Gabriel's Rapture by Reynard, Sylvain (best pdf reader for ebooks .TXT) 📗

“You do?”

“I’ll have to give myself a pep talk first, but I think it’s feminine and very pretty. I love the shoes. Thank you.”

Gabriel’s shoulders relaxed. He wanted to ask her to try his gifts on. He wanted to see her in those shoes—perhaps perched atop the bathroom counter with him between her legs—but he kept his desires to himself.

“Um, I need to explain something.” Julia took his hand, weaving their fingers together. “I can’t wear it tonight.”

“I’m sure that after the past two days wearing something like that would be the last thing you’d want to do.” Gabriel stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “Especially with me.”

“It will be a little while before I can wear it.”

“I understand.” He began to extricate his fingers.

“I tried to explain this to you last night but, uh, I didn’t quite finish.”

He stilled.

“Um, I’m having my period.”

Gabriel’s mouth dropped open slightly. Then he closed it. He pulled her into his arms, embracing her warmly.

“That wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.” Julia’s voice was muffled by his chest. “Maybe you didn’t hear me?”

“So last night—it wasn’t because you didn’t want me?”

She pulled back in surprise. “I’m still upset about what happened with Paulina, but of course I want you. You always make me feel special when we make love. Right now, I’m not going to go there. Or actually, have you go there. Uh, you know what I mean.” She grew flustered.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Gabriel kissed her forehead. “I have other plans for you.”

He led her by the hand to the spacious washroom, pausing to press play on the stereo. The strains of Sting’s “Until” began to fill the room as they disappeared through the door.

* * *

Paulina sat up, wide-awake in a strange bed in Toronto, covered in a cold sweat. No amount of repetition made the dream vary in its events or its terror. No amount of vodka or pills could remove the ache in her chest or the tears from her eyes.

She reached for the bottle by the bed, knocking the hotel’s alarm clock off the nightstand. A few shots and a few small, blue pills and she would fall asleep again, letting the darkness take her.

She could not be comforted. Other women could have a second child to assuage the loss of their first. But she would never bear a child. And the father of her lost baby no longer wanted her.

He was the only man she’d ever loved, and she’d loved him from afar and then she’d loved him close by, but he’d never loved her. Not really. But he was too noble to cast her off like the used piece of goods she was.

As she sobbed into her pillow, her head spinning, she mourned a double loss aloud—

Maia.

Gabriel…

Chapter 13

Professor Giuseppe Pacciani wasn’t virtuous, but he was clever. He didn’t believe Christa Peterson when she declared that she was willing to meet him for a sexual rendezvous. In order to ensure that their liaison actually happened, he withheld the name of Professor Emerson’s Canadian fidanzata on condition that Christa meet him in Madrid in February.

Christa was unwilling to wait that long or to sleep with him again in order to ferret out the information, so she didn’t respond to his last email. She decided to regroup and find an alternative way of discovering the name of Professor Emerson’s fiancée.

It could be said that she was jealous and that this was her primary reason for wondering who had successfully captured the Professor’s attention when she had failed (inexplicably). It could be said that she’d begun to nurse a suspicion about a certain doe-eyed brunette, ever since Professor Emerson had almost come to blows with that student over a mistress called Paulina.

But perhaps the most accurate explanation was her new and rather prurient fascination with the rumors she’d heard about Professor Singer and her not-so-secret lifestyle. When Professor Emerson embraced her after his lecture at the University of Toronto, it set a good number of tongues wagging. Christa’s tongue was among them.

Perhaps Giuseppe was wrong. Perhaps the Professor did not have a fidanzata after all. Perhaps he had a Mistress.

In order to solve this very juicy mystery, Christa contacted an old flame from Florence who wrote for La Nazione, hoping that he would provide her with information about Professor Emerson’s personal life. While she waited for a response, she focused on an information source closer to home. In the Vestibule, all sins would be revealed.

Professor Emerson’s marked absence from Lobby began the evening she tried to seduce him. So, she reasoned, his relationship with his fiancée must have begun around that time. Previously, he hadn’t cared who he hooked up with or when. Or perhaps he and his fiancée had been involved only causally until that fateful night. It was possible that the Professor was far from monogamous in his relationship and that he’d had a fiancée all along, although such an attachment would have likely made the rounds of the rumor mill.

(Toronto is, after all, a small town.)

Christa’s way forward was clear. It was likely that the Professor and his fiancée had visited Lobby sometime over the course of the winter semester, since it appeared to be his watering hole of choice. All she needed to do was to find someone who worked at the club and pump him for information.

Late on a Saturday night, Christa stalked the staff at Lobby, trying to discover the weakest link. She sat at the bar, absolutely ignoring the tall, blond American woman who was there for the same purpose, having just flown in from Harrisburg. Christa’s full, red lips curled back in disgust when the woman pulled out her iPhone and spoke very loudly in Italian to a maître d’ called Antonio.

As the night wore on, Christa soon realized her options were few. Ethan had a serious girlfriend, which meant that he wouldn’t be ripe for the picking. More than one of