Sandra's Classics - The Bad Boys of Romance - Boxed Set

by Sandra Marton

  His face gave nothing away. ‘Good guesses, that’s all. But I’m not sure I know the real you.’

  Her pulse tripped. ‘The real me?’

  James nodded. His pale eyes held hers. ‘ I re­alized last night, I know very little about Gabrielle Shelton.’

  ‘There’s not much to know. My father died a few months ago and I decided to start my life over. So I came here, to New Orleans...’

  ‘You make it sound simple.’

  The tone of his voice made her head come up. He was watching her narrowly, a smile on his face, but the smile looked as if it had been pasted on.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugged. ‘It must be hard to leave everyone you care about.’

  She shook her head. ‘I told you, my father died. He was all I had.’

  James’s eyes were fixed on hers. ‘Surely there was someone else?’

  ‘No. No one.’

  ‘No one?’ His voice was soft, almost a whisper. ‘No one at all?’

  She thought of Tony Vitale—Uncle Tony—and she hesitated.

  ‘There was—there was someone,’ she said finally. ‘But it wasn’t—it didn’t...’

  ‘A man.’ His voice was flat.

  Their eyes met.

  His expression was dark and un­readable; she had the sudden feeling that he knew she carried a burden within her, a secret that had become too heavy to bear. Suddenly, crazily, the desire to tell him the truth almost overwhelmed her.

  She looked down at the table. Bacon fat had congealed on her plate; the sight of it made her feel naus­eated and her stomach rose involuntarily. Finally she nodded her head.

  ‘Yes.’ The admission made her dizzy. ‘A man. My...’ she hesitated, then swallowed hard. ‘My uncle.’

  James leaned across the table. ‘Tell me about him, Gabrielle.’

  She looked up at him.

  She was tired of carrying her old identity hidden inside herself.

  And yet, how could she unburden herself to a stranger?

  Even if she did, where would she begin?

  There was her father’s illness and the trial she’d walked away from; there was the man she called ‘Uncle’ whom others called a criminal; there were the cruel lies the tabloids had woven about her.

  ‘Did you leave New York because of him?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ James’s voice was soft. ‘What does that mean?’

  Gabrielle ran her tongue across her lips. ‘I can’t—I can’t explain. I told you, it’s complicated.’

  James drew a deep breath. ‘This uncle of yours—did you love him?’

  The question seemed a strange one to ask. His voice was dispassionate, almost removed. Gabrielle lifted her eyes to his; her breath caught at the fierce sharpness of his stare.

  ‘No,’ she said, surprise triggering her unplanned re­sponse. ‘I didn’t.’ An overpowering memory of the way Vitale had taken to touching her made her shiver. ‘I thought I did once, but...’

  ‘But?’ James’s tone was edged.

  Gabrielle drew a shuddering breath. ‘It isn’t easy to explain,’ she said softly. ‘He was very good to me, James. He—he gave me everything. He paid for everything...’ She fell silent. James must think she was crazy.

  He was watching her with such a strange look on his. face, his eyes narrowed until she could only see the palest glint of blue behind his dark lashes. Half of what she’d said made no sense, and half sounded like a bad soap opera, murky and heavy with tragedy.

  She felt as if she’d been teetering on the edge of a precipice. She’d come far too close to saying things she shouldn’t.

  It was impossible to tell this story to anyone without its sounding like a hackneyed catastrophe.

  That was one of the reasons she’d decided never to talk about that part of her life again. The other reason was even more important.

  She had had enough of raised eye­brows and sly looks when people learned she was Gabrielle Chiari. She knew beyond certainty that the only way to forget the past was to bury it.

  ‘I told you,’ she said finally, ‘it’s hard to explain.’ Their eyes met and Gabrielle managed a quick smile. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about yourself.

  I don’t know a thing about you, James. I’

  His hand closed over hers. ‘Have you finished with this man or is he still in your life?’

