Page 39 of Gabriel's Angel

How could she know what she wanted? She pressed her fingers to her eyes and tried to sort out her feelings. Confusion, and little else. One moment she imagined what it would be like, being with Gabe, making love with him. The next moment she was remembering the way it had been before, when love had had little to do with it.

It was wrong to continually let memories intrude. She told herself she was too sensible for that. Or wanted to be. She’d been in therapy, she’d talked to counselors and other women who had been in situations all too similar to her own. Because she’d had to stay on the move, she hadn’t been able to remain with any one group for long, but they had helped her. Just learning that she wasn’t alone in what had happened to her, seeing and talking with others who had turned their lives around again, had given her the strength to go on.

She knew—intellectually she knew—that what had happened to her was the result of a man’s illness and her own insecurity. But it was one thing to know it and another to accept it and go on, to risk another relationship.

She wanted to be normal, was determined to be. That had been the communal cry from all the sessions in all the towns. Along with the fear and the anger and the self-disgust, there had been a desperate mutual need to be normal women again.

But that step, that enormous, frightening step from past to future, was so difficult to take. Only she could do it, Laura told herself as she continued to stare into her own eyes. With Gabe, and her feelings for him, she had a chance. If she was willing to take it.

How could she know how close they could be, how much they could mean to each other, if she didn’t allow herself to want the intimacy?

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she turned to study the lush bath. It was nearly as large as many of the rooms she’d lived in during her life. White on white on white, it gleamed and glistened and invited indulgence. She could sink into hot, deep water in the tub and soak until her skin was soft and pink. She still had most of a bottle of perfume, French and suggestive, that Geoffrey had bought her in Paris. She could dab it on her damp skin so that the scent seeped into her pores. Then she could... what?

She had nothing lovely or feminine to wear. The only clothes she hadn’t taken to thrift shops or secondhand stores during her cross-country flight were maternity clothes. The two pairs of slacks and the cotton blouses didn’t count.

In any case, what would it matter if she had a closetful of lace negligees? She wouldn’t know what to do or say. It had been so long since she’d thought of herself strictly as a woman. Perhaps she never had. And surely it was better to try to reestablish that early friendship with Gabe before they attempted intimacy.

If that was what he wanted. What she wanted.

Turning away from the mirror, she went to find him.

She couldn’t have been more surprised when she walked into the nursery and found the painting finished, the cans sealed and the brushes cleaned. As she stared, Gabe folded the drop cloth.

“You finished it,” she managed.

“I seem to have struggled through without doing any damage.”

“It’s beautiful. The way I’d always imagined.” She stepped into the empty room and began arranging furniture in her head. “There should be curtains, white ones, though I suppose dotted swiss is too feminine for a boy.”

“I couldn’t say, but it sounds like it. It’s warm enough, so I’ve left the windows open.” He tossed the drop cloth over a stepladder. “I don’t want to put Michael in here until the smell of the paint’s gone.”

“No,” she agreed absently, wondering if the crib should go between the two windows.

“Now that this is out of the way, I have something for you. A belated Mother’s Day present.”

“Oh, but you gave me the flowers already.”

He took a small box out of his pocket. “There wasn’t the time or the opportunity for much else then. We were living out of a suitcase and spending all of our time at the hospital. Besides, the flowers were from Michael. This is from me.”

That made it different. Intimate. Again she found herself drawn to him, and again she found herself pulled away. “You don’t have to give me anything.”

The familiar impatience shimmered. He barely suppressed it. “You’re going to have to learn how to take a gift more graciously.”

He was right. And it was wrong of her to continue to compare, but Tony had been so casual, so lavish, in his gifts. And they had meant so little. “Thank you.” She took the box, opened it and stared.

The ring looked like a circle of fire, with its channel-linked diamonds flashing against its gold band and nestled in velvet. Instinctively she ran a fingertip over it and was foolishly amazed that it was cool to the touch.

“It’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. But—”

“There had to be one.”

“It’s just that it’s a wedding ring, and I already have one.”

He took her left hand to examine it. “I’m surprised your finger hasn’t fallen off from wearing this thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said, and nearly snatched her hand away.

“So sentimental, angel?” Though his voice had gentled, his hand was firm on hers. Now, perhaps, he would be able to dig a bit deeper into what she was feeling for him, about him. “Are you so attached to a little circle of metal?”

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