Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,264

can cook together, if you like, and maybe relax by the fire.”

“Sounds good.” She kissed him once again.

“I’ll carry the luggage upstairs while you explore the house. The hot tub is on the terrace just outside the master bedroom. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

She acquiesced with a smile.

“Oh, and, Miss Mitchell…”

“Yes?”

“No clothes for the rest of the evening.”

She squealed and scampered up the stairs.

Not only was the house tastefully decorated in various shades of cream and white, but it boasted a very romantic master bedroom on the second floor that was punctuated by a canopy bed. Julia found herself trying the bed out just for a moment before taking her toiletry case into the washroom.

She unpacked her makeup and placed her shampoo and bath gel in the large, open shower. She pinned her hair up and took off all her clothes, wrapping herself in an ivory towel. She’d never skinny dipped before, but she was looking forward to it.

As she folded her clothes and placed them on the vanity, she heard music coming from the bedroom. She recognized the song “Don’t Know Why” by Norah Jones. Gabriel thought of everything.

His voice outside the bathroom door reconfirmed that. “I brought up some antipasti and a bottle of wine, in case you’re hungry. See you outside.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she called.

Julia looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and her cheeks were a healthy pink. She was in love. She was happy. And she was (she thought) about to christen the hot tub with her beloved underneath a darkening Umbrian sky.

On her way to the terrace, she saw Gabriel’s discarded clothes hanging over the back of a chair. The cold evening breeze wafted in through the open door, ruffling her hair, making the pink of her skin pinker still. Gabriel was naked and waiting for her.

She walked out onto the terrace and waited until she had his complete attention. Then she dropped the towel.

* * *

Near Burlington, Vermont, Paul Virgil Norris was wrapping Christmas presents at his parents’ kitchen table: presents for his family, for his sister, and finally, for the woman for whom his heart pined.

It was, perhaps, surprising to see a two-hundred-pound rugby player with bolts of Christmas wrap and Scotch tape, painstakingly measuring before he put scissors to paper. A bottle of maple syrup, a stuffed toy Holstein, and two figurines were proudly arranged in front of him. The figurines were a curiosity, something he’d found in a comic book store in Toronto. One was supposed to be Dante, dressed as a crusading soldier with St. George’s cross on his chain mail chest, while the other was a blond-haired, blue-eyed anachronism of a Beatrice in the garb of a medieval princess.

Sadly, the toy company neglected to make a Virgil action figure. (Virgil, apparently, was not worthy of action.) Paul begged to differ, and so he decided to write to the toy company to alert them to their regrettable oversight.

He wrapped each item carefully and placed them in a cardboard box with bubble wrap. He signed a Christmas card with a few words, trying desperately to sound casual in order to disguise his growing feelings, and taped the box shut, neatly addressing it to Miss Julianne Mitchell.

* * *

After a very enjoyable time in the hot tub, Gabriel prepared an Umbrian dinner. Bruschetta con pomodoro e basilico, tagliatelle with olive oil and black truffles from the villa’s estate, and a cheese course with local artisan cheeses and bread. They ate their fill, laughing and drinking a fine white wine from Orvieto in the candlelight. After dinner, Gabriel made a nest of blankets and pillows on the floor in front of the living room fireplace.

He plugged his iPhone into the sound system so they could continue enjoying his Loving Julianne playlist. Then he took her into his arms as they sat on the floor, finishing their wine, while the sounds of medieval chant swirled around their heads. They were naked, wrapped in blankets, and unashamed.

“The music is beautiful. What is it?” She closed her eyes as she focused on the female voices, which were singing a cappella.

“‘Gaudete’ by The Mediaeval Baebes. It’s a Christmas song.”

“That’s quite the name for a music group.”

“They’re very talented. I saw them live the last time they came to Toronto.”

“Oh, really?”

Gabriel smirked at her. “Are you jealous Miss Mitchell?”

“Should I be?”

“No. My arms are full. Completely.”

Their talking ceased against the backdrop of celestial voices as their kisses