Gabriel's Promise (Gabriel's Inferno 4)

“But Rachel’s doubts are serious,” Gabriel observed, swaying on his feet. “Someone should speak to her.”

Julianne’s gaze alighted on his tattoo, which was visible atop his exposed left pectoral. “Rachel’s doubts are caused by suffering. She’s missing Grace, and grieving the fact that she can’t have children, and now she’s afraid of losing Richard. She seems to think Rebecca has her eyes on him.”

“Nonsense.” Gabriel followed Julianne’s gaze. Under her inspection, the tattoo seemed to burn against his flesh. He found himself lost momentarily in a memory—a drug-and-alcohol-infused haze of loss that precipitated the tattoo. The pain that accompanied the remembrance was dull, not sharp. But it was pain, nonetheless.

He kissed the baby’s head and focused his eyes on her mother. “A brown-eyed angel spoke to me in my grief. She helped me.”

“She helped you by loving you and by listening. That’s what your sister needs. She needs you to love her and to listen. Words won’t heal her sorrow.”

Gabriel pressed his lips together. His inclination was to argue with people until they accepted certain conclusions. Julianne was much more Franciscan in her charism.

“All right,” he conceded, rubbing Clare’s back. “But Rachel isn’t going to lose her father. She’s seeing ghosts.”

“I disagree.” Julia’s expression grew grave. “Rachel’s problem is that she isn’t seeing ghosts.”

Gabriel’s dark brows knitted together. There had been times in his life when the supernatural had intruded. Seeing Grace and Maia at the house in Selinsgrove was one of those times. But he’d never mentioned the appearance to Rachel.

Richard had confessed to seeing Grace in his dreams. But Gabriel was fairly certain Richard had never mentioned those dreams to Rachel, either.

Gabriel changed the subject. “I’m fond of Katherine, as you know. Should we ask her?”

“I think she’s a good choice.”

Julianne paused to stare at her husband. His dark hair was tousled, his chest was bare, and he was wearing tartan pajama bottoms.

He adjusted Clare so that he was holding her in front of his body. And he smiled down at her, murmuring quietly.

Julia lifted her cell phone and began snapping pictures.

Gabriel grinned and moved Clare back to his right shoulder. As if on cue, Clare spat up, absolutely missing the flannel cloth and baptizing Gabriel’s shoulder and neck instead.

Julia continued taking photos.

“We aren’t filming a documentary,” Gabriel grumbled. “Must you immortalize every moment?”

“Yes. Yes, I must.” She mimicked his displeasure with a laugh and snapped away.

Gabriel retrieved a second flannel cloth and began mopping himself with one hand, while holding the contented baby with the other.

“You’d never laugh at Daddy, would you, Principessa?” The baby made eye contact with him and an understanding seemed to pass between them.

“Of course not.” Gabriel brought his nose to his daughter’s. “That’s my girl.”

Julianne captured the moment. Professor Emerson in a suit and tie was certainly attractive. But a shirtless Gabriel crooning at their baby was beauty itself.

“We need to put Clare to bed.” Julia walked to Gabriel and kissed him firmly. Her lips found his ear. “So we can go to bed.”

Gabriel lifted his eyebrows. “Are you . . .” His gaze drifted down to her lower abdomen.

“I am as I was.” She placed her hand at the back of his neck. “But I’d like to do something for you. Something creative.”

“Yes, Mrs. Emerson. I’ve always been very impressed by your—ah—creativity.” He gave her a heated look. “But you fainted this morning.”

“That’s true.” She kissed him again. “But I’m eager to look after my handsome, sexy husband.”

Julia winked and exited the nursery.

Gabriel danced a little jig with the baby. “Your mother is very beautiful, Princess. And tonight, Daddy is getting lucky. Let’s get you cleaned up and put to bed.”