And was that…? She even garnished the plate, for God’s sake.
Gabriel stared. Miss Mitchell seemed to be a kindly person, but what were the chances that she made him breakfast for any reason other than the fact that he’d taken her to bed? The tray, in all of its garnished glory, seemed to be evidence of his seduction, and for that reason it sickened him.
Nevertheless, he was grateful that she’d prepared him a cocktail, as he gulped it greedily. It was precisely the antidote his pounding head needed, and in a few moments he felt some measure of relief.
Lazily, his eyes alighted on the note that was propped up against the orange juice. He scanned the writing slowly, not quite understanding why Miss Mitchell would choose to address him in such a manner. He read the note again and again, his focus finally coming to rest on these words:
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.
Now your blessedness appears.
Your Beatrice
He thrust the note aside in irritation. If it didn’t confirm their tryst, it was evidence of a crush. No wonder it had been so easy to charm her out of her virginity. Students were intrigued by figures of authority and developed inappropriate attachments to them. In Julianne’s case, she viewed him through the characters of her research, i.e., she was Beatrice to his Dante. A simple but forbidden crush. A crush he’d indulged in a selfish, drunken haze. Now he’d lost his appetite. What will Rachel say when she finds out?
Cursing his own lack of self-control, he walked past the closed guestroom door on the way to his bedroom. Flashes of the previous evening danced before his eyes. He remembered kissing Julianne in his hallway and the feel of her skin beneath his hands. He remembered earnestly desiring her, the sweetness of her lips, her warm breath in his face, the way she trembled under his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember the act itself, or the pleasure of her nakedness, he remembered looking up into her face while he was lying in bed. He felt her hand against his cheek as she pleaded with him to walk toward the light. She had the face of an angel. A beautiful, brown-eyed angel.
She came to my rescue, and see how I treated her. I took her virginity, and I don’t even remember it. She deserved better. Much, much better.
He emitted the groan of a tortured soul as he pulled on a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt and hunted around for his glasses. Just as he was about to exit the bedroom, he stopped, his gaze inexplicably drawn to the oil painting on the front wall.
Beatrice.
He moved so that he was but inches from her lovely face, her white figure familiar and comforting. His brown-eyed angel. A glimpse of the impossible drifted before his eyes, but like a wisp of smoke it vanished. He was hungover and not thinking clearly.
Julia quietly unlocked the door and peered into the hall. It was empty. She tiptoed toward the kitchen, shoved her feet into her sneakers, grabbed her things, and ran to the front door. Gabriel was waiting for her.
Scheisse.
“You can’t leave until I get some answers.”
Julia swallowed thickly. “Let me go. Or I’ll call the cops.”
“You call the cops, I’ll tell them you broke in here.”
“You tell them that, I’ll tell them that you kept me here against my will and that you hurt me.” She was speaking without thinking again, which wasn’t smart. And now she was threatening him with a falsehood. Anything they did together had been consensual and chaste and sweet—and absolutely, absolutely ruined. But Gabriel didn’t know that.
“Please, Julianne. Tell me I didn’t—” His eyes grew large and round, and his face contorted in pain. “Please tell me I wasn’t…rough with you.” Gabriel turned almost green in his revulsion and raised a shaking hand to his glasses. “How badly did I hurt you?”
Julia debated how long she should leave him on the proverbial hook but decided hastily to un-bait him. She closed her eyes and groaned. “You didn’t hurt me. Not physically, at least. You just wanted someone to put you to bed and keep you company. You begged me to stay, actually, but just as a friend. You were more of a gentleman to me last night than you were this morning, which is saying something. I think I like you better when you’re drunk.”
“Never think that, Julianne.” He shook his head at her and sighed. “And I’m still drunk. I’m simply relieved that I wasn’t your first.”
She inhaled sharply, and Gabriel watched as a pained expression marred her lovely features.
“But your clothes…” He stared down at her chest, at her nipples that were poking prettily from underneath his black T-shirt. He tried not to ogle her, but failed.
“Is this some kind of joke?” she snapped. “Do you honestly not remember?”
“I have gaps in my memory—when I drink sometimes I can’t tell…” He began mumbling incoherently.