Gabriel David's White Horse

by Gina Watson

  “You’re acting weird.”

  She attempted to relieve his anxiety with a smile, “I’m just surprised to see you.”

  “My father died. I’m here putting his affairs to rest.”

  They weren’t close…Victor and his father. However, no matter what Victor had said, she knew he’d desired a more intimate relationship with his father. On more than one occasion she’d seen his eyes swimming with tears when they’d watched movies about father and son. It happened when the movies ended—especially when they ended happily. He’d deny the tears, blaming it on allergies or an eyelash, but she knew what was up. She reached for his cheek, cupping her hand to his jaw. “I’m so sorry about your father, Victor. Come back to my place.”

  “What about Cara?”

  “She’s in New York for her internship.”

  “You must be missing her.”

  “I’m dying.”

  Belle climbed into her Saturn SUV. It was sad about Victor’s father. She would have supported Victor if he’d only called or texted that he needed her. But he hadn’t.

  Victor’s father had been a Baton Rouge businessman. It was Belle’s guess that he was here alone dealing with the death of his father. In the rearview mirror she saw his mid-sized rental car as he followed behind her. How long would he be here this time? Ultimately he’d leave, he always did.

  Using the hands-free car feature, she rang Cara.

  “Mom! Hey, I missed you.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Cara. How’s New York?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, everything is fine.”

  “You sound depressed.”

  “I want to hear about your internship.”

  “Mom, talk to me.”

  “It’s just…Victor’s in town.”

  Cara clicked her tongue and sighed into the phone. “Send him on his way, Mom.”

  “He’s sort of following me back to the house.”

  “Remember what we talked about? You promised you wouldn’t do this. And what the hell is he doing back so soon?”

  “His father just died.”

  “I’m sorry.” She exhaled noisily into the phone. “You don’t have to sleep with him to offer him comfort, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Promise me you won’t.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No. Promise.”

  “I’m lonely, Cara. It would feel nice to be held.”

  “Just use that rabbit dildo I got you before I left.”

  Belle laughed into the phone. “God Cara, I miss you so much it’s painful.”

  “I miss you too, Mom. But I’m loving the work here. I’m researching Leopold’s reign in the Congo.”

  Belle’s nose scrunched up, but she was over the moon with pride for her studious daughter. “Wow! That sounds awesome.”

  “Cut the bullshit. What I think we’ll both agree is awesome is that the other day, while I was waiting in line for coffee, Tina Fey walked in and lined up behind me.”

  “Shut up! That is way cool.”

  “I know…I tried hard not to geek out, but I think I stared a bit too long anyway. Mom, have you seen or heard from Max?”

  “No, but I don’t think anyone else has either.”

  “Did you go over to his house like I asked?”

  “Yeah, and that’s what I’m talking about. I only spoke with the cleaning lady but she said he hadn’t been around in a few weeks.”

  “He’s set me up with an apartment on Madison Avenue. Wait until you come see it. You can see the park!”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Oh…I gotta go, Mom. I just called to say I love you and I miss you tons.”

  “I love you baby, take care.”

  She would do it…for Cara she would do it. Victor Palmer wouldn’t charm his way into her knickers on this visit.

  Pulling into the driveway she smiled at the lighted path lined with the blooms of marigolds and daisies. She’d planted them to keep herself occupied the week Cara had left. She’d even touched up the black shutters and sanded and repainted the door. The white trim looked especially clean against the dark door, even at night. Victor opened her car door and offered his hand. He was nothing if not a charmer. “House looks great.”

  “Thanks”—she placed her delicate hand in his large one—“I’ve been touching up the paint.”

  Inside, Victor took a seat in the red-velvet chair. Belle loved that chair. He fussed with the pillows, pulling them from behind his back and tossing them on the couch. She giggled. He looked more than a little silly in the feminine living room. From the chandeliers down to the velvet furniture and satin window treatments, hers was definitely a girl’s home.

  “How about some whiskey?” She asked.

  “I could use a finger or two.”

  The home was small and in four steps she stood in the cream and powder-blue kitchen. She removed glasses from the cupboard and poured the whiskey. The amber liquid had her recalling the last time he’d blown through town. She’d spiraled into what Cara referred to as one of her episodes. She hated to be weak, but she had no control over it.

  “Here you are.” She placed the glass in his hand and moved to sit on the couch. With his masculine hand he pulled her toward his lap. When she resisted he pulled her down hard and she fell across him.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Her legs rested over the arm of the chair and the furniture groaned under their weight.

  “You’re going to break my chair.”

  “And you’re going to break my heart.”

  Belle scoffed and turned from his arsenal of charms, “Highly unlikely.” From her position across his lap, she watched the masculine muscles of his neck work as he took a swallow of whiskey. The liquor was the same color as his skin and a trickle dribbled from his chin, landing on her chest. She lifted her hand to wipe it, but was deflected by him. He held her hand and bent his head to her chest. His moves had always been as smooth as silk. His rich sandalwood scent hit her nostrils and then his velvet tongue lapped up the drops on her chest. Her back arched on its own accord and she felt the control seep from her veins. Tilting her head back, Belle closed her eyes and let him free her breasts from the dress she wore. His moans vibrated through her as his lips closed around a nipple.

