Gabriel's Inferno (Gabriel's Inferno 1)

She thought of the lone tampon underneath his desk and knew that when he leaned down to pick up his briefcase at five o’clock her humiliation would be complete. At least she wouldn’t be there to witness his shocked and disgusted reaction. She envisioned him having a cow upon the discovery, literally — lying down on the beautiful Persian rug that graced his office and painfully and loudly giving birth to a calf.

About two blocks from her apartment, Julia’s long, brown hair was plastered to her head in stringy sheets. Her sneakers squished-squashed with every step. Rain poured off of her as if she were beneath a downspout. Cars and buses whooshed by, and she didn’t even bother trying to get out of the way as tidal waves of dirty water crashed over her from the busy street. Like life’s disappointments, she simply accepted it.

At that moment another car approached, this one slowing down appropriately so that she wouldn’t be soaked by its splash. It was a new-looking, black Jaguar.

The Jaguar slowed down even more and came to a stop. As Julia walked by, she saw the passenger door open and a masculine voice called out, “Get in.”

She hesitated; surely the driver wasn’t calling to her. She looked around, but she was the only one foolish enough to be walking in a torrential down-pour. Curious, she took a step closer.

She knew better than to get into a car with a stranger, even in a Canadian city. But as she looked into the driver’s seat and saw two piercing blue eyes stare back at her, she walked slowly toward him.

“You’ll catch pneumonia and die. Get in. I’ll drive you home.” His voice was softer now, the fire gone. This was almost the voice that she remembered.

So for the sake of memory and for no other reason, she climbed into the passenger’s seat and pulled the door closed, silently apologizing to the gods of Jaguars for fouling their pristine black leather interior and immaculate car mats.

She paused as the strains of Chopin’s Nocturne  9, Op. No. 2 filled her ears, and she smiled to herself. She had always liked that tune.

She turned to face the driver. “Thank you very much, Professor Emerson.”

Chapter 4

Professor Emerson had taken a wrong turn. His life, perhaps, could be described as a series of wrong turns, but this one was entirely accidental.

He’d been reading on his iPhone — an angry e-mail from his brother — while he was driving his Jaguar through a thunderstorm in the middle of rush hour in downtown Toronto. Consequently, he turned left rather than right onto Bloor Street from Queen’s Park. This meant that he was headed in the opposite direction of his apartment building.

There was no possibility of a u-turn on Bloor during rush hour, and there was so much traffic he had a difficult time pulling over so that he could make a right and turn around. This was how he came upon a very wet and pathetic-looking Miss Mitchel , walking dejectedly down the street as if she were a homeless person, and how in a fit of guilt he came to invite her into his car, which was his pride and joy.

“I’m sorry I’m ruining your upholstery,” she offered hesitantly.

Professor Emerson’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I have someone who cleans it when it’s soiled.”

Julia bowed her head, for his response hurt. Implicitly, he had compared her to dirt, but of course, that’s what he thought she was now. Dirt beneath his feet.

“Where do you live?” he asked, seeking to engage her in polite and safe conversation for the duration of what he hoped would be a short time together.

“On Madison. It’s just up there on the right.” She pointed some distance in front of them.

“I know where Madison is,” he snapped.

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Julia cringed toward the passenger window. She slowly turned her head to look outside and drew her lower lip roughly between her teeth.

Professor Emerson cursed under his breath. Even beneath the tangle of wet, dark hair she was pretty — a brown-eyed angel in jeans and sneakers.

His mind halted at the inward sound of his description. The term brown-eyed angel seemed oddly familiar, but since he couldn’t think of the source for that reference he put the thought aside.

“What number on Madison?” He softened his voice, so much so that Julia could barely hear him.

“Forty-five.”

He nodded and shortly pulled the car in front of the three-story, red brick house that had been converted into apartments.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and in a flash she dove for the door handle to make her escape.

“Wait,” he commanded, reaching into the backseat to retrieve a large, black umbrella.

She waited and was stunned to see The Professor walk around the car to open the door for her, wait with an open umbrella while she and her abomination exited the Jaguar, and march her up the sidewalk and the front steps of her building.

