Night Fires

‘Your father?’

‘Yes. But I don’t any more. Not since he.. .since he…’ Her voice broke. To her stunned surprise, she felt the sudden bum of tears in her eyes. And that was impossible; she hadn’t cried, not even at the funeral. She had been too filled with bitterness.

‘Gabrielle.’

She heard James’s footsteps behind her. ‘I’m all right,’ she said stiffly.

Tears began to stream down her cheeks. James cursed softly and gathered her into his arms, turning her unyielding body until she faced him.

‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said. ‘It’s… it’s…’

His hand slid beneath her hair and cupped the nape of her neck. She stood rigid within his embrace, her spine like a steel rod, while his hand moved gently against her skin. It had been months since anyone had offered even the simplest show of warmth and kindness to her; the touch of his hand seemed almost a miracle.

She put her hand to her mouth, muffling the first sob, but they came too quickly after that, until finally she gave up fighting and let James draw her into the sheltering curve of his arms.

‘I miss him,’ she said brokenly. ‘He was—he was never sick a day in his life, he was always so strong and healthy, and then one day he just didn’t feel well and—and…’

‘It’s all right,’ James murmured. ‘It’s all right, Gabrielle.’

She closed her eyes, pressing her face against his soft wool jacket. ‘Sometimes, I still don’t believe he’s gone. I just—I just…’ Her tears, so long repressed, seemed unstoppable. ‘He was all I had.’

His arms tightened around her. ‘Was he?’

Later, it would seem a strange question. Now, it made perfect sense. Gabrielle nodded and sniffed damply.

‘And they said such terrible things about him, James. None of it was true. None of it. I…’

She fell silent. What was the matter with her? She was talking too much, saying things she couldn’t afford to say, not if she was to maintain her new identity. This morning, she’d been filled with doubts about James Forrester. Now she was babbling to him, on the verge of spilling secrets that had to remain locked within her forever if she was to have any peace.

She was Gabrielle Shelton, not Gabrielle Chiari. She could never be Gabrielle Chiari again.

She wiped her hand across her nose and stepped back in James’s arms. Her tears had left dark spots on his jacket.

‘I seem to make a specialty out of ruining your clothing,’ she said, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘Let me get a tissue before I do any more damage.’

He kept one arm around her while he reached in his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. ‘Here you go,’ he

said, holding it out to her. ‘Use this.’

‘I couldn’t.’ She laughed through the tears that still trickled down her face. ‘My mascara’s running. I’ll ruin your handkerchief.’

James smiled at her. ‘What’s a handkerchief, compared to two wool jackets and a pair of trousers? Go on, I’ll risk it.’

She laughed again, wiped the tears from her eyes, then blew her nose loudly. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘You’re welcome. I think you needed that cry.’

Gabrielle sighed. ‘I think you’re right.’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘You know what else I need?’

Their eyes met. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, and, before she could move, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

The kiss was gentle, but the feel of his mouth against hers was electric. James made a sound deep in his throat, and gathered her to him, his lips parting hers so he could taste her. For a second, she swayed against him, and then she put her hands against his chest and drew away.

‘That’s not quite what I had in mind,’ she said. She’d been trying for a light tone, but her voice sounded hoarse and uncertain.

‘Gabrielle…’

‘If you don’t feed me soon, I swear I’m going to swoon.’

A smile touched his lips, but she could feel the racing beat of his heart beneath her palms.

‘Is that what happens when you live in the south? Do you learn to swoon?’

She laughed softly. ‘Alma says that went out with Scarlett O’Hara. If I faint, you’ll have nothing but low blood-sugar to blame.’

He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. ‘Can I trust you to make the salad?’

Gabrielle nodded. ‘Of course. Can I trust you to grill the steaks?’

James laughed. ‘You’ll eat those words, young lady.’

She smiled. ‘I’d rather eat the steaks.’

James was a quick and efficient cook. He worked with his jacket off and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, and there was something very masculine in the way he moved around her small kitchen. They dined before the fireplace by candle-light, talking about a lot of things, none of them terribly important.

What was important, Gabrielle thought, as she watched him from beneath her lashes, was that she was happy. It was a feeling she’d almost forgotten.

And when the evening ended, when he took her in his arms and whispered goodnight, she trembled, eyes closed, awaiting his kiss. His mouth moved against hers as lightly as the touch of spring rain against a petal, and then he drew back and looked at her.

‘Gabrielle,’ he whispered.

Her lashes lifted and her eyes met his. He was watching her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

‘Gabrielle,’ he said again, and the single word seemed to hold a complexity of meaning.

‘What is it, James? Is something wrong?’

His eyes grew dark, his hands spread along her shoulders, and suddenly he drew her to him and kissed her with a passion that sent heat spiraling through her blood.

Time slowed, then stopped. She stood motionless while James’s mouth moved on hers, and then she whimpered and rose on tiptoe, her body straining to press against his. Her arms lifted and wound tightly around his neck.

With a soft groan, he caught her wrists, drew her hands to her sides and then thrust her from him.

‘Lock the door after me,’ he said in a rough voice, and before she could answer he was gone.

Gabrielle awoke abruptly in the middle of the night, her heart pounding, her skin clammy with sweat. She had been dreaming of James—already, the dream images were fragmented and illusory. One thing, however, was all too clear.

She had lived carefully, almost reclusively, for months, and now, in little more than a day, a stranger had entered her life, a man who seemed to know all kinds of little things about her, whose embrace breached all her defenses.

Alma would say it was wonderful, a sure sign of romance in an otherwise humdrum world.

But was it?

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Why would anybody in his right mind give house-room to one of these things?’

Alma made a face as she plucked a tiny cactus spine from the tip of her finger. ‘I declare, these thorny devils bite the hand that feeds them!’

Gabrielle, seated opposite her assistant at the small work-table in the rear room of the La Vie en Rose, looked up and smiled.

‘You have to learn to appreciate succulents,’ she said.

‘After all, they have a lot going for them.’

Alma’s eyebrows rose. ‘Besides their propensity for blood-lettin’ you mean?’

Gabrielle laughed. ‘Give credit where credit’s due, Alma. Cacti are tough, they don’t need much care or looking after…’

‘Everythin’ needs some care, Gaby.’ The other woman’s eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘And even the thorniest exterior can mask a tender heart.’

The two women looked at each other for a silent moment, and then Gabrielle’s cheeks turned pink and she pulled a box of ribbons and bows towards her.

‘Red or white?’ she asked. Alma said nothing, and Gabrielle looked up. ‘What do you think—shall I use red or white ribbon for these carnation corsages?’

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‘Red,’ Alma said, ‘and don’t try to change the subject.’

Gabrielle bent forward again. Her hair, held back at the temples with tortoiseshell combs, swung forward and hid her face behind a glossy black curtain.

‘Did you want to talk about cacti?’ she said in tones of absolute innocence. ‘I didn’t realise that. Actually, I

don’t know much about them, except that they’re hardy

and self-sufficient ’

‘Darn it!’ Alma tossed down the miniature trowel she was holding and stuffed her finger into her mouth. ‘There’s also not a thing about them anyone can admire, except for the fact that they don’t need much water.’ Her dark brown eyes glittered. ‘But then, neither do camels— although I suppose even a camel admires another camel some time, or there wouldn’t be any more camels, would there?’