  Her eyes flew open when his hand started an ascent up her thigh. It was then that she saw Cara’s picture in the blue rhinestone frame on the built-in living room shelf. It had been taken the day of her graduation from college. “Stop. Victor. Stop.” She pushed at his shoulders and he slowly sat up.

  “Stop?” He wore an incredulous frown.

  Belle quickly got to her feet and righted her clothes. She perched on the edge of the couch at a safe distance from his reach. “I want to talk about your father.”

  He shook his head, “I don’t.” His sultry stare burned her skin so she looked just past him.

  “What do you need from me, Victor? I can help you put his affairs to rest.”

  “What I need is for you to stand up and complete a striptease, and then I need to feast on your beautiful body.” His eyes narrowed and his head lowered. He stood and stalked toward her like a predator.

  “Victor, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Belle, what are you talking about?” He had her backed against the wall, her hands in his, massaging gently with his thumbs.

  “What I mean is I can’t do this with you anymore.” She really needed him to understand this…especially if he would be in town for a while. There could be no sex between them. Not any more.

  “But I need you, Mirabelle.”

  Her name from his lips forced the air from her lungs and she whispered, “No, Victor.”

  He looked at her hands, his demeanor serious. “Will you tell me what’s changed?”

  For six years, whenever he came to town, she’d shared his bed. Belle could understand his confusion at her resistance. “Can we sit?”

  “Lead the
way.”

  They sat on the beige and mint-green striped loveseat. Once again, Victor removed three decorative throw pillows and threw them on the red chair. “So Belle, why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  “I know when you come to town we usually hook up but”—

  “We don’t hook up. We’re passionate and exacting. I know how to make your body sing and you know how to make mine fly.”

  Belle crossed her legs at the ankles and clasped her hands over her knees. “Very poetic. I agree. So, when you come to town we do…that. It’s bliss. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do for the rest of eternity than lie with you naked in bed, but I have a bit of a condition.”

  He frowned, concerned. “A condition?”

  “It’s described to me as depression, but I don’t normally feel sad. But there are triggers. You leaving is one of them. It’s hard and I turn into someone I don’t want to be. I don’t know how I’d manage it if we were to be together any more than we already are. If you were to be around for a while and then you were to leave I’m afraid of what may happen to my sanity. It’s a self preservation thing.”

  “Belle, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Aside from our amorous activities, I don’t know you all that well. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Look, Belle, I never wanted to hurt you.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands together as if saying a prayer and rested his forehead on them. “In a perfect world you and I would have given it a go and it would have been spectacular.”

  “It would have been.”

  “You deserve spectacular.” He squeezed her knee. He pressed his lips to her cheek, and then he stood. “I’ve had several ounces of alcohol and won’t be able to keep my hands off of you. To uphold your wish, I should make my way toward my hotel room and a cold shower.”

  At the door they hugged.

  “May I pop in tomorrow, Belle?”

  “Of course.”

  Later that night, as Belle lay in bed she smiled. Happy with herself about how she’d maintained control of the situation with Victor, she rolled onto her side and fell into a deep restful sleep full of dreams and the beautiful stranger from the meadow.

  Chapter Three

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Mirabelle rolled over and moaned at the unpleasant sound invading what had been a dream-filled sleep. An erotic, dream-filled sleep.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Whoever was on the other side of the door was a dead person! She reluctantly rolled from bed and grabbed her satin robe from the bed. On the way to the door she shrugged into the cool material.

  She played with the series of locks on the front door, but in her sleepy haze, couldn’t get the sequence quite right. “Dammit!” She tried again, this time concentrating. Finally the door cracked and Mirabelle squinted from the oppressive light. Once her eyes adjusted to the intrusion, her eyes found him—the man from her dreams.

  His celadon eyes wide on her quickly lasered to thin slits like vest pockets. He was younger than her—thirties, but a rough thirty something like he’d worked out in the sun. With its dark roots and light ends, his thick, shoulder length hair added credibility to her theory. He stood before her in worn, fitted jeans and a worn cotton T-shirt whose softness beckoned for her fingertips. His size filled her porch stoop and she’d wondered if she’d ever seen a man so large.

  “Mirabelle.” The syllables of her name dripped lazily from his lips like he’d been searching for her for ages and was now glad to be home.

  His was the kind of physique that made her glad she was a woman. The muscle in his arms bulged, as did his thighs under the denim. Forgotten were the death threats she’d made to the person on the other side of the door. Lustful thoughts took their place. “H-hi.” Her voice squeaked. Come on Belle, you can do better than that. She coughed to clear her throat and to hide the pitch break. “Hello.” There that was better. Sultry and low.

  “You’re Mirabelle.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” And yet she must—he’d haunted her dreams for years, but she thought he was just that…a dream. God, he was sexy. His penetrating olive-green gaze rested heavily on her and she found it difficult to breathe. Belle moved to lean against the jamb and her tits rubbed against the silk of her negligée, letting her know that they had become needy hard points.

