Which maybe she was.
But all thoughts of stern consternation fled her mind when Gabriel held up his sketchbook in front of her.
She felt her mouth drop. Actually was aware of her jaw descending and her mouth flapping open.
It was her. He had drawn her, beautifully. With clean lines and a raw sort of honesty, and appreciation.
She saw how he had seen her from the window, relaxed, but still pensive. Warm in the sun. Legs spread.
Good God.
“It’s . . . lovely. You’re very, very talented.” And she was going to have to revise her opinion of his lack of interest in her. The drawing was alive, and the artist was attracted to the subject. She could see that. Feel it. Unless he had done that just for effect. But she didn’t believe it. He had perceived her pose as sensual, her posture as making love to the sunshine, accepting it, wanting it.
“Thanks.” He glanced at the sketch, a satisfied smile on his face, pencil tucked behind his ear. “Like I said, I was inspired.”
“Why did you ever stop drawing?” Sara reached out and tipped the book back to her, so they could both see it. It was highly flattering, very gratifying to see herself on paper. “If you did this in just a few minutes, I can’t imagine what you could do with paint and a week.”
Gabriel glanced down at her, his arm, leg, body close to her. She could smell his aftershave, and the oddly innocent odor of baby shampoo, and she realized that individually there were pieces of Gabriel that she really liked, appreciated, was attracted to. Sometimes, put all together, she wasn’t entirely sure what she was looking at, but studied in sections, she saw nothing but aspects that pleased her.
“There’s a reason I gave it up, Sara. Drawing, painting, playing the piano . . . they all require emotion. Vulnerability. Exposing a piece of me.” His thumb slid over the page, rushing over the top of her hair in pencil.
She shivered, feeling again that flood of desire he inspired.
“When you’re an alcoholic, and trying to get sober, that sort of free-flowing emotion and total abandonment is a really bad thing. You need control, or at least I did, to stay away from the alcohol. I had to clamp down on all my creativity. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” She understood. Completely. “I told you I’m a control freak. I know exactly what you mean.” Glancing up at him, she asked the obvious. “So why now? What makes it okay now?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just felt right. I’m in control. And I enjoyed doing this.”
“It shows.” She felt her cheeks pinken as she saw how truly far apart her legs had been. “I thought I was alone.”
“I know. That’s what made it so enticing. You were completely unaware of me.”
“How long were you dangling out of that window? You just about gave me a heart attack.”
He laughed. “Not long. And I have very good balance.”
“So do cats and they fall sometimes too.” She rolled her eyes to finish off her point.
Gabriel startled her by running his fingertip along her cheek, softly, slowly. “Don’t worry. I have nine lives.”
The touch felt good, and she struggled against the urge to close her eyes, to lean into it. “Nobody lives forever, Gabriel. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”
“Maybe every day feels like I am going to live forever. Maybe it feels endless.” His dark brown eyes bored into her as his finger fell away.
He had a deep voice, at odds with his delicate bone structure, and it washed over her, his face closer to hers than she had realized. Their bodies were brushing casually, no sense of personal space between them, and she gave in to the urge to touch his hair. Just the end. Lightly. Smoothing it. It was as silken and soft as she had imagined. “Maybe it’s time to rediscover some of the things that brought you joy before.”
She meant painting, the piano. But he got a licentious look in his eye. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Whatever you like. Sketching, for one.”
“Maybe. If you’ll model for me.”
Sara stood still. He was so close to her his breath danced across her face. His eyes studied her, challenging her. He was going to kiss her. She was sure of it. And every inch of her welcomed it, wanted to feel his body against hers, wanted to taste his mouth, dip her tongue inside him, and have permission to plunge her fingers into his hair and tug.
“I’ll think about it,” she whispered. “But I’m a very self-conscious person, so if I model, it will be stilted.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “I think if you decide to do something, you do it, without hesitation.”
She wasn’t entirely sure he was right. Nor was she sure if that was all he meant, or if he was asking her something. All she knew was that if he wanted her to initiate a kiss, it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to risk ruining their working relationship, the budding friendship sort of thing they had happening.
“Like dancing,” he added. “Once you decided to go out there, you went for it.”
That embarrassed her. Maybe because dancing, putting it out there, reminded her of the flaws in her mother, that lack of control she had frequently displayed. Sara backed up, broke away, both physically and emotionally. He wasn’t going to touch her, she could sense that. And she was too raw to make a move, wasn’t sure it was a good idea at all. “Yeah, and when you decide to sketch, you climb out of a window to do it.”
Gabriel didn’t answer, just watched her with eyes that spoke volumes, yet not in a way she could understand. “Is there somewhere I can get some coffee?” she asked. She needed to get away from him.
“Turn right on Royal and go down a block.”
It never seemed to jar him that she switched subjects clear out of the blue, and he never missed a beat. Maybe it was because he was as random as she was.
“Thanks. Want anything?”
He shook his head no. But he gave a soft laugh, a sort of scoff of disbelief.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
It was possibly the most irritating word in the English language.
So without bothering to pursue that any further, Sara dug into her purse for her sunglasses and headed for the door.
Chapter Nine
Gabriel wanted to find the child. If the coroner claimed Anne had given birth, then it was possible the child had been stillborn. Or died shortly thereafter. But if the child had died at birth, or some point after, there would be birth records. Assuming that Anne hadn’t given birth before the age of fifteen, Gabriel had ordered the birth records for children with the surname Donovan for all of New Orleans for the years 1841-1849. He didn’t think it was possible that Anne had given birth the year she had died, because he had known her most of that year, but it wouldn’t hurt to scan the results.