Knock. Knock. Knock.
Julia’s domestic goddess routine was suddenly interrupted by someone banging on the front door.
Holy shit, she thought. Could that be—?
At first she didn’t know what to do. Should she wait and see if Paulina let herself in with a key? Or should she run back to Gabriel’s arms and hide? After waiting a minute or so her curiosity got the best of her, and she found herself tiptoeing quietly to the front door.
O gods of all just-been-reunited-with-my-soul-mate-after-a-really-painful-six-friggin’-years-graduate-students, please don’t let my soul mate’s (soon to be) ex-mistress mess things up. Please.
Julia took a deep breath and gazed through the peephole. The hallway was empty. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something on the ground. Hesitantly, she opened the door just a crack and darted a nervous hand out toward the something, exhaling deeply in relief when her hand closed on the Saturday morning Globe and Mail.
Smiling again, and relieved that her blissful reunion with Gabriel had not been ruined by his erstwhile mistress, Julia picked up the paper and hastily locked the door. Still smiling, she poured herself a glass of orange juice and curled up in the red velvet wing-backed chair that was angled next to the fireplace, with her bare feet resting on the matching ottoman. She sighed in contentment.
If you had asked her over two weeks ago when she was visiting Gabriel’s apartment with Rachel if she ever thought she’d be sitting in his precious chair on a Sunday morning, she would have said no. She hadn’t thought it possible, even with Grace’s saintly intercession. But now that she was here, she was very, very happy.
She settled in for a leisurely morning of orange juice and the Saturday paper and decided that her felicity deserved Cuban music, more specifically, a little bit of Buena Vista Social Club. As she listened to Pueblo Nuevo on her iPod, she perused the Arts section of Gabriel’s newspaper. An exhibition of Florentine art was coming to the Royal Ontario Museum on loan from the Uffizi Gallery. Maybe Gabriel wouldn’t mind taking her to see it. On a date.
Yes, they’d missed out on her high school prom and all the fancy parties at Saint Joseph’s University. But Julia was sure that all the wasted time and lost opportunity would now be returned to her tenfold to fill as she wished with Gabriel. Happily, she leaped to her feet as the trumpet player in her ears began playing a few bars of Stormy Weather as a counterpoint to the Cuban melody. Julia sang loudly, too loudly, dancing with her orange juice in Gabriel’s pretentious underwear, blissfully unaware of the half-naked man who was striding up behind her.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Aaaaggggghhhhhh!”
Julia yelped and jumped about a foot in reaction to the harsh, angry voice. She quickly took her ear buds out of her ears and turned around. And what she saw crushed her.
“I asked you a question!” Gabriel snapped, his eyes transformed to blackish-blue pools. “What the fuck are you doing in my underwear, jumping around my living room?”
Crack.
Was that the sound of Julia’s heart snapping in two? Or just the final nail in the coffin in which her dead love rested, but not in peace?
Perhaps it was his tone of voice, angry and commanding. Perhaps it was the fact that in that one question she realized that he no longer viewed her as Beatrice, and all her realized hopes and dreams just fucking died in their infancy. But whatever the true explanation, Julia’s iPod and orange juice slipped through her fingers. The glass promptly shattered, sending her old iPod skating through an ever expanding pool of liquid sunshine at her feet.
Julia stared at the disaster beneath her for a few seconds, trying to wrap her mind around it. It was as if she didn’t understand how glass could shatter and make such a mess, something in the shape of a glittering starburst. Eventually, she dropped to her knees to pick up the glass and began repeating two questions over and over in her head.
Why is he so angry with me? Why doesn’t he remember?
A tall and shirtless Gabriel looked down at her. He was clad only in his underwear, which made him look slightly sexy and slightly ridiculous. His fists were clenched, and Julia saw the tendons standing out in his magnificent arms.
“Don’t you remember what happened last night, Gabriel?”
“No, thankfully I don’t. And get up! You’re on your knees more than the average whore.” He spoke through clenched teeth, glaring at her servile form.
