A Bargain with the Enemy

Bryn wanted to beg, not for Gabriel to walk away, but for him to continue making love to her.

Again and again.

Which was why she had to walk away.

CHAPTER TEN

THE NEXT TWO weeks were absolute hell for Bryn, compelled, as Gabriel had promised she would be, to go to Archangel and see him on a daily basis as they dealt with putting the final details of the exhibition into place.

Not that he ever attempted, or even indicated he wished, to repeat the intimacy of that night at his apartment. Oh, no, Gabriel had a much more subtle torment than that, as he took every opportunity to touch her, always seemingly accidentally: brushing lightly against her to emphasise a point, placing his hand on hers, or at the sensitive base of her spine, or the glide of her hips, whenever the opportunity arose.

And he did it all without saying a word or showing outward acknowledgement of the attraction that sparked and burned between the two of them every time they were together.

Bryn quickly realised that Gabriel really was intent on torturing her.

And how well he was succeeding.

As day followed torturous day Bryn’s awareness of Gabriel grew to such a degree that she began to tremble and shake even as she approached the Archangel Gallery. Her nerves would be strung tightly, her body tingling with awareness, as she wondered if that would be the day Gabriel would relent and kiss her, caress her, before she went quietly insane with this growing need for him.

By the day of the exhibition Bryn knew she had never been so aware of a man in her life: his smell—that seductive male smell, a spicy musk, that was uniquely Gabriel—the rippling play of muscles across his shoulders and back when he removed his jacket and tie. He’d unfasten the top two buttons of his shirt to reveal a light dusting of dark hair on his chest whenever they weren’t in the public galleries, allowing her to fully appreciate that masculinity. Her fingers literally itched to become entangled in the glossy dark hair she could see on his chest, to caress the firm line of his back, the silky hair at his nape.

She only had to get through one more day, just a few more hours of this torture, Bryn told herself on that final morning as she made her way to Archangel and the closed west gallery, where the paintings of the six artists were finally ready to be exhibited at a private invitation-only showing this evening.

Unfortunately, Bryn realised as she came to an abrupt halt in the doorway to the west gallery, today was going to be the most difficult twenty-four hours of the past two weeks of torture. Her breath caught in her throat and her face paled as she saw, and easily recognised, the three men talking quietly together across the room.

Gabriel was instantly recognisable, of course, but the unmistakable likeness between all three men—tall and lean, dark haired, with hewn and handsome olive-skinned faces—told her that the other two men had to be Gabriel’s two brothers, Michael and Raphael D’Angelo.

Two men who had absolutely no reason to feel in the least kindly towards Sabryna Harper.

* * *

Gabriel sensed Bryn’s presence in the gallery even before he turned and saw her standing pale and still across the room; his senses had become so heightened to her presence during these past two weeks that he now felt a thrum of awareness beneath the surface of his skin whenever she was anywhere near. His shaft would harden, becoming a painful throb just at the smell of her perfume—that exotic spice, and the womanly smell that he knew was all uniquely aroused Bryn—the husky sound of her voice enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck and send shivers of pleasure down the length of his spine.

Gabriel had lost count of the amount of times he had been tempted to put an end to the torment that made his days a living hell and his nights a sleepless nightmare, to just take Bryn in his arms and make love to her, to keep her there until she admitted she wanted him with the same fierce hunger that he wanted her.

The only thing that held him back from doing that was Bryn herself.

For both their sakes she had to be the one to come to him this time. Through her own choice, and not because of any physical coercion on his part. And if that required that he go quietly out of his mind while he waited—hoped—for that to happen, then so be it!

The fact that Bryn looked small and vulnerable today in a dark grey blouse and black jeans, her eyes apprehensive as she stared across the gallery at the three of them, was enough to tell him that she had found the past two weeks as much of a strain as he had.

‘Bryn?’ he prompted gently as she made no effort to come farther into the gallery.

