One Touch of Moondust (11 page)

Paul's eyes widened at the softly spoken taunt, but she didn't wait around for an answer. She picked up her coat and left, not sure where she was going, only certain that she wanted to be far from here when she began to cry.

CHAPTER SEVEN

P
aul stared at the door as it slammed behind Gabrielle, instinctively noting that the frame seemed a little loose on top. He automatically went for his hammer and a handful of nails as he pondered her exit line.

What the hell was she talking about? Had she been trying to suggest that this thing between them amounted to love? That was crazy. They barely knew each other. In fact, until tonight they'd both apparently been influenced—subconsciously at least—by fairly negative
first impressions, the kind that did not inspire love or anything remotely akin to it.

Then, again, maybe that's what someone of Gabrielle's background had to think in order to justify a sexual relationship. Which, he noted ruefully, they didn't even have. Perhaps in her circles, she even had to justify desire.

Well, she could call it anything she liked. Personally, he thought lust or chemistry was a pretty adequate label. It was possible to lust after a total stranger—a lady with a pair of shapely legs, for instance, or one with long red hair that flashed fire in the sunlight. But you sure as hell couldn't love someone you didn't even know. If tonight's argument had told him anything, it was that he and Gabrielle knew as much about each other as two people who happened to sit on neighboring bar stools. They'd both been talking for days, but obviously neither of them had been listening.

And that, he decided, was something he couldn't do a damn thing about until she came home. He went back down to work on the third floor apartment. The sooner it was finished and rented, the sooner he could complete the second floor unit and then, finally, his own on the
ground floor. Then there would be some space between him and Gabrielle, assuming she hadn't already moved on long before that. That prospect wasn't something he cared to think about at all.

At first, tonight, seeing the excitement that lit her eyes when she'd come in, his stomach had knotted. He'd been convinced that only a new job would spark that high-voltage smile and guileless enthusiasm. When he'd seen the two tables and realized that, for the moment, she intended to stay—job or no job—he'd been overwhelmed by relief and a vague sense of victory. It was as if those tables represented a sort of commitment.

It made what had happened afterward all the more confusing. How, in the midst of the teasing and laughter over those tables, had things gotten so intense and so wildly out of control? One minute they'd been talking about paint, putting it on and taking it off. It certainly should have been less volatile than a similar discussion about clothes, for instance. Still, the next minute accusations and countercharges were whizzing through the air aimed at hurting.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't account for Gabrielle's motives. To be honest, though, he understood his own all too well. In part at least, he'd been releasing years of pentup emotions, blaming her for long-ago slights, protecting himself from the pain of another rejection. He'd set out to achieve emotional distance at a time when physical space wasn't possible. What had almost happened this morning had shown him the need for that.

Gabrielle had been gone nearly an hour when he heard the downstairs door open, then the heavy tread of slow, tired footsteps. He held his breath as the steps approached the third floor, then went on. He sighed. Apparently there would be no confrontation again tonight, no resolution of the earlier argument. Maybe it was for the best. Perhaps in the morning, with clearer heads, they could get at the real problems between them. He felt slightly guilty over his relief at the reprieve.

Working with renewed concentration on the new kitchen cabinets, he was startled when he turned and found Gabrielle standing in the doorway. She'd changed out of her tailored-for-success business suit into jeans and a surprisingly
faded sweatshirt that dipped unevenly at the neckline and bagged everywhere else. She'd never looked sexier or more approachable. If he kept looking at her, it would shatter his control. He turned back to the cabinet, fitting a corner together with careful precision, then tapping a nail into place.

“What happened here tonight?” she said softly. The uncertainty in her voice was enough to tie his gut into knots all over again. He couldn't look at her. If he did, if he saw the slightest hint of vulnerability in her eyes, he would take her in his arms and they would both be lost.

“We both found out we'd been living in a dreamworld. Reality set it.” He kept his voice deliberately cool, determinedly nonchalant.

“I don't think so.” The crisp note of conviction surprised him.

“So what do you think happened?”

“I think we were getting too close. I think you were feeling things you didn't want to feel and you set out to destroy those feelings.”

His head snapped around at that. He hadn't credited her with mind-reading and wasn't
about to admit to her skill. “Where the hell would you get an idea like that?”

She was not the least bit intimidated by his gruff tone. “It's the only thing that makes sense. You admitted that you'd known all along that I had doubts about getting involved with you, so all that garbage about my being a snob was hardly news. You used it, though. You took something we hadn't even put to the test…”

“Your attitude…”

“Was based on a misperception.”

“Does that make it any less unconscionable?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, you're every bit as hung up on the class distinction as you accuse me of being. Is being a reverse snob one bit better than being a snob? I resent that label, anyway. It's not the money itself or the lack of it that creates incompatibility. Even two rich people often develop even more dramatically different life-styles, make far different choices because of the restrictions or size of their bank account.”

“You went to Harvard. I went to the school of hard knocks. Is that what you mean?”

She grinned. “In a way.”

“That's a wide chasm to bridge.”

“Maybe.”

“I tried it once before and it didn't work,” he admitted, surprising himself with his candor. He'd never told anyone about Christine. His parents had guessed, of course. They had even tried to warn him the relationship was a mistake. He'd ignored the warnings.

“Why didn't it work?” Gabrielle asked.

“She was rich. I was poor.”

“Was it really that simple?”

He thought about Christine, really thought about her for the first time in years. Nothing about her had been simple.

“She liked to be where the action was. If her friends were skiing in Switzerland, that's where she wanted to be. If they were on a cruise in the Mediterranean, she couldn't wait to join them. She went to every charity ball in the city, every club opening, every major art exhibit. It all cost money and I didn't have it. The few times I went with her it was a disaster. She and her crowd talked about places and people I'd never even heard of. At first I was a curiosity. But it didn't take long for her to
figure out that the novelty had worn off and I didn't fit in.”

