Gabriel's Inferno

“You’re really not in a position to argue.”



“Then good-bye, Professor.”



“Wait.” He stuck his expensive Italian shoe in between the door and the doorjamb, wedging it open. And he didn’t even worry about the scuffs that would result. “Let’s hear it.”



She cocked her head to one side and regarded him mutely before she spoke. “Tell me why, after everything you’ve said to me, I should join you for dinner.”



He looked at her blankly. Then he blushed to the roots of his hair and began to stammer. “I — um…that is, I think…you could say that we…



or you…”



Julia lifted a single eyebrow and slowly began to close the door on his foot.



“Wait.” His hand shot out to hold the door and to provide some relief for his now injured right foot. “Because what Paul wrote was correct: Emerson is an ass. But at least now he knows it.”



In that instant she smiled up at him, and he found himself smiling back in spite of himself. She really was very pretty when she smiled. He would have to see to it that she smiled more often, purely for aesthetic reasons.



“I’ll wait for you here.” Not wishing to give her a chance to demur, he reached out and pulled her apartment door closed.



Inside her apartment, Julia closed her eyes and groaned.



Chapter 5



Professor Emerson paced the hallway for a few minutes, then leaned up against a wall and scrubbed at his face with his hands. He did not know how he got there or what had propelled him to behave in such a way, but he was about to be caught in a clusterfuck of epic proportions. He’d been unprofessional to Miss Mitchell in his office, perilously close to harassing her verbally. He’d picked her up in his car, without a chaperone, and entered her apartment. All of these behaviors were highly irregular.



If it had been Miss Peterson who he’d picked up, she probably would have leaned over and undone his zipper with her teeth while he was driving. The Professor shuddered at the thought. Now he was about to take Miss Mitchell to dinner, for steak, no less. If that didn’t violate the non-fraternization policy set up by the university, he didn’t know what would.



He took a long and cleansing breath. Miss Mitchell was a Calamity Jane, a vortex of vexation. She’d had a remarkable string of misadventures, starting with her inability to go to Harvard, and things seemed to fall apart in her wake — including his calm and collected disposition. Although he was sorry she was living in deplorable circumstances, he was not going to risk his career to help her. She would be well within her rights to go to the chairman of his department tomorrow and file a harassment complaint against him. He could not let that happen.



He crossed the hall in two long strides and raised his hand to knock on her door. He was going to offer some feeble excuse, which would be better than just disappearing. But he stopped as soon as he heard footsteps from inside.



Miss Mitchell opened her door and stood, eyes downcast, in a simple but elegant V-necked black dress that fell to her knees. The Professor’s eyes raked over her gentle curves and down to her surprisingly long and very shapely legs. And her shoes…she couldn’t have known this, but Professor Sylvain Reynard



Emerson had a thing for women in exquisite high-heeled shoes. He swallowed noisily as he took in her breathtaking and obviously designer black stilettos. The Professor wanted to touch them…



“Ahem.”  Julia coughed slightly, and he reluctantly dragged his eyes up from her shoes to her face. She was staring at him with an amused expression.



She had pinned her hair up, but several of the curls had escaped and were falling delicately around her face. She wore a little makeup, her porcelain skin pale but luminous, with two delicious swathes of pink on her cheeks.



And her eyelashes seemed even darker and longer than he remembered.



Miss Julianne Mitchell was attractive.



She shrugged into a navy blue trench coat and quickly locked her apartment door. The Professor gestured to her to lead the way and followed her mutely through the hall. Once outside the front door, he opened his umbrella and stood somewhat awkwardly.



Julia looked up at him, puzzled.



“It would be easier for me to cover both of us if you took my arm.”



He offered her the crook of his left arm, which was holding the umbrella.



“If you don’t mind,” he added.



Julia took his arm and looked up at him with a soft expression.



They drove in silence down to the harbor front, a place that Julia had heard of but not yet explored. Before The Professor gave his keys to the restaurant’s valet, he asked Julia to hand him his tie from the glove compartment. She obliged, smiling to herself at the fact that he kept a boxed and immaculate silk tie in his car.



When she moved toward him, he caught a whiff of her scent and closed his eyes, just for a second. “Vanilla,” he murmured.



“What?” she asked, not quite having heard him.



“Nothing.”



He pulled off his sweater, and she was rewarded momentarily with the sight of his chest and a few curls of dark hair through the open buttons at his neck. Professor Emerson was sexy. He had an attractive face, and Julia believed that underneath his clothes he would be just as attractive. She tried very hard not to think about that too much, for her own sake.



But that didn’t stop her from watching in mute but rapt admiration as he effortlessly tied his tie without a mirror. Alas, the tie was crooked.



“I can’t seem to…I can’t see.” He fussed as he tried to straighten his tie, but to no avail.



