Gabriel's Rapture (Gabriel's Inferno #2)(49)

She whirled around to find Gabriel leaning against the doorframe, arms across his chest, clad only in a T-shirt and a pair of striped boxer shorts.

He stared a little too long at the naked flesh that peeked out from between the top buttons and at her shapely legs. He glanced at the picture frame and his expression shifted.

Julia quickly replaced the frame on the desk. “I’m sorry.”

Gabriel strode toward her. “I haven’t decided where to put it.” He looked at the picture. “But I don’t want to keep it in a drawer.”

“Of course. It’s a beautiful frame,” she offered.

“I found it at Tiffany.”

Julia cocked her head to one side. “Only you would buy a frame at Tiffany’s. I would have gone to Walmart.”

“I went to Tiffany for quite a different purpose.” He searched her face.

Her heart skipped a beat. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Now his eyes burned into hers. “Absolutely. But I found it long ago.”

Julia blinked as if she were in some sort of fog until he leaned down to kiss her. It was a remarkable kiss. He placed his hands gently on either side of her face and then brought his lips to hers, pressing firmly before beginning his joyous movement. Within a moment, she’d forgotten all about why she’d wandered into the study.

He stroked her tongue tenderly with his, sliding his hands through her hair to rest on the back of her head. And when he withdrew, he kissed her cheeks.

“I wish I’d known you my whole life. I wish everything had been different.”

“We’re together now.”

“That we are, my lovely. You look beautiful in my shirt.” His voice was gruff all of a sudden. “I was planning to take you out for breakfast. There’s a small crêperie around the corner that I think you’d like.”

She took his hand gladly as he led her back to the bedroom so they could shower together and begin their day.

Later that afternoon they worked in his study. Gabriel sat at his desk, reading an article, while Julia sat perched in his red velvet armchair, checking her email.

Dear Julia,

I owe you an apology. I’m really sorry I upset you when I ran into you yesterday. I didn’t mean to. I was worried about you.

If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m just a phone call away.

Hoping we can still be friends,

Paul.

PS. Christa has been asking why Professor Picton is directing your thesis.

Julia looked over at Gabriel and found him lost in thought behind his eyeglasses. She quickly typed a response.

Hi Paul,

Of course we’re still friends. The incident in Selinsgrove was traumatic, and I’m trying to forget about it.

I should mention that my boyfriend saved me—in more ways than one.

Someday I’d like to introduce you to him. He’s wonderful.

Not sure why Christa cares who is directing my thesis. I’m only an MA student.

Thanks for the warning.

I’ll put your Christmas present in your mailbox in the department on Monday.

It’s small but I hope you like it.

And thanks,

Julia.

* * *

Katherine Picton lived a reserved life. She owned a nice home in the Annex neighborhood of Toronto, which was within walking distance to the university. She spent her summers in Italy and Christmas holidays in England. And she spent most of her time publishing articles and monographs on Dante. In other words, she lived the life of the respectable academic spinster, except that she didn’t garden or take lovers or own a bevy of cats. (Regrettably.)

Despite her age, she was very much in demand for public lectures and more than one university had attempted to lure her out of retirement with promises of extravagant salaries and modest teaching responsibilities. Katherine would rather have dug the Panama Canal with her fingernails while suffering from yellow fever than give up the time she could devote to research in order to maintain an office on campus and attend faculty meetings.

So when Greg Matthews of Harvard University telephoned her in January about an opening for an endowed chair in Dante studies, that’s what she told him.

He reacted in stunned silence before fumbling over his next words. “But Professor Picton, we could arrange it so you wouldn’t have to teach. All you would have to do would be to deliver a couple of lectures a semester, have a presence on campus, and supervise some doctoral students. That’s it.”

“I don’t want to move all my books,” said Katherine.

“We’ll hire a moving company.”

“They’ll mix them up and it will take weeks to put them back in order.”

“We’ll hire special movers—movers accustomed to moving libraries. They’ll take your books off the shelf, pack them in order, and replace them on your shelves here in Cambridge exactly the way they were in Toronto. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.”

“Moving companies don’t know how to catalogue books,” she scoffed. “What if they mis-shelve something? I have thousands of volumes in my library, and I might never be able to find what they misplace. And what if they lose something? Some of those books are irreplaceable!”

“Professor Picton, if you would accept the endowed chair, I’ll come to Toronto and move your books personally.”