One Touch of Moondust (10 page)

The comment sounded suspiciously like advice. From a snot-nosed kid no less. Paul's hackles rose.

“Why?” he said. The retort was unnaturally soft. It should have been taken as a warning.

Unused to such subtleties, Mike persisted. “It is time for lunch.”

“Then take it,” Paul said in a dismissive tone that would have sent a lesser man scurrying. Mike's pimpled chin tilted defiantly. He even risked taking a step closer. A tiny spark of approval flared inside Paul as he waited for the counterpunch.

“You coming?” Mike said hopefully.

“Not now.”

Mike drew in a deep breath, but his gaze never wavered. “Maybe you should.”

Exasperated, Paul scowled.

“I mean,” Mike persevered. “You've already ruined five strips of this stuff this morning.” He poked a scuffed workboot at the stack of discarded boards. “At this rate, the job's going to cost you money.”

Paul found himself staring at the pock-marked wood as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. He sighed heavily, then grinned. “You may have a point,” he admitted finally. “You grab the lunches and I'll run down the block and pick up some soda.”

Mike held out one black pail, identical to Paul's own. “I've already got my lunch. I couldn't find yours.”

Of course not, Paul thought with wry acceptance. It was still at home in the damned kitchen. Not far from his tools. Even closer to the spot where he had very nearly lost his head and seduced Gabrielle Clayton at seven thirty-two this morning.

Tomorrow he would put the tools and his lunch by the front door the minute he got up. Tomorrow he would be out of the apartment by seven-fifteen and not one second later. Maybe even seven o'clock. Tomorrow, if he was lucky, he would avoid temptation altogether.

Tonight was another story.

* * *

Gabrielle's day improved only to the extent that she actually did get home without taking the wrong subway, leaving her purse behind or getting mugged. Beyond that, it could be counted as one of the worst days of her life. The two interviews she'd had—and the others that hadn't panned out—convinced her that she would never work as a broker again. Despite
her promise to herself that she would take this as a clear sign to move on to a new challenge, her spirits were at an all-time low.

It didn't help to open the door and see that horrible hodgepodge of furniture Paul had collected. Without removing her coat, she flipped through the yellow pages, whirled around and went back out.

Two hours later, her mood vastly improved, she was back again, stumbling awkwardly up the front steps with her purchases, dumping them in the foyer and collapsing on the bottom step. Listening to the sound of music and hammering, rather than being nervous as she'd expected to be, she was simply grateful that Paul was home to help. She shouted at the top of her lungs to be heard over the noise.

The hammering paused, though some rock tune she didn't recognize blared on. She didn't hear the opening of the apartment door over the din, but she looked up in time to see Paul peer over the fourth floor banister.

“Thank goodness,” she said with heartfelt relief.

“What?” He held his hand to his ear to indicate he couldn't hear her.

“I need your help,” she shouted.

“What?”

She shrugged and pointed at the collection of items in the foyer, then gestured for him to come down. He approached her slowly with the wariness of a man who expected anything but a friendly reception. He stayed a careful three steps from the bottom, as if he expected to need a head start back up.

“What's all this?” he asked cautiously, staring at the two badly scarred tables and the large bag from a neighborhood hardware store.

“It's for the apartment,” she said excitedly, determined to put the morning's awkwardness behind them. “Aren't they absolutely perfect.”

“For what?”

“End tables, of course. And I saw this really wonderful sofa. It was an incredible bargain, but I couldn't figure out how to get it home and I decided you might want to take a look at it, too, before we get it.”

“Why are you doing this?” He looked thoroughly baffled.

“What?”

“Furnishing an apartment you have no intention of staying in more than a few months.”

“Because I'm not sure I can stand looking at what's in there now, even for a few months.”

He regarded the tables skeptically. “If you don't mind my saying so, these don't appear to upgrade the quality of the decor by much. How many layers of paint do you suppose are on here?”

“Six,” she said readily. At his surprised glance, she grinned. “I counted when I was chipping my way down to the natural wood. I think it may be cherry. Come on. Help me get them upstairs.”

“How did you get them this far?” he asked, stacking them on top of each other.

“They didn't walk by themselves, I can tell you that.”

He regarded her incredulously, from the fox coat to the tips of her two-inch Italian heels. “And you carried that bag, too? How far did you lug this stuff?”

“Not far. I found the tables in this perfectly marvelous secondhand store about fifteen
blocks from here. I picked up the rest at that hardware store a couple of blocks over.”

Paul was staring at her as if she'd just declared an ability to lift a moving van by the tips of her fingers. “Are you nuts? Why didn't you call for help?”

“For heaven's sake, it wasn't that far. I had to stop a lot, though,” she admitted.

“You and your idiotic streak of independence,” he muttered in disgust. “It was far enough to strain your back.”

“My back is fine.”

“It won't be in the morning.”

“That will be my problem, won't it?”

“Not if it means you'll want to soak it in a hot tub,” he retorted, staring at her meaningfully. “Call next time, okay?”

“Okay,” she said very softly. The gruff concern combined with the all too fiery memories to make her miss a step. She stumbled and only her sharp reflexes kept her from tumbling backward down the stairs. The near-accident snapped her back to reality. She concentrated very hard on reaching the apartment without further embarrassment, then on placing the tables in precisely the right spot. When
Paul had them exactly where she wanted them, she nodded in satisfaction, finally taking off her coat and tossing it across the sofa.

“I knew they would work.”

“They do, don't they?” Paul said, sounding pleased. “What about the paint?”

Oblivious to her designer suit, Gabrielle knelt down and began pulling cans of paint stripper, pads of steel wool, protective gloves and a container of tung oil from the bag. “The man at the hardware store assured me this was everything we'd need.”