  “The stables. There was a wild horse.” His voice ignited chills—good chills—along her arms and the back of her neck.

  “Name of an angel,” she whispered.

  “Pardon?” He tilted his chin at her.

  “Gabriel,” she managed.

  His jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly. “I thought you were a dream.”

  “I thought you were too,” she whispered, unable to keep her unblinking eyes from him. “Please, come in.” She stepped aside allowing him passage.

  Inside the small home he found his way to the loveseat. When he sat, his long legs extended all the way to the round coffee table. “Can I get you some tea or coffee?”

  “Tea would be great.” Deep and raspy, his was the kind of voice that wound its way around a woman’s hips.

  “Iced or hot?”

  “Iced.”

  “Sugar?” She asked as she walked away from him.

  “No thanks.”

  In the kitchen she poured tea over ice in two glasses and inconspicuously kept one eye on him. He sat up board straight and as still as a stifling summer day. He wet his lips and pressed them together while his eyes took in her home. Heat bloomed in her chest.

  She passed him a glass of tea and he accepted. “Thank you.”

  Belle took her glass to the red chair where Victor had sat last night and attempted to seduce her. “What’s on your mind?”

  He took a swallow of tea and pressed those damn thick lips together. His head shook ever so slightly as he formulated his thoughts. “I don’t know where to start.”

  He raked fingers over his close, well-trimmed beard. She’d like to do that for him. Instead she took a large sip of tea to cool her sizzling brain. “How did you come to knock on my door?”

  “Max told me you look enough like Cara to be her twin sister.”

  “That’s awfully nice of Max, but highly deceptive and that really provokes more questions than answers.” She smiled and sipped from her glass.

  “You’re right. It is deceptive, you look nothing like your daughter.”

  She frowned. He was peculiar and possibly a tad rude, though he didn’t seem aware of it.

  “You have a widow’s peak,” his index and middle fingers rubbed against the top middle of his forehead. “Your eyes have more gray in them…the color of a heavy, gray fog. Your eyebrows arch higher giving you a naturally sexy come-hither stare.

  Yeah, she’d been told she had bedroom eyes. It wasn’t always desirable.

  “Your lips find it hard to close around your top teeth and so they peek through. Your lips are the color of apricots, Cara’ are the color of raw tuna. And you have a birthmark on your temple, in your hair. It’s the shape of a bird and there’s a fraction of a scar on your lip. It causes your smile to be a little skewed to the right.”

  She just remembered he was an artist. His ability to see everything was unsettling and she pulled her hair to cover the dark mark on the side of her face.

  “So you’re here for Cara? I’m afraid—”

  “No. I’m here for you.” He leaned forward, placing his glass on the coffee table at his knees. “Ten years. I’ve been chasing you. Vapor. I was convinced you weren’t real—I tried to substitute my work with different models, but the soul and the strokes never coalesced.” He steepled his hands before his face and inhaled. “A few weeks ago I found Cara. At first I thought she was you, but upon closer inspection realized she wasn’t, just a close likeness. A usable likeness.”

  “Usable?”

  “That day at the stables, you saw the white horse.”

  “I did. An
d so did you.”

  “I’d like to get your depiction of that day.”

  She moved the cold glass to her other hand. “I was waiting for Cara to finish her riding lesson. While I waited something caught my eye and I followed. The rolling landscape itself is gorgeous—you don’t get so much of that in these parts. But the horse demanded attention. Wild and free, he made me want to follow and capture a little of that spirit. I thought if I could get close enough maybe I could touch him. His hair was as white as a quartz beach and I knew if I could just close my fingers around it, it would feel as soft as velvet.”

  He watched her intently and so she continued. “When he ran, his hair harmonized with the rolling movement of his muscles, like waves at sea.” Everything about the scene reminded her of the beach. She chanced a glance at Gabriel. He was no longer looking directly at her. She picked up her tea glass and sipped, hoping to quiet her lips.

  “I remember the horse, but I remember the sheer, white gown you wore even more.”

  God, his voice could melt the panties right off of a woman. The rainstorm they’d been caught in had rendered the gown she’d worn that day transparent. She watched him from her side vision. He stared at his hands and she imagined he was deep in thought. There was a comfort about him that made her feel like she genuinely knew him. “You’re an artist.”

  He sighed and leaned back into the couch. “If I were an artist I would be able to finish painting my exhibit from memory. Instead I have twenty-eight canvases with a white horse and no Mirabelle. After I saw you that day I attempted in vain to find you. When I searched the fields you were gone. I asked everyone, but the only thing I had to go on was the name Mirabelle.”

  The way he said her name in his deep, scratchy voice gave her chills. His speech was slow, sensual, and precise. Their first names were the only words they’d shared. She’d made Harmony swear to her that she wouldn’t give any of her information to Gabriel. She’d been conscious of their attraction, but had a child to raise and didn’t need the heartache that would inevitably come from connecting with him. She and Cara had been through that enough with Cara’s father. Belle had sensed his boredom. She’d predicted he’d leave. What she hadn’t predicted was that he’d never return to see his daughter. He owed Belle nothing, they’d never even married. But he owed Cara everything.