Gabriel's Angel by Nora Roberts

that started her off.” He raised a hand and his voice. “Take care, Mrs. Bradley.”
    They watched, Gabe from the yard, Laura from the doorway, as the snowmobile scooted up the lane. And then they were alone.
    Clearing his throat, Gabe started up the stairs. Laura said nothing, but she stepped out of the way and closed the door behind him. She waited until he was sitting on the low stone hearth, unlacing his boots.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œYou told the trooper that I was your wife.”
    Still frowning, he pried off a boot. “It seemed less complicated that way.”
    â€œFor me,” Laura agreed. “Not for you.”
    He shrugged his shoulders and then rose to go into the kitchen. “Any coffee?”
    â€œYes.” She heard the glass pot chink against the mug, heard the liquid pour into the stoneware. He’d lied for her, protected her, and all she had done was take from him. “Gabe.” Praying that her instincts and her conscience were right, she walked to the doorway.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” He had the pan she’d used to heat the milk in his hand.
    For a moment the tension fled. “If you’re desperate enough, it’s hot chocolate.”
    â€œIt looks like . . . Well, never mind what it looks like.” He set it back on the stove. “That powdered stuff tastes filthy, doesn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s hard to argue with the truth.”
    â€œI’ll try to make it into town tomorrow.”
    â€œIf you do, could you . . .” Embarrassed, she let her words trail off.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œNothing. It’s stupid. Listen, could we sit down a minute?”
    He took her hand before she could back away. “What do you want from town, Laura?”
    â€œMarshmallows, to toast in the fireplace. I told you it was stupid,” she murmured, and tried to tug her hand away.
    He wanted, God, he wanted just to fold her into his arms. “Is that a craving or just a whim?”
    â€œI don’t know. It’s just that I look at the fireplace and think about marshmallows.” Because he wasn’t laughing at her, it was easy to smile. “Sometimes I can almost smell them.”
    â€œMarshmallows. You don’t want anything to go with them? Like horseradish?”
    She made a face at him. “Another myth.”
    â€œYou’re spoiling all my preconceptions.” He wasn’t sure when he’d lifted her hand to his lips, but after the faintest taste of her skin he dropped it again. “And you’re not wearing the shirt.”
    Though he was no longer touching it, her hand felt warm, warm and impossibly soft. “Oh.” She took a long breath. He was thinking of the painting, not of her. He was the artist with his subject again. “I’ll change.”
    â€œFine.” More than a little shaken by the extent of his desire for her, he turned back to the counter and his coffee.
    The decision came quickly, or perhaps it had been made the moment she’d heard him lie for her, protect her. “Gabe, I know you want to work right away, but I’d like . . . I feel like I should . . . I want to tell you everything, if you still want to hear it.”
    He turned back; his eyes were utterly clear and intent. “Why?”
    â€œBecause it’s wrong not to trust you.” Again the breath seemed to sigh out of her. “And because I need someone. We need someone.”
    â€œSit down,” he said simply, leading her to the couch.
    â€œI don’t know where to start.”
    It would probably be easier for her to start further back, he thought as he tossed another log in the fire. “Where do you come from?” he asked when he joined her on the couch.
    â€œI’ve lived a lot of places. New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland. My aunt had a little farm on the Eastern Shore. I lived with her the