A Devil Named Desire (5 page)

Two young women, smiling and happy, one of them Hope. She looked younger in this picture, more carefree, her arm looped loosely around the shoulders of the other woman. It was plain they were sisters, both blond, though Hope’s eyes were green and the other’s brown.

Somewhere outside the bathroom door, she’d turned on some music, and he cocked his head, listening. Strings, horns, a woman singing in a low contralto. He found it pleasing, unlike much of the discordant noise that passed for music these days.

Drying his hands carefully on a towel, Gabe picked up Hope’s picture and put it atop a nearby clothes hamper, propping it where he could see it. Then he turned to the mirror, steamy from his shower. There was a comb and a brush on the counter by the sink, so he picked up the comb and used it, wincing as he worked some of the tangles from his hair. He’d trimmed it recently, for long hair was not the current fashion, but truth be told, it was his one vanity, and he didn’t like wearing it short. Consequently, he was still able to tuck it behind his ears. Shaving was easy—he’d seen a disposable razor in the shower, but merely passing a hand over his face removed any trace of stubble.

Naked, clean, and oddly relaxed, Gabe stared at his reflection in the mirror for a moment, wondering what was like to live in a house like this, surrounded by the small touches that made it a home: damp towels, steamy mirrors, pictures of those you loved. A nest of sorts, a place of safety to be shielded from the world.

It was a peaceful here, in this home Hope had made for herself. Whatever darkness gathered, regardless of her unexplained hostility, he would drive it back, or his name was not Gabriel, Angel of Light.

He could not, however, gain Hope’s confidence naked, and lack of clothing suddenly became a minor problem. Despite her admonition to stay away from her until his shirt was dry, he had no intention of doing so, shirt or no shirt. With a shrug, Gabe pulled on his jeans, wrapped a towel around his neck, and left the bathroom in search of his destiny.

Chapter Four

H
ope did her best to get her emotions under control while Gabriel was in the shower. Once she’d heard the bathroom door close a second time, she’d put his reeking shirt into the washer and had a long talk with herself while slicing bananas, mixing up the pudding and layering a baking pan with Nilla Wafers. Whipping egg whites and sugar into a froth for the topping was therapeutic, and she had to stop herself from overdoing it and ruining the meringue. Once the pudding was in the oven, she’d turned on some music to drown the voices in her head, the ones screaming that she was crazy for inviting a stranger into her apartment, the ones that told her she’d lost her mind the night she tried to kill herself. Now she stared out the tiny kitchen window at the hummingbird feeder she’d put there, hoping for a distraction, but the hummingbirds stayed away.

Good-looking guys made her nervous; every time she’d been around one he’d turned out to be a loser. She’d never been a party girl like Charity; it seemed as though her sister had only to smile, and guys would fall at her feet. Unfortunately, Charity had a way of choosing the
wrong
guys, usually based on how pretty they were, and she’d mopped up a lot of her sister’s tears when they’d all turned out to be faithless jerks.

Her own track record wasn’t much better, though much more limited. She could claim only two serious boyfriends in her whole life, if you counted Jimmy Macafee back in high school, which she wasn’t sure she did. They’d never done more than kiss, and the rumor at her last high school reunion was that he’d come out of the closet after his mom died.

She’d had opportunities to date, but she’d never had the
time
. Working two jobs to put herself through college, acting as mom to her wild-child younger sister . . . men, and the emotional turmoil that came with them, had been on the bottom of her list, particularly after Boyfriend #2 had dumped her for the boss’s daughter after taking a job at a law firm in Boston.

Lost in thought, Hope vaguely realized that the shower, along with the washing machine, had stopped.

“How’s the baking coming?”

Hope jumped, then could only stare, stupefied, as Gabriel walked back into her kitchen.

Broad-shouldered, beautifully muscled. What she could see of his chest was smooth and broad, tapering to a flat belly. A faint line of dark hair trailed downward, disappearing into his jeans.

Bare feet. Very
big
bare feet. Very
male
bare feet.

“Sorry about the towel.” Gabriel smiled at her, showing white, even teeth. “But it was better than nothing.”

Not by much.
Aware her mouth was open, Hope shut it.

“I really enjoyed that shower. I feel like a whole new man.”

Uncomfortably aware that he probably felt better than most, Hope turned away, clearing her throat.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me, Hope. I’m harmless, I swear.”

