and thinking that you’d forgive him.”

“If he’s with someone else and you find out about it, tell me.”

Julia gave her friend a pleading look. “It would be better to hear it from you.”

P

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Sylvain Reynard

“Darling, open your eyes.”

His voice was warm and thick as he moved inside her, distribut-

ing his weight to his forearms. He leaned down to draw the delicate skin from the inside of her bicep into his mouth, kissing and sucking on it. It was just enough to tease her and perhaps to leave a gentle mark. He knew this drove her mad.

“I can’t,” she gasped, in between moans. Every time he moved

it sent the most wonderful sensations coursing through her body.

Until he stopped.

Suddenly, her eyelids fluttered open.

He rubbed his nose against hers and smiled. “I need to see you.”

His gaze was gentle but intense, as if he were holding back the flame of desire momentarily.

“It’s hard for me to keep my eyes open.” She groaned a little as

he moved inside her once again.

“Try for me.” He kissed her softly. “I love you so much.”

“Then why did you leave me?”

Gabriel looked down on her with dismay, his blue eyes narrow-

ing. “I didn’t…”

P

That same evening Gabriel was lying in the center of the bed,

eyes closed, while she trailed leisurely open-mouthed kisses across his pectorals, pausing reverently to kiss his tattoo, before extending her attentions to his abdominals. An oath left his mouth as she ran her fingers lightly up and down the well-defined muscles before swirling a tongue around his navel.

It has been so long…

That was the thought that came to mind as she gently traced

the skin and strands of hair before reaching a hand down to grasp

him firmly. He shifted his hips. She was stroking him now, and he

was panting, begging. She teased him unhurriedly as her long, silky hair caressed the tops of his thighs, before taking him into the warm wetness of her mouth.

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Gabriel’s Rapture

Gabriel muttered a surprised expletive as he gave himself over to

the sensations, before weaving his fingers into her hair.

He froze.

A sick feeling bubbled up in his stomach as he remembered

what happened the last time he’d done this. He withdrew his hand

immediately, worried that he’d frightened her.

“I’m sorry.” He extended a single finger to trace her cheek. “I

forgot.”

A cold hand caught him by the wrist before forcing him to grasp

her head roughly.

“What did you forget?” she taunted. “How to enjoy a blow job?”

Gabriel’s eyes flew open. In absolute horror he looked down into

a pair of laughing blue eyes.

Paulina was naked and crouched over him, smiling triumphantly

as she held him close to her mouth. Gabriel recoiled, cursing and

crowding backward against the headboard while she sat on her heels, watching him.

She laughed and pointed to his nose, indicating that he should

wipe the traces of cocaine from his nostrils.

What have I done?

He scrubbed his face roughly with both hands. As the enormity

of his depravity sunk in, he retched, dry heaving over the side of the bed. When he came to himself, he held out his left hand to show her his ring — but there was none.

The wedding ring was gone.

Paulina laughed again and began crawling toward him, eyes feral,

her naked body brushing against his own.

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Chapter 35

Gabriel struggled and flailed before jolting awake. He tore at

the bedclothes, earnestly looking for any sign of her. But there

was none.

He was alone in a dark hotel room. He’d extinguished the lights

before retiring, which was his first mistake. Neglecting to place the framed photograph on his nightstand was his second, for it served

as a talisman against the darkness.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and placed his face in

his hands. Enduring rehab all those years ago had been excruciating but nothing compared with losing Julianne. He would have suffered

the nightmares and haunting memories of old sins gladly if he could hold her in his arms every night.

As he gazed with contempt at the half-empty bottle of Scotch,

he felt the darkness closing in. His desperate pursuit had placed a great deal of pressure on him. When that pressure was coupled with a striking sense of loss, it made it almost impossible for him to func-tion at a high level without some kind of crutch.

Every day the drinks grew larger. Every day he realized that he

needed to do something before he became trapped by his old cop-

ing mechanisms and ruined his future. He knew that if he didn’t do something, quickly, he’d relapse.

