Falling Angel

by Anne Stuart

  One last time his conscience surfaced, and he reached behind his neck and took her cold, trembling hands in his, holding her at arm's length. "Carrie," he said gently. "You don't really want to do this. You told me you weren't into one-night stands and casual sex."

  "I lied. I've had dozens of men, Gabriel," she said, almost hiding her desperation. "I know when I want one. You're right about me, I have a saint complex. I need to take care of the world. But I don't need a relationship. I'm a big girl, I know when I have physical needs that need to be met."

  Her lies were astounding. And the final straw. Anyone who could kiss with such innocent, untutored longing and lie with such fluency was more than he could resist.

  "One night then," he said with a crooked grin. "One night of steamy sex, with no strings attached, is that it?"

  "That's it," she said, with a calm expression on her face and desperation in her eyes.

  He muttered something under his breath, something Augusta wouldn't approve of. And then, before he could change his mind, he scooped her up in his arms and started up the narrow stairs to the second floor.

  He wasn't used to being strong. And she weighed too damned little. He needed to fatten her up, feed her pasta and cheesecake, cannoli and croissants. But most of all he needed to love her. For her sake.

  And for his.

  The moonlight was coming through the frosted windowpanes in her bedroom, and Gabriel didn't bother turning on the light. He set her down on the bed, and Carrie kept her arms around his neck, pulling him down with her, afraid he would change his mind once more.

  At least she'd managed to convince him she knew what she wanted, even if she wasn't completely sure herself. For the first time in her life she wanted something just for her. She wanted Gabriel. And she wanted to feel alive again.

  He could wipe out the memory of Emerson MacVey. He could make her forget her guilt. One night, that was all she asked out of life. Tomorrow she'd go back to good deeds and sainthood, to denying herself. For now she would take what she needed.

  He covered her body with his long, muscular one, settling against her hips, and she could feel his arousal with a mixture of satisfaction and panic. He wouldn't leave her now. Not tonight. There was no turning back.

  And then he kissed her, and her fear vanished. His lips were soft, damp, brushing against hers, teasing them apart, and then he used his tongue, tasting her, arousing her, so that the cool Minnesota bedroom began to fade away, and all that existed was the mattress beneath her and the wonder of his mouth.

  He rolled to his side, taking her with him, his long legs tangled in hers, and his hands were sliding up underneath her cotton sweater, pulling it up. He broke the kiss long enough to pull it over her head, and she was lying there, skinny and cold, wearing only her plain white bra and baggy sweatpants, and she wondered whether he'd change his mind. He'd be used to gorgeous, voluptuous women, he'd be used to…

  He put his mouth on her breast, through the plain white cotton, and she arched off the bed in shocked reaction. He moved swiftly, stripping off the rest of her clothes, and she was shivering, telling herself it was from the chill in the bedroom, knowing it was from something far more elemental.

  He stretched out beside her, pulling her body against his fully clothed one, warming her, soothing her with his big hands. "I'm not going to hurt you, Carrie," he murmured in his slow, deep voice. "You can say no at any time."

  She believed him. Her fear vanished instantly. "Yes," she said. And she put her mouth against his.

  Her night with Emerson had been a blur of sex and wonder. This was different. Every touch, every taste was sharply delineated, etched in her mind. He moved his mouth across her collarbone, nipping, tracing a trail down to her breast, capturing the turgid peak and sucking at it. She made a quiet sound of intense pleasure, threading her hands through his thick, long hair, holding him there as his hands moved between her legs, touching her, with a feather-light touch that was reassuring, and then maddening, and then suddenly there, as she heard her voice choke on his name in the darkness.

  He stripped off his clothes swiftly, efficiently, almost before she had a chance to come down, and then he was kneeling between her legs, huge and shadowy in the darkness, and her momentary panic returned as he cupped her hips and pressed against her. She was still trembling, sensitive from what he'd already given her, and she jerked back with a quiet shriek. But he touched her again, soothing her, and then she was ready, she was more than ready, she would die if she didn't have him, and she clutched at him, pulling him toward her, and he sank into her, inch by merciless inch, huge and hard and yet velvet soft.