“We?”

She gave him her most winsome smile. “You'll have to help. I don't know anything about stripping furniture.”

“Neither do I.”

Stunned, she stared up at him. “Are you sure?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Very.”

“But you put it on. You should know how to take it off.”

He shrugged. “It sounds logical when you say it, but the reality is that I have never stripped a piece of furniture in my life. I have
occasionally used a blow torch to melt paint off certain things.”

She frowned. “I don't think that would be good for the tables.”

“Probably not,” he agreed with a wry expression.

“Okay. That's a little bit of a problem, but it's certainly not insurmountable. How hard can this be? There are directions on the cans.”

“Gaby, I love your enthusiasm, but we can't do this now. I have work to do downstairs. I want to get another apartment rented by the first of the month.”

“Can't you leave it just for tonight?” she said, unable to hide her disappointment. “You worked all day. What kind of boss do you have?”

She watched in astonishment as he burst into laughter. “The best, actually. I work for myself.”

“Well, I know you're a carpenter, for heaven's sake. And you paint. And who knows what all, but you do take jobs.”

“Of course,” he said. “That's where I was all day. I'm in the middle of the renovations on a house in Brooklyn Heights.”

She absorbed that news. It didn't conflict dramatically with anything she'd said. “Then this is a second job?”

“This?”

“Here. Managing this building and fixing it up.”

He shook his head and said with the sort of patience usually reserved for overly inquisitive children, “No, Gaby. I own this building.”

She stared at him blankly, trying to absorb the implications. “But…”

“But what?”

“I thought you were just a…” Now that she knew differently, she couldn't bring herself to say exactly what she had thought.

“Don't blame me, if you jumped to a conclusion.”

“You let me do it,” she accused, feeling a curious mixture of betrayal and pleased astonishment. “You let me go on thinking that you were just some sort of common laborer.”

The words slipped out before she had time to censor them. She recognized the mistake the instant she looked into Paul's eyes. The blue sparked with fury.

“I beg your pardon,” he said with an iciness
that froze her straight to the marrow in her bones. “There is nothing
common
about giving a good day's work for a good day's wages, no matter how
lowly
some people might consider the task.”

“I didn't mean that,” she said miserably.

“I can't see any other interpretation. When you thought I was no more than a
common laborer
,” he said, apparently determined to humiliate her by throwing her own illconsidered words back in her face, “was that what kept you out of my bed? Does everything change now that you know I own property and have a bank account that doesn't provide for frills, but keeps a roof over my head? Does it, Gaby?”

She stood up and met his furious glare evenly. “I'm sorry. I'm sure it must seem that I'm the worst sort of snob, but you're deliberately misunderstanding.”

His gaze was unrelenting. “Am I really? What's held you back then?”

“Because we're not right for each other,” she said, knowing the argument sounded weak. There were literally hundreds of reasons two
people might not be right for each other. She hadn't given him one of them.

“I'm not good enough, isn't that what you mean?”

“No,” she protested, but deep inside she knew that was exactly what she'd thought.

He ran his hand through his hair. “For God's sake, Gaby, don't lie about it. What's the point?”

The point was that she didn't want him to know how shallow she was capable of being. Unfortunately it seemed he already knew it. “You knew what I thought all along, didn't you?” she said finally. When he didn't answer, she raised her voice, needing to share the anger and the blame. “Didn't you?”

He sighed wearily. “Yes. At least I suspected it.”

“Then why didn't you correct the mistake then? Why did you let it come to this? Did you enjoy making a fool of me?”

“I'm not the one who did that. You did it all by yourself. You used superficial values to judge me, label me and tuck me away.” He grabbed her arms and held on so tightly that she had to bite back a gasp. She refused to
admit to the pain, which she was certain was no greater than the anguish she saw in his eyes. “I'm a man, Gaby. An individual who has a thousand different facets to his personality, just like you do.” Their gazes clashed, hers repentant, his blazing with anger and frustration.

“Dammit,” he swore softly, his hands dropping to his side. He seemed to be biting back something, restraining himself.

Gabrielle rubbed her arms and waited for the explosion to go on. When it didn't, she said, “You might as well go on.”

“No.”

“Don't stop now. You're on a roll. Then, again, maybe I should remind you of the niche you've put me in and exactly how many times I've proven you to be mistaken. Don't tell me you didn't expect to have a rich prima donna, a real spoiled brat on your hands. You have a real hang-up when it comes to money. Even I can see that.”

He sighed. “Okay, you're not the only villain in this piece. That's all the more reason we should stay as far away from each other as
we can get. We seem to bring out the worst in each other.”

Gaby refused to let that lie go unanswered. “Not always.” At his shocked and disbelieving look, she added, “At least not for me.”

“What are you saying?”

“All day today I've been remembering the way I felt this morning. You never even touched me and yet I felt as though I were the most desirable woman on the face of the earth. I felt a fire inside that I'd never felt before.”

“That's lust, Gaby. We've never even tried to deny that we feel that. I ought to know. I came damned close to forcing myself on you in there this morning.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Don't even try to turn what nearly happened here today into some sort of ugly scenario with me as the poor victim. I wanted you, just as much as you wanted me.”

“It's not enough, Gaby. For this to work, we need mutual respect and we've just established that it doesn't exist. Our bodies may be in perfect harmony,” he said, a bitter note of regret in his voice, “but our heads are in different worlds.”

Gabrielle wanted to protest, but there was far too much truth in what he said. If they were to find their way to something real and meaningful between them, they would have to start over. The prospect might have seemed insurmountable were it not for one thing.

“What about our hearts?” she responded finally, reaching out to touch his chest. He trembled as her fingers lingered over the spot where his heart thundered at a revealing pace. “What about those?”