Page 17 of Gabriel's Angel

He wanted to play out the fantasy, to draw her up into his arms and take her to bed. To lie with her, to slip his shirt from her and feel her skin against his own. To have her touch him, hold on to him. Trust him.

The war inside him raged on. She wasn’t merely a woman, she was a woman who was carrying a child. And growing inside her was not merely a child, but the child of another man, one she had loved.

She wasn’t his to love. He wasn’t hers to trust. Still, she pulled at him, her secrets, her eyes, eyes that said much, much more than her words, and her beauty, which she didn’t seem to understand went far beyond the shape and texture of her face.

So he had to stop, until he resolved within himself exactly what he wanted—and until she trusted him enough to tell him the whole truth.

He would have drawn her away from him, but she pressed her face into his shoulder. “Please don’t say anything, just for a minute.”

There were tears in her voice, and they left him more shaken than the kiss had. The tug-of-war increased, and finally he lifted a hand to stroke her hair. The baby turned, moving inside her, against him, and he wondered what in God’s name he was going to do.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was under control again, but she didn’t let go. How could she have known how badly she needed to be held, when there had been so few times in her life when anyone had bothered? “I don’t mean to cling.”

“You’re not.”

“Well.” Drawing herself up straight, she stepped back. There were no tears, but her eyes glimmered with the effort it took to hold them in. “You were going to say that you didn’t mean for that to happen, but it’s all right.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said evenly. “But that’s not an apology.”

“Oh.” A little nonplussed, she braced a hand on the back of the chair. “I suppose what I meant is that I don’t want you to feel— I don’t want you to think that I— Hell.” With that, she gave in and sat. “I’m trying to say that I’m not upset that you kissed me and that I understand.”

“Good.” He felt better, much better than he’d thought he would. Casually he dragged over another chair and straddled it. “What do you understand, Laura?”

She’d thought he would let it go at that, take the easy way out. She struggled to say what she felt without saying too much. “That you felt a little sorry for me, and involved a bit, because of the situation, and the painting, too.” Why couldn’t she relax again? And why was he looking at her that way? “I don’t want you to think that I misunderstood. I would hardly expect you to be...” The ground was getting shakier by the minute. She was ready to shut up entirely, but he quirked a brow and gestured with his hands, inviting her, almost challenging her, to finish.

“I realize you wouldn’t be attracted to me—physically, that is—under the circumstances. And I don’t want you to think that I interpreted what just happened as anything other than a—a sort of kindness.”

“That’s funny.” As if he were considering the idea, Gabe reached up and scratched his chin. “You don’t look stupid. I’m attracted to you, Laura, and there’s a part of that attraction that’s very, very physical. Making love with you may not be possible under the circumstances, but that doesn’t mean that the desire to do so isn’t there.”

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but ended up just lifting her hands and then letting them fall again.

“The fact that you’re carrying a child is only part of the reason I can’t make love with you. The other, though not as obvious, is just as important. I need the story, Laura, your story. All of it.”

“I can’t.”

“Afraid?”

She shook her head. Her eyes glimmered, but her chin lifted. “Ashamed.”

He would have expected almost any other reason than that. “Why? Because you weren’t married to the baby’s father?”

“No. Please don’t ask me.”

He wanted to argue, but he bit the words back. She was looking pale and tired and just too fragile. “All right, for now. But think about this. I have feelings for you, and they’re growing much faster than either of us might like. Right now I’m damned if I know what to do about it.”

When he rose, she reached up and touched his arm. “Gabe, there’s nothing to do. I can’t tell you how much I wish it were otherwise.”

“Life’s what you make it, angel.” He touched her hair then stepped away. “We need more wood.”

Laura sat in the empty cabin and wished more than she had ever wished for anything that she had made a better job of hers.

Chapter 4

More snow had fallen during the night. It was, compared to what had come before, hardly more than a dusting. The fresh inches lay in mounds and drifts over the rest, where the wind had blown them. In places the snow was as high as a man. Miniature mountains of it lay cozily against the windowpanes, shifting constantly in the wind.

Already the sun was melting the fresh fall, and if Laura listened she could hear the water sliding down the gutters from the roof like rain. It was a friendly sound, and it made her think of hot tea by a sizzling fire, a good book read on a lazy afternoon, a nap on the sofa in early evening.

But this was morning, only an hour or two past dawn. As usual, she had the cabin to herself.

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