  She shifted on the bed to accommodate him, wrapping her legs around his hips, wondering if this was really going to work, when he finally sank into her fully, resting against her, his head cradled on her shoulder as they absorbed the sensations. She could feel herself rippling around him, and she wondered whether she could take much more. She'd had her pleasure—this was for him. A fair trade, and it was only slightly uncomfortable, and…

  "Second thoughts, Carrie?" he whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head, a complete lie. She owed him, she'd survive.

  He pulled back, just slightly, and surged into her before she had a chance to prepare herself. And it was glorious. She moaned in the back of her throat, and her fingers dug into his shoulders instinctively.

  "You weren't sure you were going to like that, were you?" he whispered, his voice low and sexy. "You were going to lie there like a martyr and suffer." He pushed into her again, and there was nothing saintlike about her gasp of pleasure.

  He pulled her hands from his shoulders, pushed them down on the mattress and threaded his fingers through hers. "This isn't about pain, or guilt. This is about life." And he put his mouth against her, hot and wet and open, as his body thrust deeply into hers.

  She shattered around him, instantly, shockingly, again, but he wasn't through with her yet. He knew how to prolong it, and he did, until she was sobbing, writhing, clutching at him, as he rocked against her over and over again. She was lost in some wild, crazy world of magic and dragons, sweat and desire and fulfillment that threatened to burn her to cinders, and it was endless, wondrous, an eternity that she never wanted to leave, when finally he went rigid in her arms, filling her completely, and she heard his voice, strangled, rasping in her ear. Calling her name across the white-clouded mists of time.

  She wanted to hold him in her arms as he slept. She wanted to savor what had happened, relive every moment. But it had been too much, too overwhelming, and her body had its own kind of wisdom. Even as she fought it, it simply shut down, and she was fast asleep before he even lifted his head.

  He didn't want to leave her. Didn't want to leave the hot, clinging warmth of her body, the frail yet strong cradle of her arms. He was ready for her again immediately, but he forced himself to pull away from her. She was sound asleep, her face shadowed with exhaustion and tears, and he wondered when she'd cried. If he'd made her cry.

  He pulled the covers over them, wrapping her body tightly against his. There was no way he could ignore the fact that he wanted her again, and he had every intention of enjoying that need. It was part of life, a life that was going to be taken from him again far too soon, and he was going to savor everything until that happened.

  He reached out and pushed her hair back from her tear-streaked face, and she murmured something in her sleep, nuzzling against his hand with age-old instinct. He could see the shadows beneath her eyes, and he considered calling himself every name in the book for taking advantage of her when she'd been weak and defenseless.

  Except that he hadn't. Whatever the consequences, what they'd shared had been glorious, eternal. And if he had to spend that eternity in hell for it, it might just have been worth it.

  He didn't sleep. He lay there in the moon-swept darkness, staring at the woman lying in his arms, drinking in the sight of her, shaken and shocked at the feelings burgeoning through the str
anger's body he'd inherited, the one that now felt fully like his own.

  He was in love with her. Emerson MacVey hadn't known how to love, but Gabriel Falconi did. Gabriel knew how to give his heart, even if it was a mortgaged one. One that had been nothing but a liability. As he lay there in the darkness, he considered the fanciful notion that if Emerson had ever once shared his heart it might not have exploded after thirty-two years. An interesting thought, but of no real importance in the scheme of things. Emerson was dead. It was up to Gabriel to salvage his soul.

  He slipped out of bed just as the sun was rising, still achingly hard. She slept on, a faint smile on her face, and he covered her with the quilt, tucking it around her slender body before he left the room silently.

