Gabriel’s Inferno Trilogy by Sylvain Reynard Page 0,371

a million dollars. The house had been built prior to World War II. In fact, the entire street had been a neighborhood of Italian immigrants who built the small, two bedroom houses in the nineteen twenties. Now the street was populated with old-moneyed yuppies, Harvard professors, and Gabriel.

As she took in the tidy simplicity of the building, Julia shook her head. So this is what a million dollars can buy you in Harvard Square.

As she prepared to knock on the front door, she was surprised to find a note on it in Gabriel’s hand.

Julianne,

Please meet me in the garden.

G.

She sighed, and just like that she knew that tonight was going to be very, very difficult. She walked around the side of the house and down the little paved driveway, gasping when she rounded the corner.

There were flowers and greenery, wisps of sea grass and elegantly trimmed boxwood, and in the very center of the garden stood what looked like a Sultan’s tent. A fountain sat on the right side of the green space, featuring a marble statue of Venus. Underneath the fountain was a small pond filled with white and red Koi.

Julia walked toward the tent so she could peer inside. And what she saw pained her.

In the tent was a low, square bed, exactly like the futon that graced the terrace of the suite she’d shared with Gabriel in Florence. In the suite where they’d made love for the first time. On the terrace where he fed her chocolates and strawberries and danced with her to Diana Krall under the Tuscan sky. The futon where he made love to her the following morning. Gabriel had tried to reproduce the ambience of that terrace down to the very color scheme of the bedclothes.

The voice of Frank Sinatra seemed to float from somewhere closer to the house, while almost every flat, fireproof surface held a tall, pillar candle. Ornate Moroccan lanterns were suspended from crisscrossed wires overhead.

It was a fairy tale. It was Florence, and their apple orchard, and the wonders of an Arabian night. Unfortunately for Gabriel, the extravagant gesture begged the question: if he was resourceful enough to construct a Moroccan caravan in his garden, why couldn’t he have told her he planned to return?

Gabriel saw her standing in his garden, and his heart leapt. He wanted to pull her into his arms and press their lips together. But he could see from the set of her shoulders and the stiffness of her spine that such an act would be unwelcome. So he approached her carefully.

“Good evening, Julianne.” A silky voice caressed her ear as Gabriel leaned in from behind her.

She hadn’t heard him approach, so she shivered slightly. He rubbed one arm and then the other, up and down, in an act that was supposed to be comforting but in reality caused a deep erotic flush to dance across the surface of her skin.

“I like the music,” she said, pulling away from him.

He extended his palm as an invitation. Cautiously, she placed her hand in his. He pressed an unhurried kiss to her knuckles before releasing her.

“You’re stunning, as always.”

Gabriel’s eyes slowly drank in the sight of Julia in her plain black dress, her pale, shapely legs in a pair of black ballet flats, and the way the gentle whisper of wind blew a few strands of hair across her glossy, reddish lips as she turned to face him.

“Thank you.” She waited for him to comment on her shoes, for his eyes rested on them a little longer than was polite. She’d worn the flats because they were comfortable and because she wished to assert her independence. She knew he wouldn’t like them. Surprisingly, however, he smiled.

Gabriel was a little more casually dressed in a white linen shirt and khaki pants, with a navy linen jacket. His smile was perhaps his most decorative asset.

“The tent is beautiful.”

“Does it please you?” he whispered.

“You always ask me that.”

Gabriel’s smile faded slightly, but he resisted the urge to frown. “You used to like the fact that I am a considerate lover.”

Their eyes met and Julia looked away. “It’s a lovely gesture, but I would rather have had a letter from you or a telephone call three months ago.”

It appeared as if he wanted to argue with her, but in an instant his expression changed.

“Where are my manners,” he muttered. He offered his elbow, escorting her to a small bistro table that was set up in a corner of the stone patio.

Small