Visions (Cainsville #2)(59)

“You think I was marrying James for ‘financial and social stability’?”

He frowned, as if to say, Why else?

I shook my head. “I was marrying him because I loved him, Gabriel.”

He gave a derisive snort.

“Excuse me?” I said.

A look over his shades. “You can’t really expect me to believe you’d tie yourself to a man like Morgan for some silly romantic notion. You’re better than that.”

“I think that’s meant to be a compliment, but given the choice between lowering your opinion of me and letting myself be painted as a gold digger—”

“Gold digging would be marrying a rich seventy-year-old in hopes he’ll die while you can still enjoy his money. You chose a suitable match—in age, social standing, wealth, and looks. A man who would provide a satisfactory and easy life for you. Traditionally, that is the way for a woman to secure her future.”

“Sure. In the nineteenth century.”

“And that doesn’t apply today? In your social circles?”

He had a point, but I wouldn’t concede it. “It wasn’t like that with me. I have my trust fund, as you’ve pointed out. I had a family business that I could have joined. I have a graduate degree. Your low opinion of James is based on the fact you were able to fleece him, and to you that makes him a fool. James Morgan is a good and decent man.”

“Which is why it wouldn’t have worked.”

“Ouch.”

“That’s not an insult, Olivia. James Morgan is completely decent and completely mediocre, and he’d have made you completely miserable. At least if you were marrying him for stability, you’d get something out of it. But love?” His expression conveyed his opinion of the concept. “I’m glad to see you’re done with him. Don’t backslide again.”

“Backslide? Weren’t you the one taking money to help me get back with him?”

His hands tightened on the wheel. There was a moment of silence when I wished I hadn’t said anything. Yes, he’d insulted me, but in his world there was nothing wrong with doing whatever it took to find a stable life.

“I didn’t take money for that,” he said finally, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Morgan insisted on making it part of the deal, so I agreed, but I didn’t accept payment for a service I didn’t provide. I wasn’t planning to accept . . .” He trailed off.

“To accept what?”

He shook his head, gaze forward. “Nothing.”

“Okay, let’s . . . I’d like to move past that. Put it behind us.”

He exhaled. “So would I.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m okay with it,” I said. “Or that I don’t think you’ll do it again.”

“I won’t.” We were stopped at a light. He took off his shades and met my gaze. “I know I made a mistake. I knew I was making a mistake at the time. Even if I didn’t see the harm in it, you felt betrayed. I understand that. It will not happen again.”

It would. Not that he was lying. He meant it. But a time would come when he’d betray my trust again and he’d tell himself it was necessary or that I wouldn’t be upset or that it didn’t count. I had to deal with the possibility. I didn’t need to forgive him if it happened again, but I couldn’t tell myself it wouldn’t. Either way I’d get hurt, but at least if I had my eyes open, it might dull the sting.

I nodded, and it must not have looked convincing enough, because he kept his gaze on me and said, “I mean it, Olivia.”

“I know you do. Thank you.”

He nodded, put on his sunglasses, and roared through as the light turned green.

—

I felt more centered after my talk with Gabriel. It was like sweeping away the last of the cobwebs, the stage clear to start again. It helped that he was in a rare truly good mood. We went to dinner at my favorite steak house—he’d made a reservation.

As we ate, Gabriel regaled me with the story of a past case, one he knew would amuse me. Compared with other diners deep in conversation, his gestures were restrained, his affect muted, his tone even, but for Gabriel he was positively animated. Possibly even a little drunk, having finished almost an entire glass of wine. His blue eyes glowed with a warmth I’d never seen, even at his most engaged, and I wanted to lean back and bask in it. But every time I relaxed, a little voice reminded me I needed to discuss something with him while he was in a good mood.

When we moved on to dessert, I worked up the nerve. I took a bite of my cheesecake, then said, as casually as I could manage, “Earlier, being at the station, it reminded me of something.”

He sipped his coffee, brows arching, waiting for me to continue.

“Have you identified those photos yet?”

As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. He froze, coffee mug at his lips. He’d been having a good night, something he probably hadn’t had in a very long time, something he deserved, and with six words I’d completely f*cked it up.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “This isn’t the time. I just—So, about the Meade case—”

“I haven’t had a chance to see the photos,” he said, lowering his mug. “I need to, obviously, and I will.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”