  ‘James, please. I told you’

  ‘Just answer the question.’ His fingers tightened on hers. ‘How do you feel about him now?’

  She sighed deeply. It was as if his eyes were drawing the answers to his questions from her.

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think—sometimes I think I’m done with him. But then I remember—I remember the way it was, the way it used to be...’

  ‘You mean, you remember the things he used to give you. The gifts.’

  She looked at him, surprise etched into her face. ‘No,

  I didn’t mean’

  ‘This is an expensive house. Did you buy it with his money?’

  His voice was as hard as forged steel and just as cold.

  Her head came up sharply and she looked at him, cheeks flushed. ‘My father’s insurance policy was the down payment. And I don’t think I like the way you said that, James.’

  His lips drew back from his teeth. ‘I was only re­peating your words, Gabrielle. You said he gave you things.’

  ‘Yes. But you—you gave it a different meaning. He was my uncle, but you made it sound...’ Her breath caught; suddenly, all her suspicions about him were re­awakened. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered, pulling her hand from his. ‘What do you want from me?’

  He stared at her while the kitchen clock ticked away the seconds, and then a crooked smile twisted across his face.

  ‘I wish to hell I knew,’ he said.

  ‘I—I don’t understand.’

  ‘Gabrielle.’ His hand tightened on hers and he leaned towards her. ‘Let me help you. You can’t run forever.’

  Her face paled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not a fool, Gabrielle. Let me help you. I know you’re running from something.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said quickly. ‘I told you, my father’s death was hard for me.’ She pulled her hand from his; her chair squeaked as she pushed it back and got to her feet. ‘It only hurts to talk about the past.’

  ‘You can’t ignore the past, dammit!’ James’s tone was harsh. ‘You have to make peace with it. If you don’t, sooner or later it’ll catch up with you.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Gabrielle turned away and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘If I let myself believe that, I’d never be able to face tomorrow. The past is over,’ she said in a voice that trembled. ‘It has to be.’

  She heard the rasp of James’s chair as he shoved back from the table, then the drag of a crutch as he moved towards her.

  ‘It can’t be over if you’re still running from it.’

  ‘I told you, I’m not. You don’t even know what I’m talking about, James!’

  ‘I know that you have to face whatever you’re afraid of. Face it squarely and then you can put it behind you.’ He put his free hand on her shoulder and clasped her tightly. ‘If you don’t, you’ll never be able to get on with your life.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered.

  . ‘I want to,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me what you’re afraid of, Gabrielle. Trust me. Let me help you.’

  She felt herself tremble beneath his touch.

  She thought of last night and how he’d held her and comforted her, how he’d kissed away her tears—and how she’d spent the night wondering what it was he wanted from her. ‘Trust me,’ he’d said.

  She did. Didn’t she? Hadn’t she made peace with her fears?

  She must have; she’d taken James Forrester into her home, hadn’t she? Surely that meant something?

  She turned towards him. M
aybe it was time to believe in someone. Maybe that someone was James. Maybe...

  Gabrielle’s hand flew to her mouth. How could she have been so selfish? Caught up in her own misery, she’d all but forgotten how ill he was. The aspirin hadn’t done any good at all: his color was ashen, his eyes dark slits in his taut face. Her eyes moved over the gash on his cheek, where the stitches rose darkly against the swollen and reddened skin.

  ‘James,’ she said, ‘you look terrible.’

  His expression remained implacable. Then, slowly, a smile curved over his mouth. ‘Flattery will get you no­where,’ he said. ‘But that’s one hell of a way to change the subject.’

  ‘Here, lean on me and let me get you back to the chair.’ She put her arm around his waist and led him to the table. ‘There. Sit down. That’s it. Do you want to put your leg on this footstool? I should have thought of it before I--’

  He caught her hand as she knelt beside him.

  ‘Gabrielle. Tell me what you were going to say a minute ago.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’

  ‘You were. I know you were.’

