"The bedroom… it seems… I mean… never mind, it's none of my business."
His gaze caught and held hers. "I decorated it for you."
Sarah took a step backward, frightened by the fervor in his eyes, the intensity of his voice. "For me? How? Why?"
"I knew…" He paused a moment. "That is, I hoped, that you would come here one day."
"But we've only known each other a few weeks."
He shrugged. "With enough money, you can accomplish a great deal in a short time. You'll find clothes in the armoire."
Sarah took another step backward, wondering why she felt as though she had been thrust into a strange and alien world. She remembered bits and pieces of an old French movie she'd seen in which a man had sold his daughter to a beast. The girl had lived in luxury, but she had been a prisoner just the same.
She shook the fanciful notion from her mind. Gabriel didn't look like a beast, and she was free to leave whenever she wished. Wasn't she?
She glanced at the oversized door visible at the end of the entry hall. It was at least eight feet high and made of solid oak. To keep the world out, she wondered, or to keep her in? She told herself she was being foolish, that she was letting her imagination run wild, but she couldn't shake the feeling that if she didn't get away now, she never would, that she would be imprisoned, like Belle in
Beauty and the Beast
except, in this case, the beast was beautiful.
"I want to go home."
He hesitated a moment, as if he meant to argue with her, and then he nodded. "I'll take you."
"No."
"Sarah…"
He took a step toward her, and she whirled around, the glass in her hand forgotten as she darted toward the front door. Wine sloshed over the rim of the delicate crystal goblet, splashing over the white carpet to leave a blood-red stain.
Frantic, she ran down the long marble entryway to the front door. She grabbed the ornate brass knob, twisting it right and left, but nothing happened. Overcome with panic, she dropped the glass, heedless that it shattered into a thousand pieces. She tugged on the door knob, tears of fright and frustration blurring her vision.
And then he was behind her, his hands heavy on her shoulders.
"Sarah. Sarah!" He turned her around and pulled her up against him, his arms imprisoning her as effectively as iron bars. "Listen to me. I'm not going to hurt you, I swear."
He looked down at her, and the sheer unadulterated terror in her eyes stabbed him to the heart. Abruptly, he released her and took several steps backward.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again. "Please believe me. You're free to go."
"The door… it won't open… I can't get out… please let me go…"
Moving slowly, careful not to touch her in any way, he reached around her and unlocked the door.
"My car is in the driveway," he said.
Sarah blinked up at him. "You'd let me take your car?"
"It's dark out," he said, his voice quiet and devoid of emotion. "I don't want you walking home alone."
"What I do is none of your concern."
He inclined his head, as if agreeing with her, and then he pulled a set of car keys out of his pocket and pressed them into her hand.
He really was the most stubborn, intriguing, handsome man she had ever met, Sarah mused as she slid behind the wheel of the car. A Jaguar. A brand-new Jaguar was worth a small fortune, and he was letting her take it, no questions asked. She thought of the six-year-old station wagon parked in the garage at home. Never had she imagined herself behind the wheel of a car like this.
She turned the key in the ignition and the engine hummed to life.
She drove slowly toward home, wondering what would happen if she just kept on driving, if she left her old life behind and lit out for parts unknown. Montana, maybe, or Colorado. Or maybe Alaska…
For a moment, it was tempting. She could sell the Jag, change her name, start a whole new life… but she was only kidding herself. She couldn't run far enough, couldn't hope to find a place where she could hide from her memories.
When she reached home, she moved the station wagon to the driveway, parked the Jag in the garage, and locked the door.
She thought of Gabriel as she tossed his car keys on the coffee table. What kind of man let a complete stranger borrow a $70,000 car? He hadn't even said anything about her bringing it back.
She glanced down at the dressing gown she still wore. Whom had it belonged to? He'd said he wasn't married or divorced. Did it belong to an old girlfriend, then? She caressed the soft velvet gown.
I decorated it for you.
His voice, soft and sensual, echoed in her mind. He had decorated a room in his house for her. Had he bought the dressing gown with her in mind, as well? How had he known pink was her favorite color?