Julia’s head popped up. She searched his eyes, noting his complete and utter lack of memory and his irritation. He might as well have run her through with a sword. She felt the blade pierce and enter her heart, and she felt her heart begin to hemorrhage slowly.
Just like his tattoo, she thought. He’s the dragon; I’m the bleeding heart.
In that instant of silent realization, the most remarkable thing happened. Something inside of her, six years in the making, finally, finally snapped.
“I’ll have to take you at your word about the behavior of whores, Emerson. Only you would know,” she growled.
Then, when that snide remark didn’t quite heal the ache in the now expanding fissure in her heart, she boldly forgot about cleaning up her mess and leaped to her feet. And promptly lost her temper.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that, you lousy drunk!” she snarled. “Who the fuck do you think you are? After everything I did for you last night? I should have let Gollum have you! I should have let you fuck her brains out in front of everyone on top of the bar at Lobby!”
“What are you talking about?”
She leaned toward him, eyes flashing, cheeks flushed, and lips trembling. She shook with anger as the adrenaline coursed through her veins. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to wipe that expression off his face with her fists. She wanted to pull his hair out in handfuls and leave him bald. Forever.
Gabriel inhaled her scent, erotic and inviting, and licked his lips involuntarily. But that was the wrong thing to do in front of a woman as angry as Miss Mitchell.
She tossed her head in fury and stomped down the hall, muttering various and sundry exotic expletives in both English and Italian. And when she came to the end of them, she switched to German, a sure sign that she was in a towering rage.
“Hau ab! Verpiss dich!” she spat from the laundry room.
Gabriel slowly began rubbing his eyes, for in addition to suffering from one of the worst hangover headaches of his life, he was slightly enjoying the sight of Miss Mitchell in his T-shirt and boxer shorts, passionately angry and shouting at him in a multiplicity of Western European languages. It was the second most erotic thing he had ever witnessed. And it was entirely beside the point.
“How did you learn to swear in German?” He followed the sound of her cursing auf Deutsch to the laundry room where she was removing her now semi-dry clothes from the dryer.
“Bite me, Gabriel!”
He was distracted at that moment by a black lace bra that was reclining provocatively but somewhat casually on top of the dryer. He gazed at it and realized that the number and cup size that popped into his head the night he’d taken her to Harbour Sixty for dinner were absolutely correct. Gabriel silently congratulated himself.
He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. There were sparks in them, luminescent butterscotch in dark chocolate, like a glittering sundae.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting the hell out of here before I take one of your stupid bow ties and strangle you with it!”
Gabriel frowned, for he had always thought that those ties were smart. “Who is Gollum?”
“Christa-fucking-Peterson.”
Gabriel’s eyebrows shot up. Christa? I guess she is Gollum-like. If you squint.
“Forget about Christa. I don’t care about her. Did you have sex with me?” He crossed his arms and his voice grew serious.
“In your dreams, Gabriel!”
“That is not a denial, Miss Mitchell.” He put his hand on her
arm and forced her to stop what she was doing. “And don’t tell me it wouldn’t have formed part of your dreams too.”
“Get your hands off me, you arrogant bastard!” Julia pulled away so forcefully she almost fell backward. “Of course, you would have to be drunk to want to fuck me.”
Gabriel reddened. “Stop it. Who said anything about fucking?”
“What else would you do? I’m the crazy little whore who’s down on my knees every five seconds. Whatever happened, consider yourself lucky you don’t remember it! I’m sure it was more than forgettable.”
Gabriel’s hand grabbed her chin and held it firmly, lifting it so her face was inches from his. “I said stop it.” His eyes flashed back at hers, and in them Julia read a serious warning. “You are not a whore. And don’t ever speak about yourself like that again.” His tone slid across her skin like an ice cube.
He let her go and took a very large step back, his chest heaving and his eyes burning. He closed his eyes hard and began to breathe deeply, very deeply. Even in his shadowy, soused thinking he knew that things had escalated far beyond what was warranted. He needed to calm the fuck down fast, and then he needed to calm her down before she did something rash.
