Ghosts of War Read Free Page B

to sleep and unwilling to drink himself into another stupor, he could still see her there at the house. He remembered the feel of her lithe, sensuous body curled around him with her feline grace; the sight of her auburn hair a bright splash on the stark white pillow; the touch of her red, full lips as she leaned in and gently kissed his neck. He was haunted by her memory, unable to shake her from his dreams.
    Sometimes he sat listlessly in the drawing room and played the holograph recorder on a constant loop, watching her flickering blue image as she swayed her hips on the stage at the Sensation Club, listening as she softly sang her lament for lost love.
    Gabriel didn't know what to feel anymore. He didn't feel anything. He was numb. The only thing that came close to sensation was the beating of another man's fists against his face, or the rending of a raptor's claws, or falling.…
    A bell rang out, and the referee motioned them both forward.
    Gabriel was feeling tired now, weary to the bones. He hadn't slept last night after he'd escorted the woman home. He'd left her with Donovan's name and told her to call the precinct in the morning. He'd check with Donovan later to make sure she'd done as he'd suggested.
    Carmichael—a thin but wiry man in his midthirties, with dark chestnut-colored hair and a thin mustache—came at Gabriel in a frenzy. Something had stirred him—whether it was the scent of victory, or perhaps an overeagerness to impress, Gabriel couldn't be sure, but he was experienced enough and wise enough to take advantage of it.
    Gabriel went on the defensive, channeling all of his energy into dodging and blocking, pushing Carmichael on to tire him out. The blows rained down and Gabriel kept it up, pacing around the ring, even allowing a few of the jabs to hit home, urging Carmichael on with little glimmers of success.
    It was a well-proven strategy, and it wasn't long before Gabriel could see the other man beginning to slow. Carmichael's punches were becoming appreciably less frantic, and less powerful, too; and almost sighing with the inanity of it all, Gabriel took a step forward, feinted to the left, and finally took Carmichael down with a swift, sharp hook with his right fist.
    The man, utterly dazed by the blow, spun around slowly and collapsed to the mat, semiconscious and momentarily unable to move.
    The referee rang the bell and Gabriel slumped back against the ropes, still panting with the exertion. He turned when he heard the sound of someone clapping enthusiastically from behind him.
    The gym was nearly empty, save for a couple of other men sparring in the far corner, but there, framed in the doorway, was a face he hadn't seen for over three years.
    “Ginny?” he said, as if he didn't quite believe his own eyes. “Ginny Gray?”
    The woman smiled, and her blue eyes flashed in amusement. “It's been a long time, Gabriel.” Her voice was exactly how he remembered it: sugary and sweet. She was young, in her midtwenties, with stunning blonde hair and the most perfect cheekbones he had ever seen. She was tall and slender, with shapely legs and a slim waist. Her skin was pale and unblemished, as if she'd been sculpted by a fine renaissance artist, presented in alabaster like some immaculate vision of a woman, rendered in life according to a secret blueprint of perfection. She was wearing a red felt cloche and a knee-length dress, and she looked just as stunning as she had when she'd walked out on him all those years ago.
    Gabriel wiped his face in the crook of his arm. “What…?” he trailed off, unable to give any shape to his thoughts. His mind was racing.
    Ginny laughed. “You look terrible, Gabriel.” She approached the ring, her heels clicking loudly on the tiles. She reached for a towel that was draped over the back of a ringside chair and tossed it to him. He caught it awkwardly with his gloved hands, and smiled.
    “I thought about coming along to one of your parties,” she said,