Gabriel's Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

the cozy fire and polished wood made her feel lonely. She wanted him there, even if it was just the sound of his movements in another room. Wherever he had gone, she reminded herself, he would be back. She started to walk into the kitchen to see what could be done about breakfast.
    She saw the sketches, a half dozen of them, spread out on the picnic table. His talent, though raw in pencil or charcoal drawing, was undeniable. Still, it made her both uneasy and curious to see how someone else—no, how Gabriel Bradley—perceived her.
    Her eyes seemed too big, too haunted. Her mouth was too soft, too vulnerable. She rubbed a finger over it as she frowned at the drawing. She’d seen her face countless times, in glossy photographs, posed for the best angle. She’d been draped in silks and furs, drenched in jewels. Her face and form had sold gallons of perfume, hawked fortunes in clothes and gems.
    Laura Malone. She’d nearly forgotten that woman, the woman they’d said would be the face of the decade. The woman who had, briefly, held her own destiny in her hands. She was gone, erased.
    The woman in the sketches was softer, rounder and infinitely more fragile. And yet she seemed stronger. Laura lifted a sketch and studied it. Or did she just want to see the strength, need to see it?
    When the front door opened, she turned, still holding the pencil sketch. Gabe, covered with snow, kicked the door shut again. His arms were loaded with wood.
    â€œGood morning. Been busy?”
    He grunted and stomped the worst of the snow from his boots, then walked, leaving a wet trail, to the firebox to dump his wood. “I thought you might sleep longer.”
    â€œI would have.” She patted her belly. “He wouldn’t. Can I fix you some breakfast?”
    Drawing off his gloves, he tossed them down on the hearth. “Already had some. You go ahead.”
    Laura waited until he’d stripped off his coat. Apparently they were back on friendly terms again. Cautiously friendly. “It seems to be letting up a little.”
    He sat on the hearth to drag his boots off. Snow was caked in the laces. “We’ve got three feet now, and I wouldn’t look for it to stop before afternoon.” He drew out a cigarette. “Might as well make yourself at home.”
    â€œI seem to be.” She held up the sketch. “I’m flattered.”
    â€œYou’re beautiful,” he said offhandedly as he set his boots on the hearth to dry. “I can rarely resist drawing beautiful things.”
    â€œYou’re fortunate.” She dropped the sketch back on the table. “It’s so much more rewarding to be able to depict beauty than it is to be beautiful.” Gabe lifted a brow. There was a trace, only a trace, of bitterness in her tone. “Things,” she explained. “It’s strange, but once people see you as beautiful, they almost always see you as a thing.”
    Turning, she slipped into the kitchen, leaving him frowning after her.
    She brewed him fresh coffee, then idled away the morning tidying the kitchen. Gabe gave her room. Before night fell again, he would have some answers, but for now he was content to have her puttering around while he worked.
    She seemed to need to be busy. He had thought a woman in her condition would be content to sleep or rest or simply sit and knit for most of the day. He decided it was either nervous energy or her way of avoiding the confrontation he’d promised her the night before.
    She didn’t ask questions or stand over his shoulder, so they rubbed along through the morning without incident. Once, he glanced over to see her tucked into a corner of the sagging sofa reading a book on childbirth. Later she threw some things together in the kitchen and produced a thick, aromatic stew.
    She said little. He knew she was waiting, biding her time until he pushed open the door he’d unlocked the night before. He, too, was waiting,