Impulsively, he made two telephone calls before gathering his

belongings and shoving them into his suitcase. Then he directed the concierge to secure him a cab that would take him to the airport. He didn’t bother to ensure that his appearance was neat and professional.

In fact, he didn’t bother looking into the mirror at all, for he knew that what he saw would disgust him.

Gabriel’s Rapture

Many hours later, he arrived in Florence and checked into the

Gallery Hotel Art. It had been short notice, but he’d persuaded the manager to give him the same suite in which he and Julia had consummated their relationship. It was either that or a rehabilitation program, and he was convinced his connection to her would prove

far more redemptive.

As he walked into the room, he half-expected to see her, or at

least, signs of her. A pair of tangerine stilettos carelessly kicked off under a coffee table. A taffeta dress pooled on the floor next to a blank wall. A pair of seamed black stockings strewn across an unmade bed.

But of course, he saw none of those things.

After a relatively restful sleep and a shower, Gabriel contacted

his old friend Dottore Vitali at the Uffizi Gallery and met him for dinner. They spoke of Harvard’s new chair of Dante Studies. They

spoke of Giuseppe Pacciani and Gabriel was marginally gratified to learn that although Giuseppe had been offered a campus interview

while Gabriel had not, Giuseppe’s lecture had been regarded as poor by the Harvard faculty. It was cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

The next day Gabriel sought to distract himself from his troubles

by engaging in pleasurable activities — breakfast on a piazza, a walk along the Arno, a lengthy afternoon at his tailor’s in which he ordered a hand-made black wool suit, and an hour or so spent looking for

the perfect pair of shoes to match his finery. His tailor joked that the suit was so fine Gabriel could be married in it. The tailor had laughed, until Gabriel held up his left hand and showed him his ring.

“I’m newly married,” he explained, much to the tailor’s surprise.

No matter where Gabriel walked in the city of Florence, he was

assaulted with memories of her. He would stand on the Ponte Santa

Trinita, hugging the sweet and sour feelings tightly to his chest, knowing that they were preferable to chemical alternatives.

Late one evening, slightly drunk, he wandered by the Duomo,

retracing the path he’d taken with Julianne months earlier. Tortured by his memory of her face when she accused him of fucking her, he

stumbled across a familiar looking beggar, who sat in the shade of Brunelleschi’s dome.

Gabriel approached him.

“Just a few coins for an old man,” the beggar cried in Italian.

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Sylvain Reynard

Gabriel grew closer, eying the man suspiciously. The scent of

unwashed flesh and alcohol assailed him, but he grew closer still.

Recognizing the beggar as the same man who’d inspired Julia’s charity back in December, Gabriel stopped, swaying on his feet.

He felt for his wallet. Without bothering to look at the denomi-

nations, he withdrew several bills and held them in front of the man.

“I saw you last December. Yet, you’re still here.” Gabriel’s Italian was only slightly accusatory.

The man eyed the money hungrily. “I’m here every day. Even

Christmas.”

Gabriel dangled the Euros closer to the man. “My fidanzata gave you money. You called her an angel. Do you remember?”

The man smiled toothlessly and shook his head, never allowing

his eyes to leave the cash.

“There are many angels in Firenze, but more in Assisi. I think God favors the beggars there. But this is my home.” The man hesitantly held out his hand, uncertain that Gabriel would actually give him

the money.

In his imagination, Gabriel could see Julia’s face as she compas-

sionately argued the beggar’s case. She wanted to give him money even if there was a strong possibility that he’d waste the money on drink.

As Gabriel regarded the beggar, no better off than he’d been

before Julia’s generosity, he was struck by the fact that she wouldn’t have hesitated to donate again and again. She would have given the man coins every day, because she thought the act of charity was never wasted. She would have lived in hope that one day the man would

realize that someone cares for him and try to get help. Julia knew her kindness made her vulnerable, but she was kind anyway.