The look in her eyes said it all; he’d cornered her like an animal. She was angry and hurt and frightened and sad—a furious, wounded kitten with claws drawn and tears glistening at the corners of her eyes. He had done this. He had done this to her, a brown-eyed angel, when he compared her to a whore and failed to remember whatever happened between them last night.
You must have seduced her if she’s acting like this…Emerson, you are a grade A asshole. And you just kissed your career good-bye.
While Gabriel was thinking, and thinking slowly, Julia saw an opportunity and took it. Cursing him loudly, she grabbed her clothes from the dryer and ran into the guest room, slamming and locking the door behind her.
She pulled off his boxer shorts, dropping them disdainfully on the floor, and quickly pulled on her damp socks and jeans. When she realized that she’d left her bra on top of the dryer she decided she’d just leave without it. He can add that to his collection. Bastard. She decided not to change out of his T-shirt since it was less revealing than her own. And if he demanded his T-shirt back, she’d scratch his eyes out.
Julia stood with her ear against the door, listening for any sound of movement in the hallway. Her lack of clarity on this point gave her a few precious moments to think.
She’d lost her temper and been stupid. She knew what Gabriel could be like; she’d seen the shattered coffee table and the blood spattered on Grace’s carpet. Although she was positive that her Gabriel would never, ever strike her, she had no idea what Professor Emerson would do when provoked.
But he’d made her so angry. And she’d never had the chance to rage against him before. It was as if all of her pent up anger was screaming to get out. She had to push back; she had to get him out of her system once and for all. She’d wasted her life pining for someone who wasn’t real, some temporary alcoholic apparition, and today it was finally going to stop.
You’ve yelled and cursed at him. Just get the hell out before he decides to get physical.
While Julia was getting dressed, Gabriel was stumbling to the kitchen in order to find something to remove the Scotch-woven cobwebs from his mind. He opened the door to the refrigerator and leaned against it, bathed in its brilliant fluorescence.
His blue eyes glanced over the fridge’s contents until they found a large white tray. A very pretty, large white tray. A very pretty, very feminine, large white tray with food, orange juice, and what appeared to be a cocktail on it.
And was that…? She even garnished the plate, for God’s sake.
Gabriel stared. Miss Mitchell seemed to be a kindly person, but what were the chances that she made him breakfast for any reason other than the fact that he’d taken her to bed? The tray, in all of its garnished glory, seemed to be evidence of his seduction, and for that reason it sickened him.
Nevertheless, he was grateful that she’d prepared him a cocktail, as he gulped it greedily. It was precisely the antidote his pounding head needed, and in a few moments he felt some measure of relief.
Lazily, his eyes alighted on the note that was propped up against the orange juice. He scanned the writing slowly, not quite understanding why Miss Mitchell would choose to address him in such a manner. He read the note again and again, his focus finally coming to rest on these words:
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.
Now your blessedness appears.
Your Beatrice
He thrust the note aside in irritation. If it didn’t confirm their tryst, it was evidence of a crush. No wonder it had been so easy to charm her out of her virginity. Students were intrigued by figures of authority and developed inappropriate attachments to them. In Julianne’s case, she viewed him through the characters of her research, i.e., she was Beatrice to his Dante. A simple but forbidden crush. A crush he’d indulged in a selfish, drunken haze. Now he’d lost his appetite. What will Rachel say when she finds out?
Cursing his own lack of self-control, he walked past the closed guestroom door on the way to his bedroom. Flashes of the previous evening danced before his eyes. He remembered kissing Julianne in his hallway and the feel of her skin beneath his hands. He remembered earnestly desiring her, the sweetness of her lips, her warm breath in his face, the way she trembled under his touch. Even though he couldn’t remember the act itself, or the pleasure of her nakedness, he remembered looking up into her face while he was lying in bed. He felt her hand against his cheek as she pleaded with him to walk toward the light. She had the face of an angel. A beautiful, brown-eyed angel.
