Page 3 of Gabriel's Angel

He felt her gaze and read her thoughts easily enough. “I’m not a maniac,” he said mildly.

“I appreciate that.” She smiled a little, then turned to look out the windshield again.

The cabin could barely be seen through the snow, even when he stopped in front of it. But what Laura could see, she loved. It was a squat rectangle of wood with a covered porch and square-paned windows. Smoke puffed from the chimney.

Though it was buried under snow, there was a path of flat rocks leading from the lane to the front steps. Evergreens mantled with white trooped around the corners. Nothing had ever looked as safe and warm as this snow-decked little cabin in the mountains.

“It’s lovely. You must be happy here.”

“It does the job.” Gabe came around to help her down. She smelled like the snow, he thought, or perhaps more like water, the pure, virginal water that poured down the mountain in the spring. “I’ll take you in,” he told her, knowing both his reaction and his comparison were ridiculous. “You can warm up by the fire.” Gabe opened the front door and waved her in. “Go ahead. I’ll bring in the rest.”

He left her alone, snow dripping wet from her coat onto the woven mat inside the door.

The paintings. Laura stood just where she was and stared openmouthed at the paintings. They covered the walls, they were stacked in corners, they were piled on tables. Only a few were framed. They didn’t need the ornamentation. Some were half finished, as though the artist had lost interest or motivation. There were oils, in colors vivid and harsh, and watercolors in soft, misty hues that might have sprung from dreams. Shrugging out of her coat, Laura moved in for a closer look.

There was a scene from Paris, the Bois de Boulogne. She remembered it from her honeymoon. Looking at it made her eyes swim and her muscles tense. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to look at it until her emotions settled.

An easel was set near the window, where the light would come in and fall on the canvas. She resisted the temptation to go over and steal a look. She already had the sensation that she was trespassing.

What was she going to do? Laura gripped her hands together tightly as she let the despair come. She was stranded, her car wrecked, her money dwindling. And the baby— The baby wasn’t going to wait until she made things right.

If they found her now...

They weren’t going to find her. Deliberately she unlaced her hands. She’d come this far. No one was going to take her baby, now or ever.

She turned as the door to the cabin opened. Gabe shifted the bags he’d carried inside, leaving them jumbled together in a pile. He, too, shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook by the door.

He was as lean as his face had indicated. Though he might have been a bit under six feet, the spare toughness of his build gave the illusion of more height, more power. More like a boxer than an artist, Laura thought as she watched him kick the clinging snow from his boots. More like a man of the outdoors than one who came from graceful mansions and gentle blood.

Despite what she knew of his aristocratic background, he wore flannel and corduroy and looked perfectly suited to the rustic cabin. Laura, who came from humbler stock, felt fussy and out of place in her bulky Irish knit sweater and tailored wool.

“Gabriel Bradley,” she said, and gestured widely toward the walls. “My brain must have been scrambled before. I didn’t put it together. I love your work.”

“Thanks.” Bending, he hefted two of the bags.

“Let me help—”

“No.” He strode off into the kitchen, leaving Laura biting her lip.

He wasn’t thrilled to have her company, she thought. Then she shrugged. It couldn’t be helped. As soon as it was reasonably safe for her to leave, she would leave. Until then... Until then Gabriel Bradley, artist of the decade, would have to make do.

It was tempting just to take a seat and passively stay out of his way. Once she would have done just that, but circumstances had changed her. She followed him into the adjoining kitchen. Counting the baby she carried, there were three of them in the little room, and it was filled to capacity.

“At least let me make you something hot to drink.” The ancient two-burner stove looked tricky, but she was determined.

He turned, brushed against her belly and was amazed at the wave of discomfort he felt. And the tug of fascination. “Here’s the coffee,” he mumbled, handing her a fresh can.

“Got a pot?”

It was in the sink, which was filled with water that had once been sudsy. He had been trying to soak out the stains from the last time he’d used it. He moved to get it, bumped her again and stepped back.

“Why don’t you let me take care of it?” she suggested. “I’ll put this stuff away and start the coffee, and you can call a tow truck.”

“Fine. There’s milk. Fresh.”

She smiled. “I don’t suppose you have any tea.”

“No.”

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