Robin Schone (10 page)

Gabriel looked down on two men, one dark-haired, one fair-haired.

“Wasn’t it, Michael?” he asked disinterestedly. Playing the part.

Unable to fight. Unable to run.

“You were never jealous of me,
mon frere,”
Michael said decisively.

The truth would not be stopped.

“I have
always
been jealous of you, Michael.”

Gabriel had envied Michael as a thirteen-year-old boy—he had envied his need to love. Gabriel had

begrudged Michael as a man— he had begrudged his courage to love.

The violet eyes did not flicker, reading the truth in Gabriel’s gaze.

The love. The hatred.

“I didn’t understand six months earlier, Gabriel. But you and Anne made me realize the truth. You loved

me, and because of that love, you suffered. Out of that love, you protected me. I am certain my uncle

derived no end of enjoyment through your nobility and my ignorance.” Brief irony colored Michael’s voice,

instantly faded. “Just as I’m certain that he would have taken great pleasure in arranging your death in the

event of his own. For no other reason than to make me suffer. And I assure you, Gabriel, I would suffer if

you died.”

“So you think that your uncle left instructions for the second man to kill me in the event that he himself

was killed”—Gabriel spoke around the ball of chocolate-scented breath lodged inside his throat—”in order

to cause you pain?”

“That is exactly what he did, Gabriel,” Michael said unshakably.

“If that were the case, Michael, then were I you, I would not leave Anne unprotected. Her death would

cause you far greater suffering than that of my own.” An image of the earl rose before Gabriel, legs

twisted, faded violet eyes malevolent with hatred. “And I assure you, your uncle was very aware of that

fact.”

Doubt flickered inside Michael’s gaze, disappeared. “Anne is not alone. I have guards watching her in

addition to the men you’ve posted.”

Gabriel’s men were professionals: professional whores, professional thieves, professional cutthroats.

They should have been more efficient at concealing their presence.

“Guards can be bribed,” Gabriel said.

As could doormen.

“You won’t let anything happen to Anne.”

Michael spoke with soft assurance.

Three hours earlier Gabriel had possessed that same assurance.

That had been three hours ago.

He had thought the second man would kill a dark-haired angel, but he hadn’t. Instead he had sent a

fair-haired angel a woman.

A leading actress who was armed with neither weapons nor knowledge nor malice. And Gabriel did not

know
why.

“I may not be able to stop him,” Gabriel said truthfully.

“And the woman can?” Michael asked alertly.

“I don’t know.”

“What will you do with her?”

What would Gabriel do with a woman who desired him—a woman who accepted him?

A woman whom he desired?

“I don’t know.”

“Will you fuck her?”

How do you want to be tak en, mademoiselle?

I want to be tak en with respect. .
. because
I
am a woman.

The pulsating throb traveled up Gabriel’s arms, settled in his chest, his groin, his testicles.

“Will you kill her, Gabriel?” Michael deliberately persisted.

Burning wood collapsed in the fireplace, reality turning into ashes.

Michael had been burned by fire, but he still had not learned .. .

The pulsing increased until Gabriel did not know where it stopped or where it had begun. With a

thirteen-year-old boy or with a thirty-four-year-old woman.

“Which would you prefer that I do, Michael?” Gabriel asked tautly. “Fuck her or kill her?”

Michael’s pupils dilated until all Gabriel could see inside his eyes was a ring of violet circling a halo of

silver hair. “Six months earlier you wanted to help me.”

“I did the best that I could.”

Another lie cocooned in truth. Gabriel should have killed the first man outright instead of playing his

game.

“Let me take the woman.”

Six months earlier Gabriel had offered to take Michael’s woman. To save her from the first man.

History repeating itself.

“I can’t do that,
mon vieux.”
There was no regret in Gabriel’s voice, any more than there had been in

Michael’s voice when he had rejected Gabriel’s offer six months past. “She was sent to me, not to you.”

A woman for the untouchable angel.

“You’ve seen this game played out before, Gabriel.”

But he hadn’t seen this game played out before ...

“Do you think your uncle arranged a woman to be sent to me in order to lure me to my death?” Gabriel

taunted.

It was possible.

The first man could have arranged for Victoria to be dismissed from her position.

He had killed every person Michael had ever loved. Destroying one more life would not matter to a

dead man.

“I think you are far more vulnerable than you want to think you are.” Violet fire glittered inside Michael’

s eyes. “And yes, I believe my uncle knew that.”

Gabriel did not doubt it in the least.

“Sex was your pleasure, Michael, not mine,” he said flatly.

“You’re lying, Gabriel.”

Gabriel stiffened. It had been a long time since any one had called him a liar to his face.

“I do not advise you to call a man a liar when he has in his possession a gun and a knife,” Gabriel said

softly, “both of which he is proficient at using.”

There was no fear inside Michael’s eyes. “Then tell me you don’t want, Gabriel.”

“I don’t want this, Michael.” Truth vibrated in Gabriel’s voice.

“Tell me you don’t remember what it’s like to taste a woman. To touch a woman’s flesh,” Michael said

unflinchingly. Still unafraid.
But he should be.
“Tell me you don’t want to lose yourself inside a woman’s

pleasure.”

The distant bong of Big Ben penetrated wood and glass.

Gabriel remembered ... the men he had taken for money. The women he had taken for recompense.

“Tell me you don’t want a woman, Gabriel.” Gabriel’s pain flared in Michael’s eyes. “Say it, and make

me believe it.”

Gabriel couldn’t deny it.

But neither could he admit it.

I
don’t
want
to want.. .

“Go home, Michael,” Gabriel said.
Leave before the memories of pleasure overcome the memories of

pain.
“Go home to Anne.”

Anne with the pale brown hair and pale blue eyes.