She came to my rescue, and see how I treated her. I took her virginity, and I don’t even remember it. She deserved better. Much, much better.
He emitted the groan of a tortured soul as he pulled on a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt and hunted around for his glasses. Just as he was about to exit the bedroom, he stopped, his gaze inexplicably drawn to the oil painting on the front wall.
Beatrice.
He moved so that he was but inches from her lovely face, her white figure familiar and comforting. His brown-eyed angel. A glimpse of the impossible drifted before his eyes, but like a wisp of smoke it vanished. He was hungover and not thinking clearly.
Julia quietly unlocked the door and peered into the hall. It was empty. She tiptoed toward the kitchen, shoved her feet into her sneakers, grabbed her things, and ran to the front door. Gabriel was waiting for her.
Scheisse.
“You can’t leave until I get some answers.”
Julia swallowed thickly. “Let me go. Or I’ll call the cops.”
“You call the cops, I’ll tell them you broke in here.”
“You tell them that, I’ll tell them that you kept me here against my will and that you hurt me.” She was speaking without thinking again, which wasn’t smart. And now she was threatening him with a falsehood. Anything they did together had been consensual and chaste and sweet—and absolutely, absolutely ruined. But Gabriel didn’t know that.
“Please, Julianne. Tell me I didn’t—” His eyes grew large and round, and his face contorted in pain. “Please tell me I wasn’t…rough with you.” Gabriel turned almost green in his revulsion and raised a shaking hand to his glasses. “How badly did I hurt you?”
Julia debated how long she should leave him on the proverbial hook but decided hastily to un-bait him. She closed her eyes and groaned. “You didn’t hurt me. Not physically, at least. You just wanted someone to put you to bed and keep you company. You begged me to stay, actually, but just as a friend. You were more of a gentleman to me last night than you were this morning, which is saying something. I think I like you better when you’re drunk.”
“Never think that, Julianne.” He shook his head at her and sighed. “And I’m still drunk. I’m simply relieved that I wasn’t your first.”
She inhaled sharply
, and Gabriel watched as a pained expression marred her lovely features.
“But your clothes…” He stared down at her chest, at her nipples that were poking prettily from underneath his black T-shirt. He tried not to ogle her, but failed.
“Is this some kind of joke?” she snapped. “Do you honestly not remember?”
“I have gaps in my memory—when I drink sometimes I can’t tell…” He began mumbling incoherently.
Julia reached the end of her patience. “You threw up on me. That’s why I was in your clothes. And for no other reason, believe me.”
A look of relief and pained acknowledgement passed across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “And I apologize for insulting you. I didn’t mean what I said earlier, truly I didn’t. I was shocked to find you here and the way you were dressed, I thought that we…” He made a vague hand gesture.
“Bullshit.”
Gabriel glared, forcing himself to keep his temper. “If anyone connected with the university found out that you stayed here, I could be in a lot of trouble. We both could.”
“I won’t tell anyone, Gabriel. I’m not stupid, despite what you think of me.”
He frowned. “I know you aren’t stupid. But if Paul or Christa found out, then I…”
“Is that all you care about? Covering your own ass? Well, don’t worry, I covered it for you. I pried Christa off your dick last night before you had a chance to consummate your professor-student relationship. You should be thanking me!”
Gabriel’s face hardened, and he pressed his lips together. “Thank you, Miss Mitchell. But if someone sees you leaving here…”
Julia threw her hands up in frustration. He really was incredibly dense.
“If anyone sees me, I’ll say I was on my knees for your next door neighbor, making money to buy couscous. I’m sure it’s believable.”
In a flash Gabriel’s hand was on her chin again, more forcefully this time. “Stop it. I warned you about saying things like that.”
Julia froze, but only for a second, before jerking out of his grasp. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. She tried to move past him, praying he wasn’t going to retaliate by hitting her, but he put his hand on the doorknob and braced himself against the door.