Robin Schone Gabriel's Woman (best pdf ebook reader for android .txt) 📖

to each other.”

Gaston, too, had survived the streets.

“Are you a ... une prostitute?” she asked impulsively.

Gaston’s gaze did not waver. “Out, mademoiselle, I was une prostituee, if there were clients who

wanted me. When there were not, I was—as you English say, a pickpocket and a cutthroat.”

A cutthroat. . .

Victoria took a deep breath. “I take it you are no longer engaged in your former occupations.”

Suddenly the cold flatness of the streets left Gaston’s eyes. They twinkled engagingly. “Non,

mademoiselle, I am no longer engaged as a pickpocket or a cutthtroat. Monsieur Gabriel would not like it if

we stole from or killed his clients. I manage Monsieur Gabriel and his house.”

And the employees who worked in the House of Gabriel.

A family of prostitutes, thieves and cutthroats.

Victoria squared her shoulders. “I am relieved to hear that, sir.”

“Pas du tout—not at all, mademoiselle.” There was admiration as well as humor in Gaston’s brown

eyes. “Your breakfast is in the study. You may eat it now or wait until a maid has helped you to dress.”

As a governess, Victoria had eaten with the servants. She was not used to being fussed over. The

lingering heat of embarrassment dissipated at the novelty of being pampered.

“Truly, monsieur, I do not need the services of a maid. But thank you. I will enjoy breakfast—and the

clothes. They are very beautiful.”

Gaston looked pleased at her praise. “If there is anything you need, you must feel free to ask.”

She needed to heal an angel. There was only one way to do so.

Victoria looked into Gaston’s kind brown eyes and asked for what she needed.

For what Gabriel needed.

Chapter

19

A shadow covered Victoria. Gabriel’s image lay heavily on her eyelids, her breasts, her stomach, her

thighs.

Instantly, she awakened, heart pounding, breath catching.

The bathroom door gently swung closed. A thin line of white light flooded the crack between floor and

door.

Gabriel had returned.

Throwing back the bedcovers, she slid out from between the linen sheets.

Her nipples hardened. From cold, she told herself.

And knew that it was from fear.

Victoria was not looking forward to the part she must play this night, but she would play it. She would

free an angel.

Orange and blue flames licked blackened wood.

The fire was dying from lack of care.

Victoria had been dying ever since her mother had left her with a cold, unloving father. Gabriel had died

a little every time he gave pleasure but did not receive it in return.

The squat white jar on the satinwood nightstand was a pale blur in the feeble light.

It was all the light Victoria needed.

She reached out, fingers grasping—

Metal.

The silver tin of condoms.

Letting go of the metal, she grasped the glass jar that Gaston had earlier delivered. Fingers trembling,

Victoria unscrewed the lid and carefully laid it on the nightstand.

Metal impacting metal shot down her spine.

Victoria had placed the lid on top of the small tin. She could only hope that her decision was better

planned than her coordination.

The smooth wooden floor was cold, hard. Her breasts—passable breasts, Madame René had said;

symbols of a woman’s sin, her father had claimed—stabbed the air.

Gabriel had seen Victoria’s breasts; she had not seen him.

Gabriel had touched Victoria; Victoria had not touched Gabriel.

Yet.

God help her if she did, Gabriel had said. Because he couldn’t.

Or wouldn’t.

Victoria opened the bathroom door.

She could sense Gabriel’s awareness the moment she stepped inside.

A long, elegant hand reached out from the depths of the shower and turned a cock. Water sprayed in the

silence; steam billowed out of the wood casing.

Strangling the glass jar of lubricant she had asked Gaston for, Victoria stepped forward.

Gabriel’s face was turned up into the shower spray, hair sleek and dark. Water sluiced down his

muscled back, tight buttocks, and long, long legs.

He was beautiful. Far, far more beautiful than any other man she had ever seen.

Gabriel knew Victoria had entered the bathroom. He knew Victoria watched him.

He knew what Victoria intended to do.

Slowly he lowered his head. Water-darkened hair hugged the back of his head, shaped the nape of his

neck.

“I will kill you if you touch me, Victoria.”

Gabriel’s voice was distant; tension penetrated the water and the building steam.

“I would not be here, Gabriel, if you did not want me to touch you,” Victoria returned calmly. And knew

that it was true.

The man who was responsible for being at the House of Gabriel had known Gabriel’s needs. He had

provided Victoria to fulfill them.

“My name is not Gabriel.”

Victoria steeled herself for the truths she would learn this night. “What is it, then?”

“Garçon. Con. Fumier.”

Victoria knew that garçon was the French word for boy. Con and fumier were not a part of her

French vocabulary. Any more than had been portail, a woman’s vagina, and godemiché, a leather phallus.

“We are not responsible for what other people call us,” she returned evenly.

“Do you know what con is, mademoiselle?”

Gabriel’s voice echoed hollowly in the copper grotto over the steady spray of water.

“No,” Victoria said truthfully.

“It’s bastard. Do you know what fumier means?”

“No.” But she had no doubt that Gabriel was going to instruct her. “I do not.”

“Fumier means a