She sat down on the sofa and switched on the TV. She didn't want to think, not about David and Natalie, not about Gabriel.
But she couldn't concentrate on the late show. It was an amusing romantic comedy starring Gene Wilder, but she was in no mood for romance, or laughter.
Reaching for the remote, she ran through the channels until she came to the country music station. She listened for a while, wondering why country songs were all so sad. It seemed nine out of ten were about love—lost love, unrequited love, old love. Maybe the whole world was unhappy, she thought. Maybe there was no such thing as happy-ever-after, not for her, not for anyone.
She stared at the television, not seeing the picture, not hearing the music.
Instead, she saw the sharp planes and angles of Gabriel's face. His countenance
was dark and beautiful, reminding her of a painting she had once seen of a
fallen angel. Her mind replayed the hours she had spent with him, and she recalled the faint note of sorrow in his voice, the lingering aura of grief in the depths of his eyes. Was he mourning, too? He had told her he wasn't married or divorced. She wondered now if he had been married, if his wife had died, if that was why his eyes mirrored her own misery.
"Gabriel…"
She murmured his name aloud as she pillowed her head on her arm, rubbing her cheek against the velvet of the gown.
"Gabriel…"
Her eyelids fluttered down, and for the first time in six months, she didn't cry herself to sleep.
Filled with an overpowering restlessness, he walked through the spacious rooms of the mansion, imagining Sarah sitting in front of the fireplace in the parlor, bathing in the pale pink tub, sleeping in the bed, reading a book in the library, watering the plants in the garden by the light of the moon, lying naked in his arms…
He pushed the thought aside, remembering the terror he had seen in her eyes the night before. If she looked at him like that now, when she hardly knew him, he could only imagine the horror he would read in her eyes if she discovered what he was. But that would never happen. Never again would he become involved with a mortal woman.
And yet, like it or not, he was already involved. He had been able to think of nothing else since the first night he had seen her sitting on the bench in the park, looking lost and forlorn, her eyes damp with tears.
Except for the color of her hair, there was little physical resemblance to Sara Jayne, and yet there was something about this Sarah that called to him, that begged his attention.
Muttering an oath, he left the house. For a moment, he stood outside, breathing in the cool night air, and then he made his way to the corral, whistling for the stallion.
The big black horse trotted up to him, blowing softly as he nuzzled Gabriel's chest.
Opening the corral gate, Gabriel swung onto the stallion's bare back. He had no need of bridle or bit to control the horse, only the sound of his voice and the pressure of his knees. He patted the horse's neck, then rode out of the yard, heading for the hills behind the mansion.
He rode for an hour, his inner turmoil soothed by the motion of the horse, the wind in his face. He refused to think of the past. He was uneasy with the present; the future was a door that even he couldn't open.
Sounds and sights and smells surrounded him and he sorted them without conscious thought: the distant screech of brakes, the growl of a dog, the soft whirring of wings as an owl hunted the night. He saw the yellow eyes of a cat watching him as he passed by; he caught the combined aroma of cigarettes and perfume and lust as he rode by a parked car. It took little imagination to guess what was going on behind the steamy windows, and he felt a sudden ache in his loins, a need to be held. Sara…
He remembered the night he had knelt at her feet, his head pillowed in her lap, as he begged her to hold him. How long ago that had been!
Heavy-hearted, he turned the black toward home.
He knew she was there even before he rode into the yard. And then he saw her, standing on the veranda that looked out over the gardens, her long blond hair falling over her shoulders, her skin glowing in the light of the moon. Desire flooded through him once more, sharp and painful.
He reined the stallion to a halt beside the corral, then sat there, staring up at Sarah, wondering what she wanted.
His gaze held hers for a long moment, and then she turned away from the rail and descended the stairs that led to the backyard.
He felt his heart beat with anticipation as he watched her approach.
"Pretty horse," she said, stopping well out of reach of the stallion.
Gabriel nodded.
"I've never seen anyone ride without a bridle or saddle."
"He's well trained."
"He must be. What's his name?"
