Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

was no comfort to be had from a man who had

killed, and who would kill again. ,

Gabriel turned his back on Victoria—twice in one day, now—and strode into the bathroom. He

softly shut the door behind him. A barrier to reinforce the one that had momentarily slipped inside him.

Gray mist still writhed in the air.

Victoria had used his toilet: Gabriel lifted the wooden lid and used the toilet.

Worn drawers and limp stockings neatly hung over a towel rack.

Victoria’s pain-filled cry reverberated through him. I am as clean as you are.

Water spotted the marble wash basin.

/

Gabriel stared into the mirror above it.

Dull gray peered through a fading patch of steam.

For one fleeting second Gabriel stared into the eyes of hope.

It coiled and disappeared like the illusion that it was.

Victoria stared at the closed door, unable to breathe.

A faint splatter penetrated the satinwood.

Hot color surged into her cheeks, identifying the sound.

Even an angel had to relieve himself.

The sense of unreality his confession had created dissipated. And once again she could breathe.

She firmly tucked the silk spread between her breasts. Grabbing the skirt to lift clear of her feet,

she gave him privacy.

A silver tray glinted on the black-marble-topped desk. The smell of ham and eggs and coffee filled

the air.

Victoria’s stomach growled.

When he’s hungry, feed him. When he hurts, offer him hope. When he has nowhere to go, give him

a bed to sleep in, rang inside her ears.

Gabriel had fed her and he had given up his bed that she might sleep in it.

He had not offered her hope, but he had sought to comfort her.

Seduction.

The illusion of trust.

There was only one cup on the tray.

Victoria did not want to eat alone.

She poured a cup of coffee and inhaled the savory odor. It tasted like pure nectar.

Gray light permeated the library. Gold lettering glittered invitingly.

Victoria knew books; books had been her life for as long as she could remember. She did not know how

to comfort an angel.

Idly, she perused the rows and rows of leather-bound books. Straining to hear ... a whisper of air. A

footstep.

Gabriel.

Bold-embossed lettering caught Victoria’s eye: one man’s name, Jules Verne.

Journey to the Center of the Earth; Voyage au centre de la terre; Twenty Thousand Leagues

Under the Sea; Vingt mille lieues sous les mers; The Mysterious Island; L’Ile mysterieuse; Around

the World in Eighty Days; Le Tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours...

Gabriel possessed many works by Jules Verne, both in English and French.

She more carefully studied other books by Victor Hugo. George Sand . .. the English author

Shakespeare .. .

Every title came in both a French volume and an English volume.

Coffee forgotten, Victoria plucked up L’Ile mysterieuse, the French edition of The Mysterious Island’

by Jules Verne, and stood beside the one window.

The English version was far less weighty.

Which language did Gabriel prefer to read? she wondered . .. English or French?

Blinding light exploded overhead.

Victoria blinked.

She did not have to see Gabriel to know that it was he who had turned on the chandelier. Every bone

inside her body cried out her awareness.

He stood by the blue leather couch, framed by the glittering expanse of setting sun and shimmering blue

ocean in the painting behind him. His face was slightly pink; he had shaved. A black wool Derby coat and

gray pinstriped wool frock were draped over his right arm. A crimson silk tie was knotted about a starched

white collar. The cut of a gray pinstriped waistcoat and trousers expertly fit his body. A silver cane

weighted his left hand, a black bowler hat his right.

There was no sign of the man with the beard stubble who had shared his needs with her. In his place

was an elegant, freshly shaven man.

Twenty-four hours earlier she would have thought him a pampered gentleman.

Victoria did not make that mistake now.

Gabriel was elegant. Gabriel was beautiful.

Gabriel was dangerous.

“Don’t stand in front of the window,” he curtly commanded. “And keep the blinds closed.”

Victoria did not move away from the window. “No one can see me.”

“You will not see the man who has a gun trained on you, mademoiselle,” Gabriel said silkily. “Perhaps

you will see a flash of light when he releases the trigger, perhaps not. One thing is for certain— you won’t

hear the gunshot: you’ll be dead.”

The danger of being shot by a man she had never seen was not real; the man in front of her was.

“You are going out,” Victoria said evenly. “Who is going to prevent someone from shooting you?”

Gabriel dropped the two coats, cane and hat onto the pale blue leather couch that had been his bed only

short hours earlier.

Leaning down, he retrieved a leather holster. Lifting up a cushion, then, he pulled a pistol out from

underneath. “He won’t shoot me.”

The barrel of the pistol was a dull blue-black.

The smell of ham and eggs cloyed inside her throat.

Victoria recognized that pistol: it was the one he had hidden underneath the white silk napkin the night

before. It was the pistol he had been prepared to shoot her with.

Victoria stepped away from the window, legs trembling. Stomach trembling.

Bitter coffee rose up inside her throat. “You are going out to look for him.”