Her chin rose. ‘I— Excuse me, I just wanted— I didn’t realise there was anyone— I’ll come back later,’ she muttered awkwardly as she turned away with the obvious intention of hurrying from the gallery. And maybe Archangel itself?

‘Bryn!’ Gabriel called out harshly.

She came to an abrupt halt, her tension visible in the stiffness of her shoulders and spine, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides as she obviously debated whether or not she was going to turn back and face him or simply continue running.

Gabriel mentally willed her to do the former rather than the latter, to be that strong and confident Bryn that he so admired as well as desired.

Bryn felt slightly light-headed as she forgot to breathe, her heart beating so loud and wildly in her chest that she felt sure the three men standing across the room must be able to hear it.

She hadn’t known—hadn’t even guessed. No one had thought to warn her—certainly not Gabriel—that his brothers were going to be in London today. For the purpose of attending the exhibition this evening?

Wasn’t it bad enough that she had been forced to deal with Gabriel on a daily basis for the past two weeks, that her nerves were shot to hell because of it, without having to now face his two disapproving brothers?

Except there was no escaping the fact that Michael and Raphael D’Angelo were both here, that they were the co-owners of the Archangel Galleries, and as such Bryn knew she had no choice but to face them at some point today. So perhaps it was better if she did so sooner rather than in public later, when the meeting could be even more embarrassing?

Bryn drew in a ragged, steadying breath before turning slowly, her chin tilting defensively as she kept her gaze fixed firmly on Gabriel rather than looking at either of his two brothers. ‘I was just—’ She moistened the dryness of her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘I thought I would come and take a last look in here before the exhibition this evening.’

‘I’m glad you did.’ Gabriel nodded, dark eyes hooded, his expression unreadable as he crossed the room in long graceful strides to stand in front of her. ‘My brothers would like to meet you,’ he encouraged gruffly.

Bryn barely managed to hold back her snort of derision as she looked up at him sceptically; they both knew she was the last person Michael and Raphael D’Angelo would ever wish to be introduced to. ‘I thought your brothers didn’t approve of my inclusion in the exhibition?’ she said loud enough for all three men to hear.

Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the directness of her challenge, his gaze dark and disapproving as he frowned down at her.

‘We initially questioned your motives for entering the New Artists competition, yes,’ one of the two men across the room—Michael or Raphael?—came back just as directly.

‘Shut up, Rafe,’ Gabriel rasped dismissively.

‘Some of us still do.’ Raphael ignored him as he strolled across the gallery, dark sable hair long and curling silkily onto his shoulders, more casually dressed than his two brothers in a tight black T-shirt that emphasised the muscled width of his shoulders and chest, faded denims resting low down on the leanness of his hips, heavy black boots on his feet. ‘I don’t believe Gabriel has bothered to ask you this, but why us and why here, Miss Jones?’ He quirked a dark and mocking brow.

‘Shut up, Rafe,’ the third man instructed harshly—he had to be Michael D’Angelo—as he crossed the room with more forceful strides, his sable hair cropped close to his head, his eyes so dark a brown they appeared black and unfathomable, a three-piece charcoal-grey suit perfectly tailored to his muscular frame, his shirt the palest grey, a darker grey silk tie neatly knotted at his throat. ‘I’m Michael D’Angelo, Miss Jones.’ His tone was compelling as he held his hand out to her.

Bryn eyed that hand uncertainly even as she felt the compulsion in that voice, enough so that she ran the dampness of her own hand down her denim-clad thighs before raising it to be clasped firmly, briefly, in Michael D’Angelo’s much stronger one before he released her again. ‘I believe we all know that my name isn’t really Jones,’ she murmured.

‘Confrontational. I like that,’ Raphael D’Angelo drawled encouragingly.

‘Shut up, Rafe.’ Gabriel and Michael spoke together this time, both their tones weary, as if they had suffered years of repeating that same phrase.