"Necromancer." It had been the name of all his horses.
"Necromancer?" She lifted one finely arched brow. "Funny name for a horse. Doesn't it mean someone who talks to the spirits of the dead?"
Gabriel closed his eyes. For a moment, he was swept back in time, hearing Sara Jayne's voice asking him the same question, remarking that it was a funny name for a horse, and his own reply,
Odd, perhaps, but fitting
.
He ignored Sarah's question and asked one of his own. "What are you doing here?"
"I brought your car back."
He lifted one skeptical black brow.
Sarah fidgeted under his probing gaze. Maybe he really could read her mind, she thought. And if that was true, then he knew she was lying. He had been in her thoughts constantly since last night; and if she was going to be entirely truthful, then she would have to admit that he had been in and out of her thoughts ever since the first night they met.
Gabriel lifted his right leg over the horse's withers and slid gracefully to the ground. He gave the horse an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and the stallion trotted into the corral.
Without taking his gaze from Sarah's face, Gabriel closed the gate and slid the latch into place.
Sarah clasped her hands together. Gabriel's nearness, the heat in his unblinking stare, made her decidedly nervous. Why
had
she come here? If all she had wanted to do was return his car, she could have brought it back in the morning and left it in the driveway.
Her hands felt clammy, her mouth dry. She could feel her heart beating wildly in her breast, feel the blood pounding in her ears. She stared into his eyes, eyes as gray as a winter day, as hot as the summer sun. His gaze held hers for a long while, then moved down to her lips, to the pulse beating rapidly in her throat.
"Why are you here?" His voice was dark and smooth and soft, like rich black silk.
"I'll see that you get the robe back, too." she replied, wishing she could make herself look away from his eyes.
"Keep it."
"I couldn't. It must have cost a great deal."
"It's yours," he said, sounding angry now. "I bought it for you."
"Like you decorated that room?"
"Yes."
Black
, she thought. He was wearing black again. Not jeans and a T-shirt this time, but a heavy black sweater that emphasized the width of his shoulders. Black sweat pants hugged his long, muscular legs. Looking at him, she had the uncomfortable feeling that his constant wearing of black was not merely a fashion statement, but the color of his soul.
He crossed his arms over his chest. "You didn't answer my question."
How could she tell Gabriel why she was here? How could she confess that she had gone to the park hoping to see him there, and when he hadn't shown up, she had come looking for him, needing to see him because he knew why she sought the darkness, because he understood her grief. Because his arms were strong and invincible and his voice was low and soft.
Sarah licked her lips nervously. "I thought you could read my mind."
"I'd rather hear it from you."
"It's like I said, I brought your car back. Thanks for letting me take it."
"Liar." His quiet tone took the sting out of the word.
She glared at him, resenting him because he knew the truth, because he made her feel alive again.
"Why, Sarah?"
"All right, I missed you!" She practically screamed the words at him. "I'm lonely, and I missed you. Is that what you wanted to hear? Does it stroke your male vanity?"
Muttering an oath, he took a step toward her, but she took a hasty step in retreat.
"Thanks for the use of the Jag," she said, and lifting her arm, she threw the car keys at him, then turned and ran for the heavy iron gate that led to the street.
"Sarah."
His voice. Just the sound of his voice speaking her name. But it brought her to an abrupt halt. She didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge that he'd spoken, just stood there, waiting, her heart beating a wild tattoo.
He made no sound, but she knew he was standing behind her, and then she felt his hands, his long fingers curling over her shoulders, sliding down her arms, sending shivers up and down her spine, and he breathed her name.
"No." She shook her head. "I can't. I don't even know you…" She gasped as his arms slid around her waist, drawing her close so that her back was snug against his chest. "It's too soon…"
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as he rested his chin on the top of her head. His body sprang to life at her nearness; his nostrils filled with the scent of her skin, of scented soap and shampoo. He could hear the rapid beat of her heart, hear the blood thrumming through her veins, warm and sweet with the vitality of life. To his dismay, he felt the blood-lust stir within him, hotter and stronger than his burgeoning desire for her flesh.