“Thank you,” she said again as she pulled on her book bag zipper, trying to open it so she could find her keys.

The Professor tried to hide his distaste at the sight of the abomination, but said nothing. He watched as she struggled with the zipper, then watched her face as she grew very red and upset over the fact that the zipper wouldn’t open. He remembered her expression as she knelt on his Persian rug, and it occurred to him that this current trouble was probably his fault.

Without saying a word, he grabbed the book bag out of her hands and shoved the now closed umbrella at her. He ripped open the zipper and held the bag out, inviting her to stick her hand inside to retrieve her keys.

She found the keys, but she was nervous, so she dropped them. When she picked them up her hands were shaking so badly she had troubling locating the correct key on her key ring.

Having lost all patience, The Professor snatched the key ring away from her and began trying keys in the lock. When he’d successfully opened the door, he allowed her to enter before returning her keys.

She took the repellant book bag from him and murmured her thanks.

“I’ll walk you to your apartment,” he announced, following her through the hallway. “A homeless person once accosted me in the lobby of my building. One can’t be too careful.”

Julia silently prayed to the gods of studio apartments, begging them to help her locate her apartment key swiftly. They answered her prayer. As she was about to slip behind the door and close it firmly but not unkindly in his face, she stopped. Then, as if she’d known him for years, she smiled up at him and politely asked if he would like a cup of tea.

Despite being surprised by her invitation, Professor Emerson found himself standing in her apartment before he had the opportunity to consider whether it was a good idea. As he looked around the small and squalid space, he quickly concluded that it wasn’t.

“May I take your coat, Professor?” Julia’s cheerful little voice distracted him.

“Where would you put it?” he sniffed, noticing primly that she did not seem to have a closet or a hall tree near the door.

Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she ducked her head.

The Professor watched her chew her lip nervously and instantly regretted his rudeness.

“Forgive me,” he said, handing her his Burberry trench coat of which he was inordinately proud. “And thank you.”

Julia hung his coat up carefully on a hook that was attached to the back of her door and hastily placed her knapsack on the hardwood. “Come in and be comfortable. I’ll make tea.”

Professor Emerson walked to one of only two chairs in the apartment and sat down, trying for her sake to hide his distaste. The apartment was smaller than his guest bathroom and included a small bed, which was pushed up against a wall, a card table and two chairs, a small Ikea bookshelf, and a chest of drawers. There was a small closet and a bathroom, but no kitchen.

His eyes roamed around the room, looking for evidence of any kind of culinary activity until they finally settled on a microwave and a hot plate that were perched somewhat precariously on top of a dresser. A small refrigerator sat on the floor nearby.

“I have an electric kettle,” Julia said brightly, as if she was announcing the fact that she had a diamond from Tiffany’s.

He noticed the water that was continuing to stream off her, then he began to notice the clothes that were under the water, and then he began to notice what was under her clothes, because it was cold…and he hastily and somewhat huskily suggested that she forego making tea in order to dry herself.

Once again her head tipped down, and she flushed before ducking into the bathroom and grabbing a towel. She emerged a few seconds later with a purple towel wrapped around her upper body over her wet clothes and a second towel in her hand. She moved as if she was going to crawl across the floor to clean up the trail of water she’d scattered from the door to the center of the room, but The Professor stood up and stopped her.

“Allow me,” he said. “You should change into some dry clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

“And die,” she added, more to herself than to him as she disappeared into her closet, trying not to trip over two large suitcases.

The Professor wondered briefly why she hadn’t unpacked yet but dismissed the answer as unimportant.

He frowned as he cleaned the water from the worn and scratched hardwood. When he’d finished, he looked at the walls and noticed that they had probably been white once, but were now a dingy cream color and were blistered and peeling. He inspected the ceiling and found several large water stains and what he thought might be the beginning of mold in one of the corners. He shuddered, wondering why on earth a nice girl like Miss Mitchell would live in such a terrible place. Although he had to admit that the apartment was very clean and quite tidy. Unusually so.