Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,134

ugly on the inside wouldn’t have bought me a messenger bag and kept his generosity a secret.”

Gabriel stared at her. “How long have you known?”

“Rachel told me.”

“And did it make you more likely to accept it, or less likely?”

“At the time, only half and half.”

“I noticed you don’t use it anymore,” he whispered, reaching up to push the hair back from her face.

“I’ll use it again.”

“So you like it?”

“Very much. Thank you.”

He nuzzled his nose lightly against hers and smiled. “You were merely beautiful at seventeen, Julianne. You’re stunning now.”

“Everyone is pretty enough in the dark,” she whispered.

“No, they are not.” He kissed her before pulling back abruptly, willing himself to stop.

She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart and trying not to drink too deeply of the energy that charged between them.

“It just occurred to me, Julia, that I only seem to get honest answers out of you whenever we share a bed.”

She blushed, and even though it was dark, Gabriel knew it. He chuckled softly. “Why do you think that is?”

“When we’re in bed, you’re gentle with me. I feel…safe.”

“I don’t know how safe it is to be with me, Julianne, but I promise that I will try to be gentle with you always. Especially in bed.”

She hugged him tightly and nodded against his chest, as if she understood the full implication of what he was saying. But she didn’t. How could she?

“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?”

“Yes. I need to call my father to give him the good news.”

“I promised Richard I’d come home. Would you…consider flying out with me?”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “It isn’t going to be a pleasant holiday.”

“I don’t like Thanksgiving. But Grace always made it nice.”

“Wasn’t it nice with your family?”

Julia squirmed. “We didn’t really celebrate it.”

“Why not?”

“I did all the cooking unless my mother was in recovery. And whenever I tried to do something special…” She shook her head.

Gabriel tightened his arms around her. “Tell me,” he whispered.

“You don’t want to hear this.”

She tried to turn away from him, but he held her fast. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to know you.”

The tone of Gabriel’s voice was such that it tugged at her, more powerfully than his words or his arms. She drew a deep breath.

“During my last Thanksgiving in St. Louis, Sharon was on a bender with one of the boyfriends. But stupid me, I decided to cook a Martha Stewart recipe for stuffed roast chicken, twice-baked potatoes, and vegetables.” She stopped.

“I’m sure it was delicious,” he prompted.

“I never found out.”

“Why?”

“I kind of had an accident.”

“Julianne?” He tried to lift her chin so that he could look into her eyes, but she wouldn’t look at him. “What happened?”

“We didn’t have a kitchen table. So I set up a card table in the living room and set it for three. It was stupid, really. I shouldn’t have bothered. I put all the food on a tray to carry it to the table, and the boyfriend stuck out his foot and tripped me.”

“On purpose?”

“He saw me coming.”

Gabriel seethed with instantaneous anger, his hands curling into fists.

“I went flying. The dishes shattered. Food was everywhere.”

“How badly were you hurt?” he asked with clenched teeth.

“I don’t remember.” Julia’s voice instantly cooled.

“Did your mother help you?”

She shook her head.

Gabriel growled, low in his throat.

“They laughed. I must have looked pathetic on my hands and knees, crying, covered in gravy. The chicken skidded across the tiles and under one of the chairs.” She paused thoughtfully. “I was on my knees for a while. You would have had a stroke if you’d seen me.”

Gabriel stifled the urge to ram his fist through the wall behind his head. “I wouldn’t have had a stroke. I would have beaten him and been sorely pressed not to horsewhip her.”

Julia traced his fist with one of her fingers. “They got bored and went into her bedroom to fuck. They didn’t even bother to close the door. That was my last Thanksgiving with Sharon.”

“Your mother sounds like Anne Sexton.”

“Sharon never wrote poetry.”

“My God, Julia.” Gabriel unclenched his fists and hugged her close.

“I cleaned up so that they wouldn’t get mad at me, and I hopped on a bus. I rode around aimlessly until I saw a Salvation Army mission. They were advertising a Thanksgiving meal for the homeless. I asked if I could volunteer in the kitchen, and they put me to