieved. “I’ll just give you a more honest explanation.”

  “It isn’t necessary.” She started toward the door again, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her around. He saw it and cursed at it—the instant fear that leaped into her eyes.

  “Damn it, don’t look at me like that. Don’t ever look at me like that.” Without his realizing it, his fingers had tightened on her arm. When she winced, he released her, dropping his hands to his side. “I can’t make myself over for you, Laura. I’ll yell when I need to yell and fight when I need to fight, but I told you once before, and I’ll say it again. I don’t hit women.”

  The fear had risen, a bitter bile in her throat. It was detestable. She waited for it to pass before she spoke. “I don’t expect you to, but I can’t make myself over for you, either. Even if I could, I don’t know what you want. I know I should be grateful to you.”

  “The hell with that.”

  “I should be grateful,” she continued, calm again. “And I am, but I’ve found out something about myself this past year. I’ll never be anyone’s doormat ever again. Not even yours.”

  “Do you think that’s what I want?”

  “I can’t know what you want, Gabe, until you know yourself.” She’d gone this far, Laura told herself, and she would finish. “Right from the beginning you expected me to trust you. But after everything we’ve been through you still haven’t been able to make yourself trust me. If we’re ever going to be able to make this marriage work you’re going to have to stop looking at me as a good deed and start seeing me as a person.”

  “You have no idea how I see you.”

  “No, I probably don’t.” She managed a smile. “Maybe when I do it’ll be easier for both of us.” She heard the baby crying and glanced down the hall. “He doesn’t seem to be able to settle today.”

  “I’ll get him in a minute. He can’t be hungry again. Wait.” If she could be honest, he told himself, then so could he. He put a hand on her arm to hold her there. “It’s easy enough to clear up one misunderstanding. I haven’t made love with you, not because I haven’t wanted to, but because it’s too soon.”

  “Too soon?”

  “For you.”

  She started to shake her head. Then his meaning became clear. “Gabe, Michael’s over four weeks old.”

  “I know how old he is. I was there.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “Damn it, Laura, I saw what you went through. How hard it was on you. However I feel, it simply isn’t possible for me to act on it until I know you’re fully recovered.”

  “I had a baby, not a terminal illness.” She let out a huff of breath, but she found it wasn’t annoyance or even amusement she felt. It was pleasure, the rare and wonderful pleasure of being cared for. “I feel fine. I am fine. In fact, I’ve probably never been better in my life.”

  “Regardless of how you feel, you’ve just had a baby. From what I’ve read—”

  “You’ve read about this, too?”

  That infuriated him—that wide-eyed wonder and the trace of humor in her eyes. “I don’t intend to touch you,” he said stiffly, “until I’m sure you’re fully recovered.”

  “What do you want, a doctor’s certificate?”

  “More or less.” He started to touch her cheek, then thought better of it. “I’ll see to Michael.”

  He left her standing in the hall, unsure whether she was angry or amused or delighted. All that she was sure of was that she was feeling, and her feelings were all for Gabe.

  Chapter Eight

  “I can’t believe how fast he’s growing.” Feeling very grandmotherly but sporting a sleek new hairstyle, Amanda sat in the bentwood rocker in Michael’s new nursery and cuddled the baby.

  “He’s making up for being premature.” Still not quite certain how she felt about her mother-in-law, Laura continued to fold tiny clothes that were fresh from the laundry. “We had our checkup today, and the doctor said Michael was healthy as a horse.” She pressed a sleeper to her cheek. It was soft, almost as soft as her son’s skin. “I wanted to thank you for recommending Dr. Sloane. She’s wonderful.”

  “Good. But I don’t need a pediatrician to tell me this child’s healthy. Look at this grip.” Amanda chuckled as Michael curled his fingers around hers, but she stopped short of allowing him to suck on her sapphire ring. “He has your eyes, you know.”

  “Does he?” Delighted, Laura moved to stand over them. The baby smelled of talc—Amanda of Paris. “It’s too early to tell, I know, but I’d hoped he did.”

  “No doubt about it.” Amanda continued to rock as she studied her daughter-in-law. “And what about your checkup? How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” Laura thought about the slip of paper she’d tucked into the top drawer of her dresser.

  “Looking a bit tired to me.” There wasn’t any sympathy in the voice; it was brusque and matter-of-fact. “Haven’t you done anything about getting some help?”

  Laura’s spine straightened automatically. “I don’t need any help.”

  “That’s absurd, of course. With a house this size, a demanding husband and a new baby, you can use all the help you can get, but suit yourself.” Michael began to coo, pleasing Amanda. “Talk to Gran, sweetheart. Tell Gran just how it is.” The baby responded with more gurgles. “Listen to that. Before long you’ll have plenty to say for yourself. Just make sure ‘My gran’s beautiful’ is one of the first. There’s a sweet boy.” She dropped a kiss on his brow before looking up at Laura. “I’d say a change is in order here, and I’m more than happy to leave that to you.” With what she considered a grandmother’s privilege, Amanda handed the wet baby to Laura. She continued to sit as Laura took Michael to the changing table.

  There was a great deal she’d have liked to say. Amanda was accustomed to voicing her opinions loud and clear—and, if necessary, beating anyone within reach over the head with it. It chafed a bit to hold back, but she’d learned enough in the past few weeks about the Eagletons and about Laura’s life with them. Treading carefully, she tried a new tactic.

  “Gabe’s spending a lot of time at the gallery.”

  “Yes. I think he’s nearly decided to go ahead with a new showing.” Almost drowning in love, Laura leaned over to nuzzle Michael’s neck.

  “Have you been there?”

  “The gallery? No, I haven’t.”

  Amanda tapped a rounded, coral-tipped nail on the arm of the rocker. “I’d think you’d be interested in Gabe’s work.”

  “Of course I am.” She held Michael over her head, and he bega
n to bubble and smile. “I just haven’t thought it wise to take Michael in and interrupt.”

  It was on the tip of Amanda’s tongue to remind Laura that Michael had grandparents who would delight in having him to themselves for a few hours. Again she bit the words back. “I’m sure Gabe wouldn’t mind. He’s devoted to the boy.”

  “Yes, he is.” Laura retied the ribbons on Michael’s pale blue booties. “But I also know he needs some time to organize his work, his career.” She handed her son a small cloth bunny, and he stuck it happily in his mouth. “Do you know why Gabe is hesitating about a showing?”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “No, I—I didn’t want to pressure him about it.”

  “A little pressure might be just what he needs.”

  Frowning, Laura turned. “Why?”

  “It has to do with Michael, my son Michael. I’d prefer it if you asked Gabe the rest.”

  “They were close?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. She’d learned it hurt less to remember than to try to forget. “They were very close, though they were very different. He was devastated when Michael was killed. I believe the time in the mountains helped Gabe get back his art. And I believe you and the baby helped him get back his heart.”

  “If that’s true, I’m glad. He’s helped me more than I can ever repay.”

  Amanda gave Laura an even look. “Payments aren’t necessary between a husband and wife.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Are you happy?”

  Stalling, Laura laid the baby in the crib and wound the musical mobile so that he could shake his fists and kick at it. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “That was my next question.”

  “I’m very happy.” She went back to folding and storing baby clothes. “It was nice of you to visit, Amanda. I know how busy your schedule is.”

  “Don’t think you can politely show me out the door before I’m ready to go.”

  Laura turned and saw the faint, amused smile on Amanda’s lips. Bad manners were enough out of character for her to make her flush. “I’m sorry.”