  By the time she came downstairs, shy, sleepy, he'd managed to finish up the woodpile, stacking the logs in neat rows, enough for a long, cold winter. The wood stove was kicking out heat, the coffee was warm on the back burner, and he'd made muffins for her. Gabriel Falconi had unforeseen talents, including an aptitude for cooking. He just didn't have a gift for leaving well enough alone.

  He fed her, keeping her mouth busy so that she wouldn't say what she wanted to say. He could see it in her eyes, and it terrified him. As long as she didn't say it, he was safe, he had a chance. Once she said it, he was doomed.

  The house was banked against the winter, the windows caulked and tight. There was nothing more he could do, nothing that wouldn't be a major remodeling. Not that the place didn't need some solid work, but anything he started now would take months. And he'd be gone in less than two weeks. He had no reason to prolong being there except that he wanted to be with her, needed to be with her.

  He fed her pasta and Italian bread for lunch, brownies and ice cream for dessert. He made her cappuccino, improvising with the limited kitchen equipment she'd inherited from her grandparents, watched her as she drank the cinnamony brew and ate every last bit of whipped cream. And when she started to say something, he leaned over and stopped her mouth, tasting the coffee and cinnamon.

  When he went out to bring in more firewood she followed him, and just when he was expecting the worst, he ended up with a snowball smack in the middle of his chest. He'd responded appropriately, chasing after her, tossing her in the snow and rolling on top of her, until they were both frozen, breathless, laughing. And he'd kissed her again, and the snow began to melt beneath them, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep from making love to her one last time.

  They made it as far as the living room sofa. He stripped her snow-damp clothes off her as they went, leaving a trail through the kitchen. He kept her so busy she didn't realize that he wasn't letting her touch him, kiss him, caress him. He'd survive this if he could give to her, do for her. If he accepted anything in return he'd be doomed.

  She was looking up at him, laughing, when they sank down onto the sofa, and then her laughter stilled as he filled her, thrusting deep, no longer afraid of hurting her. She arched up to meet him, her body tight around him, her arms clinging to him, her face pressed against his shoulder, and it was fierce, hot and fast, a firestorm of passion that was immediate and eternal, that left them both panting, sated, silent, with only the stillness of the winter afternoon around them, and the crackle of the wood stove breaking the quiet.

  He held her, his eyes closed, unwilling, unready to face what he knew would come next, held her, knowing he had to let her go. If Augusta had thought to punish him, she couldn't have come up with a better torment. Even hell would pale compared to the thought of leaving Carrie.

  And then he released her, surging to his feet and disappearing into the kitchen. He picked up the trail of clothes he'd pulled off her. He was still wearing his jeans, and he refastened them, rebuttoning his flannel shirt.

  She lay curled up on the sofa, a secret, satisfied smile on her face. She looked up at him when he dropped her discarded clothes on top of her, and opened her mouth to tell him she loved him.

  He stopped her. "I'll make some coffee," he said. "You stay put."

  She smiled lazily. "Are you certain you don't have Scandinavian blood in you? You drink coffee like a Swede."

  He had no idea what kind of blood he had in his veins. Whatever kind it was, it was only borrowed. He managed to return her smile, holding himself back from her when he wanted to pull her into his arms. "I used to drink tea."

  It was her turn to look startled. "I knew a man who drank tea once," she said in a quiet voice.

  Damn, and double damn. "Did you? Only one? I know it's a rare taste nowadays," he said, trying to get the right teasing note in his voice.

  But she simply looked at him, confusion darkening her wide blue eyes. "Only one," she said. "Until you." And he knew she wasn't talking about a taste for Earl Grey.

  It was already getting dark, the December afternoon closing down around them. He sat at the kitchen table, a mug of black coffee in his hand, and stared out into the twilight, trying to summon up the strength to leave her. He could hear her rummaging around in the living room, humming beneath her breath, a Christmas carol, and he told himself the dangerous moment over the tea had passed. There was no way she could connect him with the heartless bastard who'd destroyed her life.