  She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t important. Anyway, it’s something I have to work out alone.’

  James brought her hand to his lips. ‘You’re not alone,’ he said softly. ‘Not anymore.’

  Inexplicably, tears rose in her eyes. She blinked them back, but not before dampness welled on her lashes.

  He drew her to him, one arm curving about her.

  ‘Gabrielle,’ he said thickly, ‘don’t cry.’

  ‘Your knee. James, you’ll hurt yourself.’

  His eyes darkened. ‘It’s you I’m afraid of hurting,’ he muttered, and he pulled her into the hardness of his body. His mouth took hers with a hot, open abandon that sent the blood pulsing wildly through her veins, his lips parting hers quickly, hungrily, as if he were dying of thirst for her.

  Gabrielle moaned as his tongue thrust between her lips.

  The sweet taste of him filled her mouth; her head fell back and her hands rose between them, moving against his chest. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, then flattened against him. The strong, swift beat of his heart pounded beneath her palms.

  James groaned against her mouth and drew her closer. His hand moved along the flare of her hip and to her buttocks, cupping the curve and bringing her tightly against him.

  She felt his body stir and quicken against hers, the hard power of his erection more erotic than anything she’d ever imagined.

  She moved against him in unconscious need and he groaned again.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘do that. Do that...’

  His mouth fell to her throat, his kisses hot, his teeth sharp as he followed the long, curving arch. He whis­pered her name as he cupped the back of her head and brought her face to his, whispered it again as he kissed her.

  Gabrielle was dazed with desire; she was aware of her body in ways she’d never been before.

  Everywhere James touched her, tendrils of flame seemed to ignite beneath her skin. Her blood felt thick and sluggish. There was a strange sensation low in her belly, as if something were spreading its wings within her.

  She moaned as James ran his hand along her back and traced the outline of her ribs through her thin cotton sweater, moaned again when his fingertips grazed the under-swell of her breast.

  When finally he cupped her breast, she cried out and James bent to her, caught her cry in his mouth, returned it to her as a groan of his own impassioned need. She shuddered as she felt the fierce hardening of her nipple in his seeking hand.

  James whispered something to her, her name, perhaps something more intimate—she was beyond the ability to understand anything but her desperate need to be close to him. Still kneeling between his legs, she pressed herself to him so that her breasts flattened against his chest while he feasted on the sweetness of her mouth.

  ‘James,’ she whispered her voice soft and urgent. ‘James...’

  Her hands lifted and she caught his face between her palms. His unshaved skin rasped against her flesh; it sent a savage passion spiraling deep within her, and she thought of how that roughened skin would feel against the softness of her breasts or the tender, secret flesh be­tween her thighs.

  Her body fell limp against his and he caught her to him, molding the length of her to him while he kissed her. She moaned softly; her hands cupped his face more tightly while she raised herself to him, offered herself to him.

  His breath hissed sharply. ‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered, and he caught her hand and lifted it from his sutured cheek.

  Her eyes opened and focused on his face. The realiz­ation that she’d touched his wound came slowly; when finally it did, she recoiled in horror.

  ‘James,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  His smile was quick and taut. ‘It wasn’t your fault, love. Don’t apologize.’

  ‘Have I hurt you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

  She knew he was telling her what he wanted her to hear. But his eyes told another story, as did the play of muscle beside his mouth.

  Gabrielle took her hand from his and laid it against his chest. His heart was still racing, as was hers.

  ‘I—I wasn’t thinking, James. I...’

  James cupped her face and lifted it to his. ‘I’d have been insulted if you had.’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Just imagine what Nurse Ramrod would do if she found out.’

  ‘Throttle you,’ he said solemnly. ‘And banish me to the orthopedics floor.’ His eyes were warm on hers and his thumbs moved lightly over her cheeks. ‘A fate worse than death.’

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said teasingly, ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.’

  ‘Cross your heart?’

