Fallen (Seven Deadly Sins #2)(20)
Author: Erin McCarthy

Tell me your story, she really wanted to say. Share that pain in your eyes with me. It was a palpable need, the urge to hear his sorrow, to comfort him the way he had her, just by his company. His silent acceptance of her oddities.

“What do you want to hear?”

Everything. “Why the Degas Salad bothers you.”

Gabriel laughed. “It just does. No other painter gets a salad. What makes him so special?”

Sara dropped her fork, suddenly getting it. “You paint too, don’t you?”

“No. Not anymore.”

Of course. Not anymore. “What do you still do?”

“I write true crime books.” He lifted his fork, his smile charming. “And I have dinner with beautiful blond women.”

“One at a time, or in groups?” Sara couldn’t believe those words came out of her mouth. She was flirting. She actually remembered how, and she was enjoying it.

“Always one-on-one. I prefer no distractions.”

She had the feeling that she would really enjoy being the sole focus of Gabriel’s romantic intentions. “Are you distracted easily?” Sara picked up her glass of chardonnay, swishing the liquid around and around before taking a sip.

His eyes dropped to her glass before immediately returning to her face. “No. I’m not distracted easily. I’m tenacious in my pursuit of what I want, whether it’s wise or not.”

If that was a warning, Sara was fairly sure her hormones weren’t heeding it. She felt the smooth caress of his words all the way down her body, and the warmth between her thighs wasn’t the result of wine.

“What is it that you want?” she asked him, knowing she was being reckless, flirting both with Gabriel and danger.

If a certain small part of her wanted the excitement of hearing him say “you,” she should have expected that didn’t mesh with what she knew of Gabriel’s personality. He wasn’t a charmer, nor was he always obvious.

“I want to solve a murder. Then do it again.”

Of course he did. So did she. But it still felt deflating to hear him say it so baldly. Which was ridiculous. She had no intention of engaging in any sort of affair with him.

“Then I’ll be free to pursue other things I want.”

And that was all it took to reignite her desire.

Sara had envisioned Bourbon Street as a sort of really long pub crawl, and while that was accurate, nothing had prepared her for the assault of sound, smell, and sights. There were people everywhere, walking in and out of bars and clubs, talking, laughing, spilling drinks, grabbing beads thrown off of balconies, and groping each other companionably. Music poured from every direction, spun by DJs and played by live cover bands. Lights blinked and flashed, splashing across the dark, humid night, bright and raucous, yet somehow never entirely penetrating the corners and side-street shadows.

“Hey, how about a lap dance for your lady?” a doorman said to Gabriel with a wink.

Gabriel shook his head. “No, thanks.” But then he turned to her. “Unless you want one.”

“Uh, no.” Definitely not her thing. Though looking around, she was starting to wonder what was her thing. She’d been pelted on the head by a set of Mardi Gras beads, which hadn’t really been all that fun. She was wearing them now over her T-shirt to blend in a little. To try to embrace the experience. What experience remained to be seen. Gyrating to hip-hop wasn’t her thing any more than a lap dance was, though she did like to dance to classic party music. She had an odd fondness for eighties music, probably because her mother had enjoyed blaring Journey, Boston, and Whitesnake her entire childhood. Somehow though she didn’t see herself jumping out on the dance floor in her denim skirt, T-shirt, and ballet flats with Gabriel.

It was too loud to have a real conversation. Which left drinking and people watching. Gabriel gestured they should go into a bar, so Sara forged ahead of him at his urging, picking her way through the crowd until she reached a bar stool. The bartender asked her what she wanted and she ordered another glass of chardonnay. Before she could even open her purse, Gabriel had paid for it, brushing aside her protests.

“Thanks. Aren’t you getting a drink too?” she asked him. Sara realized that while she’d had several glasses of wine throughout the night, he had only been drinking water.

He shook his head, putting his wallet back in his pocket and lifting the glass of wine to hand to her. “No, I don’t drink. I’m an alcoholic.”

Sara almost fell off the stool, her shoes slipping on the rung they were resting on. “Oh, God. I had no idea. I’m sorry.” She instinctively snatched the wineglass out of his hand, horrified that she’d been flaunting temptation under his nose all night long.

But Gabriel laughed. “I wasn’t going to chug it or anything, I promise. I haven’t had a drink in years.”

“That’s good.” God, what was she supposed to say? They practically had to yell to be heard over the music anyway. “But we didn’t have to come here if it’s uncomfortable for you.”

“I’m fine. I’m in control, Sara. It’s not even uncomfortable for me.” Strangely enough, Gabriel found there was truth to that. It wasn’t the alcohol that was tempting him. Even though he could smell beer, could see plastic cups filled with wine, tubes of shots, and containers filled with the infamous New Orleans hand grenade in the hands of people all around him, he didn’t have the urge to drink. What he had the urge to do was to touch Sara. To sweep his fingers across her soft skin, to move his body in closer to hers, to press his lips along the corners of her ripe mouth, and close his eyes while they brushed, connected, and reached for a tactile solace, a reminder that they weren’t alone.

They were both lonely. It was obvious. He had known that about himself, fought the sense that he existed removed from the world around him every day, and Sara wore the same fear in her eyes. She had a naked vulnerability, hidden behind her strength and determination, but when she looked at him, it was there. She liked him. Desired him. Was afraid of her feelings.

So was he.

And yet they were in a crowded bar and it felt like it was just the two of them. He leaned on the bar next to her stool, indulging himself by letting his knee brush against hers. She sat up straighter, moving her leg away. Then shifted it back, as if she had decided to defy her initial instinct.

“If you want to leave, just let me know,” she said.

“Not until I see you dance.”