Anne who had wished him a woman.
To mak e up for everything he endured.

“Why?” Michael challenged.

Prepared to stay. Prepared to die.

All for the love of a man who had twice aimed a pistol at his head.

There was no need for Gabriel to lie. “As long as you stay away,
mon vieux,
I will survive.”

And so would Michael.

Neither man blinked, breathed, moved.

The heat of Michael’s body and the scent of his chocolate-scented breath washed over Gabriel. If he did

not step back . . .

Gabriel balanced the hilt of the knife in his left hand, ivory warming to his flesh, conforming to his needs

—

Between one heartbeat and the next, Michael stepped back.

Gabriel breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of freshly brewed tea and wood smoke instead of chocolate.

“Is that why I did not receive an invitation?” Michael asked tersely.

“Perhaps.”

Perhaps Gabriel had not been able to pen an invitation requesting Michael attend the opening night of the

House of Gabriel, knowing the consequences of his actions. Or perhaps he had known that Michael would

be far more suspicious by not receiving an invitation than by receiving one.

Perhaps by not sending him an invitation, he had more surely secured Michael’s role in this play of which

he had no knowledge.

“Did you restrain the woman?”

Victoria had desired Gabriel, but she did not trust him.

She had thought he would kill her.

And so he should.

“No. I did not restrain her.”

Was she even now searching his bedchamber for a weapon to protect herself with?

Gabriel had removed the most obvious ones
,
but any object could become a weapon. A toothbrush. An

urn. A necktie.

He remembered the cane in his armoire. When twisted, the silver knob became the hilt of a short sword.

Michael had a cane with a gold knob instead of silver: both had been custom designed by the same man

with the sole purpose of killing.

Falsely, politely, wondering what he would do if Michael accepted, Gabriel invited, “Would you like to

meet her?”

Michael saw through Gabriel’s pretense. And accepted it. As he had always accepted Gabriel.

His past. His choices . ..

The thirteen-year-old boy he had been; the forty-year-old man he had become.

“I won’t let you die, Gabriel,” Michael said simply. “Remember that.”

Whereas Gabriel had all too willingly endangered Michael’s life.

Before Gabriel could respond—with a half-truth or a half lie— Michael turned. He paused at the desk.

His right elbow bent; at the same time his black dress coat strained across the width of his shoulders.

He could be reaching for a weapon.

Gabriel forced himself not to raise his derringer to fire off the first shot. Knowing he was too close to the

edge.

Michael was the only goodness that Gabriel had ever possessed.

A white envelope sliced through the air, landed beside the silver tray on the black marble desktop.

“It’s an invitation, Gabriel.” Michael did not turn around. He knew the danger that he was in. “Anne and

I are getting married.”

Michael. Anne.

Married.

For a second, Gabriel could not breathe.

“And what name shall you give her, Michael?” he lashed out. “Shall she be known as Madame des

Anges, or Lady Anne Sturges Bourne? Will she be the wife of a whore, or countess to the earl of

Granville?”

It was too late to take back the hurtful words.

Michael had not claimed the title that was his by law upon the death of his uncle. He did not deserve

Gabriel’s vindictiveness.

The words accomplished what Gabriel had earlier been unable to do: they drove Michael from Gabriel’s

office. Gabriel’s house.

Gabriel’s life.

The scent and the taste of chocolate lingered in his nostrils and on his tongue.

Michael would survive without Gabriel, but could Gabriel survive without Michael?

His gaze settled on the ragged wool reticule cradled by pale blue leather.

A street person would not bother stealing it. It would be worthless even on St. Giles Street, where the

meanest rags were picked apart for salable threads.

There was hunger in Victoria, but there was also pride.

It had taken care and patience to reduce her to the point where she would sell her virginity.

The dismissal from her post could have been engineered by the first man. Or it could have been

engineered by the second man.

When she had denied the possibility of a stranger orchestrating the auction of her hymen, the protest had

lodged inside her throat.

Her letters would determine if Victoria lied or told the truth.

They would let Gabriel know what to expect when he opened his bedroom door: an actress. Or an

assassin.

A woman who would love a male whore. Or a woman who would kill to escape poverty.

They would let him know whether she would live or she would die.

Victoria did not know what she looked for, she only knew she had to find something: a means to aid in

her escape; a weapon to protect herself with.

A key with which to lock the bedroom door.

Gabriel would not leave her alone much longer. Each breath, each heartbeat measured the passing

minutes.

Each breath, each heartbeat reminded her that at any moment he would catch her. And there was

nothing
she could do.

Victoria jerked open the bottom drawer in the satinwood chest.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled with sudden awareness.

“ ‘I know you, Victoria Childers.’ ”

Victoria froze.

“ ‘You want what every woman secretly yearns for.’ ”

The letters.

He had read them.

“ ‘You want to be kissed and caressed.’ ” Victoria scooted round, wool-protected knees sliding on

polished wood. She slapped her palms onto the floor to keep from falling; her hair swung on either side of

her head like twin pendulums.

The man—Gabriel—stood in the doorway, silver eyes gleaming, hair a silver halo. Matching silver glinted

in his hands.

She had not heard him open the door. But why should she have? she wondered in that part of her brain

that was still capable of reasoning. Victoria had not heard him open it when she stood directly behind him.

Now the entire bedchamber separated them.

He made no attempt to conceal the small snub-nosed pistol—the metal was shiny silver instead of dull

blue-black—and the lethal-looking knife that he held.

Neither were of a size or shape that could be concealed inside a women’s—or a man’s—body.

Victoria stared at the knife. The tip was jagged—like the teeth of a saw—the blade long, wide.

She had never seen anything like it.

Her gaze glanced off the knife, focused on the man instead of his weapons.