  She came into the kitchen, coming up behind him, threading her arms around his neck, pressing his head back against her soft breasts, and he could barely stifle a groan. He couldn't stop her this time. He couldn't kiss her into silence, feed her into stillness.

  "I love you," she said softly. "You know that, and you've been terrified I was going to tell you. You've been trying to shut me up all day, but it's really nothing to be afraid of." She kissed the side of his face, and his eyes fluttered closed in sudden despair. "It's odd, but it seems like I've always loved you. Even when I was in love with someone else, it seems as if it was you. Ridiculous, isn't it?"

  He held himself stiff and still in the cradle of her arms. "I thought you wanted uninvolved sex?" he said in a harsh voice.

  "I lied," she said simply, pressing her face against his, following his sightless gaze out into the evening. "I wanted you."

  Damned. Damned to hell and back, and he knew it. He'd earned it twice over in this lifetime and the last. He'd taken a woman who was aching and vulnerable, one who was ready to love. He'd taken her, and he was going to abandon her, this time not by his choice but by the cruelties of fate. He'd been given a chance to save her, and he'd only brought her back to the same vulnerable state he'd left her in the last time.

  Damn him, he deserved it, he thought bitterly. He deserved the torments of eternity. But she didn't.

  He pulled out of her arms carefully, rising from the table and looking at her. He had no choice in leaving her, but he could choose when and how. He could stay with her now, love her for the next two weeks, and abandon her on Christmas Eve without a word of explanation.

  Or he could act like a bastard here and now, and make her realize she was well rid of him.

  It was no choice at all. The second option would hurt him, start his punishment just a little bit early. It gave her a hope of salvation.

  "I'd better be getting back," he said, his voice cool and distant. "Lars and Maggie will be wondering where I am. You're able to take care of yourself by now, aren't you?"

  In the shadowy kitchen he could see the color drain from her face. She took a wary step back from him, searching for something to protect her, and he wanted to put his arms around her, to smooth the pain from her face.

  Instead he reached for his coat, hanging on a peg near the door. "If you need anything just give Maggie a call," he said, shrugging into it.

  "I'll do that," she said, her voice cool and lifeless.

  He managed a jaunty smile. "And keep eating. You don't want to get run-down again. I won't be here next time you get pneumonia."

  She flinched, so slightly another man might not have noticed. "No, you won't," she said evenly. "I haven't thanked you…"

  "Consider me well rewarded," he said with a delibera
te leer.

  He might have pushed her too far. Her hands clenched, and he wondered if she was going to hit him. And what he'd do if she did.

  She managed a faint smile. "Goodbye, Gabriel," she murmured.

  It was worse than the heart attack that had exploded in his chest and ended up killing him. Worse than the paramedics beating on him, worse than the thought of an eternity roasting in the fires of hell.

  And it was all he could do for her. "Goodbye, babe," he said, heading out into the frosty night air.

  He didn't dare look back. If he saw her crying he wouldn't be able to stand it. Lars's truck started instantly with a low, throaty rumble, and he backed out her driveway, at the last minute glancing in the window. He could see her silhouette standing there, very still, very proud.

  She'd make it, he told himself. She was tough, too tough to let a turkey like Emerson MacVey get to her twice in a lifetime. She'd survive.

  Thank God, he wouldn't.

  No one seemed surprised at his reappearance at the Swensen family home. Alexander Borodin had just left, and the place was in an uproar.

  "A fortune, Gabriel," Lars boomed out. "The man has offered me a fortune."

  "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," Maggie said, unable to keep the light of hope out of her eyes.

  "I thought he was Russian," Gabriel managed to drawl.

  "He's an American, by God," Lars said. "Same as you and me."

  "A very rich American, " Nils piped up. "He's renovating a string of exclusive hotels all over the world, and he's offered Pop the job of redoing the woodwork. There's enough work to last into the year two thousand and beyond."

  He'd blown it, Gabriel thought in sudden misery. It had all backfired. "You'll leave here, then?" he asked in a carefully neutral voice.