  She laughed. ‘Your terrible secret is safe with me.’ She caught her breath as James’s smile faltered and his face grew dark. She thought she’d never seen such pain in a man’s eyes before. ‘James? I did hurt you, didn’t I?’

  He bent to her and kissed her with a fierceness that stole her breath away, and then his mouth gentled on hers. When he raised his head, the darkness had left his eyes. He smiled and cupped her chin gently in his palm.

  ‘You’ve taken good care of me. Nurse Ramrod would be pleased.’

  Gabrielle smiled back. ‘No, she wouldn’t. You should have been asleep hours ago.’

  He sighed. ‘You’re probably right. It has been one hell of a long day, hasn’t it?’ He traced the outline of her mouth with his thumb, and then he let her go and rose slowly to his feet. ‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘I will,’ she said without thinking, ‘knowing you’re here.’ His eyes met hers and she gave a little laugh. ‘I— I haven’t been sleeping so well lately. I know it’s silly...’

  James’s mouth turned down at the edges. ‘There’s nothing silly about it,’ he said, and then he drew a breath. ‘But there’s nothing to worry about tonight. I promise you that.’

  She watched as he set his crutches in place and started down the hall. How strange, she thought. A little while ago, this man's sudden appearance in her life had dis­turbed her. Now, his presence made her feel more secure than she had in months.

  She took a step forward and murmured his name. He paused and looked back at her. ‘Sleep well,’ she said.

  Darkness, like a giant fist, closed over his face again. For a heartbeat, Gabrielle felt as if she was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said finally.

  The door to the spare room opened, then closed after him, and she was alone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The early morning streets of the French Quarter were drenched in sunlight. Puddles of rainwater, remnants of yesterday’s storm, gleamed along the pavement. Gutters and roofs still dripped gently in those shady corners where the sun had yet to reach. But the sky was a cloudless blue and the breeze warm. It was as if an early spring had settled over the city.

&nbs
p; By the time Gabrielle finished her morning run to the flower shop, her shorts and cotton T-shirt were dark with perspiration.

  She’d half expected some sly comment from Alma. But her assistant was too distressed by the details of James’s accident to take anything but casual notice of Gabrielle’s unladylike appearance.

  ‘That poor man,’ she said, taking a towel from the shelf in the back room and tossing it to Gabrielle, ‘hurtin’ his knee and all. I’m just glad he’s all right. I kept hopin’ you’d call and let me know how he was.’

  ‘I meant to.’ Gabrielle blotted her face and neck, then draped the towel around her shoulders. ‘But—well, things got kind of hectic.’ She hesitated. ‘We had to find James a new place to stay. The elevator at his hotel was out of order, and he couldn’t manage the stairs.’

  ‘However did you find anythin’?’ Alma asked in amazement. ‘There’s never a room left by the time Mardi Gras weekend rolls around.’

  Gabrielle looked at her. Now was the time to tell her that she’d taken James to her house. But the words caught in her throat. The memory of James as she’d seen him when she peeped into his room this morning, asleep and sprawled across the narrow bed with the blanket tangled at his hips, was still too vivid.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘We finally worked something out.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how—unless he found a room in some dilapidated hole in the wall across the river. How’s he goin’ to enjoy Carnival if’

  Gabrielle tossed the towel aside. ‘Speaking of Carnival,’ she said quickly, ‘didn’t you say the Hyacinth Club is going to parade this afternoon?’

  Alma rolled her eyes. ‘Folks call them “krewes”, Gaby, not “clubs”. And it’s the Irises, not the Hyacinths, for goodness’ sake.’

  Gabrielle grinned. ‘Well, I was close.’

  The older woman laughed. ‘Sure. You got the parade date right. Which reminds me—if you want to get close enough to see anythin’, we should get to Rampart Street early. I thought we might...’

  Gabrielle glanced at her watch as Alma spoke. She’d been gone more than half an hour.

  Was James still asleep?