Finding Isadora(23)

“Have you had dinner, Gabriel?” she asked.

“Haven’t had time.” He flashed her a grin that, had it been aimed in my direction, would likely have knocked me off my feet.

She gave an understanding nod. “I gather you know Isadora?”

How stupid to have procrastinated about telling her. Now she and Gabriel would give my omission too much importance.

He shot me a glance that virtually smoldered with some emotion I couldn’t decipher, then turned back to Grace. “Yeah, we’ve met.”

I found my voice again. “He’s Richard’s father.”

“You are?” Her brows rose. “But Richard’s name is Bracken.”

“That’s his stepfather’s name. He took it when his mother remarried.” Gabriel’s voice was gruff and I detected a note that could be pain. Interesting. So the hurt between Richard and his father might run both ways.

Grace nodded slowly and I knew she’d had the same thought. Too bad. My parents were already too critical of Richard. She crossed to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I turned on the heat under the stew. We also have quinoa salad and cornbread.”

“The stew’s vegetarian,” I said, “but the food’s not vegan. In case it makes any difference.”

His little bonding act with Grace seemed to have mellowed his mood. His tone, too, was pleasant. “Sounds good to me. I don’t eat meat, but I eat everything else. Like you, Saturday night.”

So while I’d been noticing what he was eating, he’d been watching me, too. Nervously, I said, “Yes, that pretty much describes me. I can’t understand how a vet can, in all good conscience, eat meat.”

“You became a vegetarian because you’re a vet?”

“No, I’ve always been one, like Grace and Jimmy Lee, and I’ve always loved animals, so—” I broke off, realizing I was, again, sounding like an idiot.

“Richard eats meat.”

“Yes. Uh, we manage.”

“Sure.” He turned away and studied the apartment. I guessed he wasn’t surprised by its smallness, the threadbare nature of the comfortable furniture, or the many ethnic knickknacks and items of folk art. In his line of work, he’d probably seen a lot of apartments like this.

His gaze skimmed and stopped, skimmed some more, then returned to mine. “Cats,” he commented.

“You’re not allergic?”

“Nope.”

I pointed, identifying the three animals. “I found Martin and Jack in a dumpster. Woodstock’s a stray someone dropped off at the clinic.”

“Jack and Martin? Kennedy and Luther King Jr.?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Your names or your parents’?”

“Grace named them. Jack’s the black one.”

He chuckled. “Of course he is. Walk a mile in the other guy’s shoes.”

He was obviously on the same wavelength as my mother. For some reason that fact irked me.

“Gabriel, would you like some wine?” Grace called from the kitchen.

“On an empty stomach?” That devastating smile flashed again, even though my mom couldn’t see it. “Hell, why not?”

“I’ll get it,” I said. Glad for an excuse to move away from him, I went to the kitchen and reached over Grace’s head to find a clean wine glass.

She planted an elbow in my ribs. “You never told me Richard’s father was a hottie.”

“Grace! He’s…” I could hardly say Gabriel wasn’t a hottie. “He’s your lawyer. Have a little respect.” I thumbed the spout on the cardboard box and let wine slosh into the glass.

“I’ve always respected a hottie, honey. Why’d you think I stuck with your daddy for so long?”

“Jesus. I don’t want to hear this.” I stalked into the living area, where Gabriel was petting a purring Woodstock. I thrust the glass toward him. “Wine.”

He gave the cat a final pat and reached out to take the glass. Cocking an eyebrow, he said dryly, “Thanks for your gracious hospitality.”

I gave a frustrated snort.

“And you’re mad at me because…?”

Because he hadn’t looked happy to see me. Because he was a hottie. And because I was acting like a hormone-driven teen. Normally, I was a reasonably mature adult, but Gabriel—the man I was supposed to impress with my sterling daughter-in-law qualities—brought out the worst in me. “Because I’m temporarily insane,” I said grimly. “I’m sorry, Gabriel. I’m really grateful you’ve taken Jimmy Lee’s case and I’m worried about him. And I’ve had far too much to drink. Ignore me. Please.”

He shot me a long, intense look that threatened to melt my bones, then growled, “Do my best,” turned his back on me, and started stroking the cat again.

Woodstock arched and curved her body against Gabriel’s hand and I tried not to envision what those long fingers would feel like, stroking my own neck. I’d probably purr as enthusiastically as the stupid cat. He had the hands of a masseur, a pianist, a surgeon—graceful, yet strong.

Grace came out of the kitchen and put a bowl of stew and a plate of salad and cornbread on the dinette table. “Come sit down, Gabriel.”