“So she dumped you?”

“Something like that,” he said. It was a calm, unemotional description of something that had once been devastating. Even now he couldn't recall it without a surge of anger and humiliation.

“Were you really that happy with someone so different?” He tried remembering exactly how it had been ten years ago on the day when he'd had to admit it was over. He and Christine had spent the weekend sailing with her friends in Newport. Lulled by the sun and the ever-present pitcher of vodka and tonic, he'd felt oddly detached. He'd listened to the gossip that substituted for meaningful conversation. He'd watched Christine spend an entire day worrying about her tan line. And he had been incredibly bored. Still, that night he had been caught up in years of powerful feelings again. He had proposed. What a mistake it would have been if she'd said yes.

Suddenly he grinned at Gabrielle. “That's amazing. I just realized that I was bored to tears. For ten years I've been hating myself for
not being able to fit in, only to discover I'd hate being like that crowd.”

“Does that mean we can put my family background aside from now on?” Before he could answer, her gaze clashed with his. He read the challenge that was in her eyes long before it crossed her lips. “Do you want me, Paul?”

He'd thought he'd prepared himself for anything, but he was stunned by the direct question. His body responded before he could begin to find the right words for an answer.

“Yes,” he said finally.

“And I want you.”

“Which doesn't resolve the real problem,” he reminded her, ignoring the sudden tightness of his jeans across his abdomen. “Come here.”

She stepped into the room. He hesitated, then put his hands around her waist and lifted her up to sit on a completed section of the counter. He stepped between her splayed knees, his hands sliding down to rest on her thighs. It took everything in his power to leave the contact between them at that.

“Gaby, what you just said makes a lot of
sense. Just because your family has money doesn't mean you're at all like Christine. But you are the kind of woman who's bound to have certain expectations in a relationship. I can't promise you anything right now. I'm just beginning to get on my feet financially. My goals aren't extravagant or earthshaking, but I don't want to lose sight of them. It took me a long time to become comfortable with who I am. Now that I am, I don't want to start dreaming impossible dreams.”

“Am I an impossible dream?” she said quietly, her clear eyes meeting his, then becoming shadowed by doubts. Her gaze dropped to his chest.

“Right now, yes.” When she tried to interrupt, he said, “I know you're not the same shallow person Christine was. But you
are
confused and vulnerable. You're searching for answers for yourself and your future. If we become involved now, you could stop looking. Remember that Robert Frost poem about the road not taken?”

Surprise flickered in her eyes. Then she nodded.

“It was all about choices, Gaby. Unless I'm
very much mistaken, tonight you don't think you have any and it terrifies you. Gabrielle Clayton has probably always had the world at her feet. She could choose any direction for her life and with a snap of her fingers, it was hers. You're facing now what I faced years ago. You can set almost any goal in life you want, you can work like hell to attain it, you can even have money and power behind you, but there are absolutely no guarantees of success. The satisfaction has to come in making the effort.” He sighed, wondering if he was only talking in circles. “Am I making any sense?”

“Too much,” she said with weary resignation. “I'm just not sure what it has to do with us.”

He searched for the right words. He wanted her to understand that his decision was for now, but perhaps not for always. No guarantees, though. No commitment. And only a suggestion of hope.

“When—if—you and I get together, I want it to be because you have options again. I want you to feel strong and in control of your life, to know every road that's open to you. And then, if you choose to be with me, it will be
because we both know it's what you want and not the desperate act of a woman who's afraid to be alone.”

She listened thoughtfully, but frowned at the end. “I am not desperate,” she said heatedly.

He grinned at the sign of renewed spirit. “Good. Then you won't mind waiting a while, until we both know exactly what we want.”

“I'll mind,” she said. “But you're right. Waiting makes a lot more sense.”

Just to make sure he diminished temptation, he changed the subject. Something had put her into this strange mood tonight and he needed to understand what it was. “Want to tell me what happened on those job interviews today?”

She met his gaze, then looked away. “Not particularly.”

He pressed the issue. “Were they that discouraging? Had they already hired someone?”

“No.”

“Then maybe they'll call tomorrow.” She shrugged indifferently. “Maybe.”

Puzzled, he probed for an explanation for her negativity. It was totally out of character for a woman who was normally optimistic, direct
and determined. She had not made that climb on Wall Street by accepting defeat so readily. “Didn't you like what they were offering?”

“It wasn't that,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. “In fact, the jobs were fine. So were the benefits packages.”

“What about the people?”

“They were okay, I guess.”

“What then?”

“I'm not sure I handled myself that well in the interviews. I just couldn't get it together somehow.”

“Why?” He watched the blush creep into her cheeks and felt a pang of guilt. “It wasn't because of what happened this morning, was it?” The shade of pink deepened to rose. “Oh, Gaby, I'm sorry.”

She gave him a faint smile, obviously meant to reassure. “Don't worry about it. At first I blamed it on being distracted by that, too, but I think it was more than that.”

“What?”

She hesitated a long time before answering, staring at the floor when she finally did. “I think I was bored by it all.” She glanced up,
her expression filled with astonishment at the admission. “Can you imagine? I fought like hell to get to New York, to make it on Wall Street, then I come to one little hurdle in my career and I'm suddenly bored. Do you suppose I'm trying to find an excuse for failing?”

“Nope,” he said with certainty. “I've suspected for some time now that the enchantment was past. With your drive, you'd have found another Wall Street job by now, if you'd really been looking. Besides, I don't think you're the kind of lady who needs excuses. I think you've come to a turning point. Instead of being down, you should be excited.”