He looked about as harmless as a damp, half-naked satyr set loose among the vestal virgins, none of whom would be able to resist him.

“Your shirt just finished washing.” She jerked a thumb toward the washer. “You can put it in the dryer now.”

“Thanks.” He walked over, and her eyes were drawn like a magnet to his ass.

Damn eyes.

“Ummm . . .” Clearly having mastered the “helpless male” routine, he glanced at her over one towel-clad shoulder as she quickly looked elsewhere. “I’m not really sure how to work these things.”

Great
, she thought,
probably lives with his mother.
She opened the oven and checked on the pudding, glad she hadn’t yet burned the meringue. “Just a second,” she told him, sliding the pan out and putting it on rack to cool.
Probably how he got into this “dark side” crap to begin with . . . too many games of Diablo in his mom’s basement.

Mocking him in her mind helped steady her, so after she closed the oven door she was able to ease past him and go through the mundane motions of moving his T-shirt from the washer to the dryer without any problems.

“Whatever that is, it smells great,” he said. “Looks good, too.”

“You can’t have any,” she told him shortly. “It’s for my neighbor.”

“Kind of you to do that for him.”

She shrugged.

“What happened to your wrist? Did you hurt yourself?”

Frozen with her finger on the dryer button, Hope stared at the bandage on her wrist. It was crusted with dried blood, an indisputable reminder that no matter how many banana puddings she made or elderly neighbors she brought the paper in for, she was going to burn in Hell one way or another. Here she was thinking about all the guys she’d never loved and lost, when none of it mattered, not the slightest bit. Even the bloodstain on the bandage was in the shape of a lopsided heart, reflecting her entire lopsided life, and Hope was seized with a sudden, inappropriate need to laugh. She wanted to laugh, and laugh, and never stop laughing. Then maybe she could be left alone, in a quiet room, where no one could ever expect anything from her, ever again.

“You’ve been bleeding,” Gabriel said quietly.

Yes, I have, for a long, long time.

She turned on the dryer and lowered her hand, tugging at her sleeve until the gauze was covered. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“What happened?” he asked again. “Tell me.” His voice was kind, but she didn’t want his kindness.

She shrugged. “I was stupid, that’s all.” Brushing past him, she went into the living room, immediately changing the subject. “When the buzzer goes off your shirt will be done. It shouldn’t take long. You can watch TV while you wait.”

Then she walked to the couch and plopped down on it, but instead of reaching for the remote, she stared blindly toward the window overlooking Mr. Qualey’s rooftop garden. The sweet old man was one the reasons she’d rented the place, actually . . . she could’ve afforded a bigger apartment, but the place was cozy and the neighborhood was nice, and when he’d shown her around he’d been so kind, so fatherly, that she hadn’t bothered to look anywhere else.

“Hope.” Gabriel followed her into the living room. He took a seat in the chair opposite her. “I know something’s troubling you. Tell me what it is. Maybe I can help.”

She turned her head to look at him. The light from the window streamed over the bare skin of his shoulder, catching the glints of gold in his damp brown hair. What in the world would a guy like him
ever
know about how it felt to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders? What would he ever know about hopelessness and despair?

“It’s none of your business,” she told him bluntly, unwilling to expose any more of herself. “I’ve been going through a rough time, that’s all.”

“Okay.” He took her rebuff with equanimity. “If you can’t talk to me, is there someone else you can talk to?”

She shook her head, wishing he’d stop talking.

“What about your sister?”

Her already racing heart gave a thump. She hadn’t said a word to him about Charity. “What about my sister?” She put hopelessness and despair aside, and sat up straight. “What do you know about Charity?”

“Nothing, really.” He shook his head. “I found a picture on the bathroom floor,” he said. “You two look too much alike to be anything but sisters.”

“Oh.”
The picture.
The one she hadn’t been able to find once she got home, the one taken by the fountain in Little Five Points the day she’d gotten her computer engineering degree.

A not-so-subtle reminder from Sammy Divine, no doubt, left just where Gabriel would find it.

“You looked happy in that picture,” he told her gently, “but you don’t look happy now.”

“I’m fine,” she said tonelessly, hearing the lie in her words. “I’m just feeling a little . . . weird today, that’s all.”

He glanced again at her wrist. Even though she’d already pulled her shirtsleeves down over the gauze, they both knew the bandage was there. “You hurt yourself on purpose.”

