Free Gabriel's Angel by Nora Roberts Page A

that she couldn’t understand. Though he might paint for hours, his movements controlled and measured, he still seemed impatient to finish. The fact was, the portrait was coming along faster than she could ever have imagined. She was taking shape on canvas—or rather the woman he saw when he looked at her was taking shape. Laura couldn’t understand why he had chosen to make her look so otherworldly, so dreamy. She was very much a part of the world. The child she carried grounded her to it.
    But she’d learned not to complain, because he didn’t listen.
    He’d done other sketches, as well, some full-length, some just of her face. She told herself he was entitled, particularly if that was all the payment she could give him for the roof over her head. A few of the sketches made her uneasy, like the one he’d drawn when she’d fallen asleep on the sofa late one afternoon. She’d looked so . . . defenseless. And she’d felt defenseless when she’d realized that he’d watched her and drawn her while she was unaware of it.
    Not that she was afraid of him. Laura poked halfheartedly at the mixture of powdered milk, water and chocolate. He’d been kinder to her than she’d had any right to expect. And, though he could be terse and brusque, he was the gentlest man she’d ever known.
    Perhaps he was attracted to her. Men had often been attracted to her face. But whether he was or not he treated her with respect and care. She’d learned not to expect those things when there was attraction.
    With a shrug, she poured the liquid into a mug. Now wasn’t the time to focus on the feeling Gabe might or might not have. She was on her own. Fixing a mental image of creamy hot chocolate in her mind, Laura downed half the contents of the mug. She made a face, sighed, then lifted the mug again. In a matter of days she would be on her way to Denver again.
    A sudden pain had her gripping the side of the counter for support. She held on, fighting back the instinctive need to call for Gabe. It was nothing, she told herself as it began to ease. Moving carefully, she started into the living room. Gabe’s chopping stopped. It was in that silence that she heard the other sound. An engine? The panic came instantly, and almost as quickly was pushed down. They hadn’t found her. It was ridiculous to even think it. But she walked quickly, quietly, to the front window to look out.
    A snowmobile. The sight of it, shiny and toylike, might have amused and pleased her if she hadn’t seen the uniformed state trooper on it. Preparing to stand her ground if it came to that, Laura moved to the door and opened it a crack.
    Gabe had worked up a warm, healthy sweat. He appreciated being outdoors, appreciated the crisp air, the rhythm of his work. He couldn’t say that it kept his mind off Laura. Nothing did. But it helped him put the situation into perspective.
    She needed help. He was going to help her.
    There were some who knew him who would have been more than a little surprised by his decision. It wasn’t that anyone would have accused him of being unfeeling. The sensitivity in his paintings was proof of his capacity for emotion, passion, compassion. But few would have thought him capable of unconditional generosity.
    It was Michael who had been generous.
    Gabe had always been self-absorbed—or, more accurately, absorbed in his art, driven to depict life, with all its joys and pains. Michael had simply embraced life.
    Now he was gone. Gabe brought the ax down, his breath whistling through his teeth and puffing white in the thin air. And Michael’s leaving had left a hole so big, so great, that Gabe wasn’t certain it could ever be filled.
    He heard the engine when his ax was at the apex of his swing. Distracted, he let it fall so that the blade was buried in wood. Splinters popped out to join others on the trampled snow. With a quick glance toward the kitchen