Page 23 of Angel Eyes

“Isn’t it? Art historians believe it was da Vinci’s final oil painting.” My skin prickled with awareness as I felt Gabriel’s eyes on me.

“Interesting. And what about this painting speaks to you?”

I measured my words carefully. I hadn’t been lying when I said I developed an interest in da Vinci’s work in college. But now, as I looked at the painting, seeing it—really seeing it—with my own eyes instead of in the pages of a book, Gabriel’s words returned to me.

Art is about what moves you, what inspires you.

“The first time I saw this painting, I was mesmerized by its restrained palette and the way da Vinci used light and shadow rather than color to draw the viewer’s eye.” I stretched out a hand, tracing a finger over the lines of the image without touching the canvas. “See? The way he handled light brings our attention to the saint, while the rest of the scene he left in darkness.”

“And why do you think he did this?”

The heat of Gabriel’s body rippled over my skin, causing goosebumps to blossom along my arms. Had he stepped closer, or had I?

“It’s hard to say. Historians say it was meant to be symbolic of John receiving God’s light, but …” I swallowed the rest of my sentence. I was no art expert, and my entire knowledge of the subject came from a one-semester course ten years ago.

What did it matter what I thought?

“Go on,” he said, his voice softening as though he could sense my hesitation.

“Well, while I understand the mainstream interpretation of the image, I think the focal point isn’t meant to be on the man himself, but rather the divine. See how his hands are positioned?” I gestured toward his left hand over his heart, his right pointing upward. “In my view, John wasn’t the message—he was the messenger, sent to direct others toward something greater than himself.”

Gabriel remained silent for a beat, and I fought to keep my eyes straight ahead even as I itched to see his reaction. Did he think my interpretation was ridiculous?

“You know,” he began slowly, “I read somewhere that this painting may have been a derivation of a previous composition, one commissioned by the Florentine government. The Battle of Anghiari, it was called. Da Vinci never had the chance to finish it, but sketches show it featured my namesake in much the same position. Hand on heart, pointing upward.”

“Your namesake? As in Gabriel the angel?”

His eyes slid to mine, drawing me into a gulf of blue. “Oui, le seul et unique. It is curious that your interpretation should be that this painting casts John as a messenger when its predecessor featured a subject whose purpose was to serve in the same capacity.”

Oh. So not ridiculous, then.

“Do you think he resented it? Gabriel, I mean. Being sent as an intermediary whenever God intended to intervene in the matters of mankind?”

“No,” he said, holding my gaze. “I imagine he was honored to serve. To guide those who only needed a little … direction.”

I swallowed, my pulse fluttering.

What was happening?

“Juliet.” Gabriel’s voice called out in alarm a second before I heard pounding footsteps rushing up behind me, and I barely had time to react before someone slammed into me. I was immediately thrown off balance, the floor racing up to meet me in a blur.

I could only imagine what Kyle would say when he found out about this, how he would tell me I never should have come to Paris in the first place, how it was my fault for—

Arms. Two of them wrapped around me, breaking my fall and enveloping me in a masculine scent. And someone was yelling. I could feel the vibrations of a deep voice from where my ear was pressed against something warm and hard.

Gabriel’s chest.

I couldn’t understand what he was saying since he spoke in French, and when I tried to turn to see who the recipient of his ire was, I found his hand cradling my head, long fingers curling protectively around the base of my neck. Another voice joined in the sparring match, and Gabriel’s hand pressed between my shoulder blades, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles.

Was he aware he was doing that?

I drew in a deep breath before letting it go slowly. I’d been seconds away from smacking my head on the floor.

Talk about close …

No, this is close.

Without thinking, I relaxed into him, burying my nose in his chest. Oh. He smelled divine. How a man could smell so nice while being so angry was disconcerting. His scent was an earthy mixture of citrus and cedar and something else. Something that reminded me of sun-tanned skin and summer breezes. It was heady and male and lulled me into a protective embrace I never knew I needed. Or wanted.

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