“May I?” she offered shyly, not willing to touch him without his consent.



“Thank you.”



Julia’s deft fingers quickly straightened and smoothed his tie, and she lightly traced the top of his collar back to the nape of his neck, where she tugged the top of the collar down so as to cover the tie at the back. By the time she withdrew her hand, she was breathing rapidly and very red in the face.



The Professor was oblivious to her reaction because he was too busy thinking about the strange familiarity of her fingertips, and wondering why Paulina’s fingers never felt familiar. He removed his jacket from the hanger that hung behind his seat and quickly put it on. Then with a smile and a nod, they exited the car.



Harbour Sixty Steakhouse was a landmark in Toronto, a famous and very expensive restaurant popular with ceos, politicians, and various other impressive personages. Professor Emerson ate there because their steak was superior to any other he had tried, and he was impatient with mediocrity.



So it never occurred to him to take Miss Mitchell anywhere else.



Antonio, the maître d’, greeted him warmly with a firm handshake and a torrent of Italian.



The Professor responded equally warmly, also in Italian.



“And who is the beauty?” Antonio kissed the back of Julia’s hands while he chattered away to her in very descriptive Italian about her eyes, her hair, and her skin.



Julia flushed and thanked him, shyly but determinedly answering him in his own language.



Miss Mitchell had a lovely voice, it was true, but Miss Mitchell speaking Italian was something celestial. Her ruby mouth opening and closing, the delicate way she almost sang the words, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips from time to time…Professor Emerson had to remind himself to close his mouth after it had dropped open.



Antonio was so surprised and pleased at her response that he kissed her cheeks not just once but twice and quickly led them to the back of the restaurant where he provided them with his best and most romantic table for two. The Professor hovered over his chair reluctantly as he realized what Antonio was doing. He’d sat at that table before, not long ago, but with someone else. This was a mistake and one he needed to correct, but just as he cleared his throat to offer a clarification, Antonio asked Julia if she would accept a bottle of a very special vintage from his family’s vineyard in Tuscany.



Julia thanked him profusely, but explained that Il Professore  might have other preferences. He sat down quickly, and not wanting to offend, said that he would be delighted with whatever Antonio offered. Antonio beamed and quickly withdrew.



“Since we’re in public, I think it would it be best if you didn’t refer to me as Professor Emerson.”



Julia smiled brightly and nodded.



“So just address me as Mr. Emerson.”



Mr. Emerson was too busy looking at the menu to see the way that Julia’s eyes widened before her gaze fell.



“You have a Tuscan accent,” he remarked absently, still not looking at her.



“Yes.”



“How did you come by that?”



“I spent my junior year in Florence.”



“Your Italian is fairly advanced for only a junior year abroad.”



“I began studying it in high school.”



He looked across the small and intimate table and saw that she actively avoided his eyes. She was studying the menu as if it were an exam, worrying her lovely lower lip between her teeth.



“You are invited, Miss Mitchell.”



Her eyes darted to his with a questioning look.



“You are my guest. Order whatever you like, but please order some meat.” He felt the need to add that qualification since the express purpose of their dinner was to provide her with something more fortifying than couscous.



“I don’t know what to choose.”



“I could order for you, if you prefer.”



She nodded and closed her menu, still worrying her lip back and forth.



Antonio returned just then and proudly displayed a bottle of Chianti with a handwritten label. Julia smiled as he opened the bottle and poured a little into her glass.



Mr. Emerson watched, almost breathless, as she swirled the wine in her glass expertly, then lifted it so that she could examine it more closely in the candlelight. She brought the glass to her nose, closed her eyes, and sniffed.



Then she placed the glass to her plump lips and tasted the wine, holding it in her mouth for a while before swallowing. She opened her eyes, smiled even more widely, and thanked Antonio for his precious gift.



Antonio beamed, complimented Mr. Emerson on his choice of dining companion a little too enthusiastically, and filled both of their glasses with his favorite wine.



Meanwhile, Mr. Emerson had been adjusting himself under the table because the sight of Miss Mitchell tasting wine was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed. She was not merely attractive; she was beautiful, like an angel or a muse. And she wasn’t merely beautiful; she was sensual and hypnotic, but also innocent. Her pretty eyes reflected a depth of feeling and radiant purity that he had never noticed before.



He had to drag his eyes away from her as he adjusted himself once more for good measure, suddenly feeling dirty and more than a little ashamed of the reaction she was eliciting from him. A reaction that he would need to attend to later that evening. When he was alone. And surrounded by the scent of vanilla.



He ordered their meals, making sure that he requested the largest possible portions of filet mignon. When Miss Mitchel protested, he dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, remarking that she would be able to take her leftovers home with her. If Mr. Emerson had his way, this meal would feed her for a couple of days.