She met his eyes, gold-flecked brown sparked with light from the window.

“You blame yourself for something,” he murmured, and reached out across the small space that separated them to put his hand atop one of hers. “Tell me what it is.”

His skin touched hers, and for Hope, it seemed time stood still. The heat of his palm felt like the sun, bathing the back of her hand with liquid warmth. She swallowed hard at the sensation, and stayed quiet, unmoving.

There were smile lines at the corners of his eyes, though he wasn’t smiling now. He smelled of soap and dampness, and she wanted more than anything to have met him under different circumstances; circumstances that didn’t involve a missing sister, suicide, Satan, or his demons of Darkness.

But the Devil called the tune these days, and she could do nothing but dance to it.

“I really don’t want to talk about my problems,” she told him calmly, and withdrew her hand.

G
abriel leaned back, considering. Hope’s behavior was erratic, veering from hostile to quiet and subdued. There was a definite sadness in her eyes, but she was clearly not going to offer any confidences.

So be it; he enjoyed a challenge.

Rising from the chair, he turned his back to look out the window. “Somebody has a green thumb.” There was a garden on the roof opposite, full of potted plants and flowers: bursts of reds, oranges, pinks. A vine-covered trellis bloomed white, sprays of yellow from hanging baskets. A couple of wicker chairs sat in the shade of a small awning, a book and a cup evidence that someone sat there recently.

“That’s Mr. Qualey’s garden.” Gabe caught the quick flash of a halfhearted smile reflected in the window before Hope lowered her head. “The man I baked the pudding for. He’s out there at the crack of dawn every morning, just like clockwork. Calls it his own little Eden.”

Gabe was quiet for a moment, remembering the indescribable beauty of the original garden, knowing it could never be duplicated.

The music she’d begun listening to while he was in the shower still played, a woman’s voice, low and exotic, a rhythm that spoke of love and longing. “I like this music,” he said. “It’s very soothing. Who is it?”

“Sade.”

“That’s a beautiful name. Is she a friend of yours?”

Hope gave a small snort of laughter, her first. “Hardly.”

“Yet you refer to her by her first name.”

“You’ve never heard of Sade?”

“I haven’t.” He looked over his shoulder, grinning at her tone of disbelief. “I don’t get out much.”

“Just as I suspected,” she murmured, with another little laugh.

He shifted the focus of his gaze, letting the window act as a mirror, reflecting Hope on the sofa. She looked different when she laughed, younger, her face open and unguarded.

She couldn’t be more than thirty, and he wondered about her: Who were her friends? What did she do for a living? Why had she tried to take her own life?

He had no illusions about the wound on her wrist—the way she’d shut down when he asked about it told him more than she realized.

“I like your apartment,” he told her, making small talk to keep her at ease. “What do you do for a living?”

She gave him a sharp upward glance that she wasn’t aware he’d seen, and cautiousness returned to her gaze. “Not very informed for a guardian, are you?”

“Just making conversation,” he answered lightly.

“I work with computers,” she told him shortly.

For a moment, he stayed quiet, merely watching her in the window. Her short blond hair suited her, displaying the bones of her face to advantage. Her features were anything
but
boyish: small and delicate, elegantly feminine.

He turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest. “You look tired.”

“Gee, thanks.” There was no mistaking the sarcasm that crept into her tone.

“I think you should go to sleep.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah? I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Yes, it is.”

She frowned, but before she could say anything further, he exercised a power that was as easy as breathing, and sent a wave of calm to wash over her, bathing her in peace. It wouldn’t last, of course, but it was enough to cause her eyes to close, and that was all it took; she slumped to the side as though drugged, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted.

Sherlock padded into the living room, furry gray tail held high, and leapt onto the couch beside her. Gabriel smiled at the faithfulness of such a fickle creature, further evidence of Hope’s kind nature.

“You were a stray, weren’t you?” he murmured to the cat, who answered him with half-closed eyes and the twitch of the tail.

Knowing patience was a virtue, Gabe took a seat in the chair opposite, content to watch over his charge while she slept. Perhaps, if he was lucky, she’d be in a better mood when she woke up, and might even cease to snap at him. His eyes roamed the room, lighting on yet another picture of Hope with her sister. Charity, she’d said her name was, and Gabe smiled grimly as he realized the irony: Hope and Charity, together as one. The one thing required, yet conspicuous by its absence, was Faith.