Gabriel's Rapture (Gabriel's Inferno #2)(12)
Julia had carefully concealed Simon’s bite mark with makeup, but Gabriel found it with his finger, tracing its perimeter lightly before kissing it. He exhaled slowly, very slowly, and shook his head.
“You’re the only woman who has ever said no to me.”
“I’m not saying no.”
He looked over his shoulder and spied two older gentlemen, deep in conversation. They were close enough to see him if they looked in his direction.
He turned back to Julia and gave her a sad smile. “You deserve better than a jealous lover taking you against a wall. And I’m not in favor of being caught by our host. Forgive me.”
He kissed her and traced below her swollen lower lip with his thumb, removing the slight smear of crimson lipstick from her pale skin.
“I’m not about to undo the trust I saw in your eyes last night. When I’m in my right mind and we have the museum all to ourselves…” His expression darkened as he fantasized. “Another time, perhaps.”
He removed her heels from his backside and placed her on her feet, leaning over to straighten the skirt of her dress. The taffeta rustled breathlessly at his touch and then forlornly, was silent.
Fortunately, Dottore Vitali and his companion chose that moment to return to the party, their footsteps growing fainter and fainter as they walked away.
“The banquet is supposed to begin shortly. I can’t insult them by leaving. But when I get you home…” His eyes fixed on hers. “The wall just inside our room will be our first stop.”
She nodded, relieved that he wasn’t angry anymore. Truthfully, she was somewhat nervous but very excited about the prospect of wall sex.
He adjusted himself through his trousers and buttoned up his suit jacket, willing his body to calm. He tried to smooth his hair but only succeeded in making it look more like he had dragged his lover into a dark corner for museum sex.
Museum sex is a peculiar compunction of certain academics. (But it should not be disdained without trying it.)
Julia fixed his hair and straightened his tie, checking his face and collar for lipstick. When she was finished, he picked up her clutch and her sweater, handing them to her with a kiss. Smirking, he adjusted her panties in his suit pocket so they were no longer visible.
She took an experimental step forward, finding the absence of her panties surprisingly liberating.
“I could drink you like champagne,” he whispered.
She reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I wish you’d teach me your tricks of seduction.”
“Only if you will teach me how to love as you love.”
Gabriel escorted her through the empty corridor and down the stairs to the first floor, where the banquet was just beginning.
* * *
Professor Pacciani stumbled back to his apartment by the Pitti Palace in the wee hours of the morning. This was not an unusual occurrence.
He fumbled with his keys, cursing as he dropped them, and entered the flat, closing the door behind him. He walked to the small room in which his twin four-year-old sons were asleep, kissing them before shuffling to his study.
He smoked a leisurely cigarette as he waited for his computer to boot up, then he logged into his email. He ignored his inbox and composed a short message to a former student and lover. They had not been in contact since her graduation.
He mentioned meeting Professor Emerson and his very young Canadian fidanzata. He mused that although he’d been impressed with Emerson’s monograph with Oxford University Press, the Professor’s lecture smacked of a pseudo-intellectualism that truly had no place in a professional academic lecture. One should either be intellectual and academic, or one should be a public speaker and entertaining, but not both. Pacciani queried churlishly if this was what passed for excellence in North American universities.
He ended his email with an explicit and detailed suggestion of a prospective sexual rendezvous, possibly in the late spring. Then he finished his cigarette in the darkness and joined his wife in their matrimonial bed.
Chapter 3
Christa Peterson had a privileged upbringing, so really, there was no excuse for her vicious nature. She had two parents who loved each other and their only daughter very much. Her father was a well-respected oncologist in Toronto. Her mother was a librarian at Havergal College, an elite, private girl’s school that Christa attended from kindergarten through grade twelve.
Christa went to Sunday school. She was confirmed as an Anglican. She studied Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer, but none of these actions touched her heart. And when she was fifteen years old she discovered the immense power of female sexuality. Once she discovered it, it became not only her currency but her weapon of choice.
Her best friend, Lisa Malcolm, had an older brother called Brent. Brent was handsome. He looked like so many other graduates of Upper Canada College, a private boy’s school that catered to Canada’s old moneyed families. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was tall and fit. He was a rower for the University of Toronto’s men’s team and could easily have starred in a J.Crew commercial.
Christa had admired Brent from afar but because of the four-year age difference, he’d never noticed her. But then, late one night while sleeping over at Lisa’s house, Christa ran into Brent on her way to the bathroom. He’d been extremely taken by her long dark hair, big brown eyes, and youthful, nubile form. He’d kissed her gently in the hallway and brushed tentative fingers across her breast. Then he’d taken her hand and invited her to his room.