One Touch of Moondust (12 page)

“Right. I have exactly fourteen hundred dollars left in my bank account, no job prospects in sight and credit card bills coming in every day. I'm thrilled.”

“Focus on the good side. You're opening yourself up to new possibilities. Take something temporary, if you feel you have to. Borrow from your parents.”

“Never,” she said adamantly.

“Why not?” he said, struck by the fire in her quick response. “Wouldn't they give you a loan?”

“Sure. With strings.”

“Such as?”

“Move home to Charleston, take up my rightful place in society, pour tea until my wrist aches, marry someone with exactly the right pedigree no matter how boring and start the cycle all over again in a new house.” She shuddered. “No way.”

He grinned and applauded.

“What was that for?”

“You've made your first choice.”

“I made that one when I left,” she said, dismissing it as any sort of big deal.

“Times change. The stakes change. The choice you made tonight is not the same one you made when you left for New York. Give yourself a little credit.”

He wanted to kiss away the doubts, but knew it would be sheer folly to risk touching her at all. He'd been entirely noble for the last half hour. He'd meant every word he'd said about giving her time to find her way. But he'd realized something about himself along the way. He wanted Gabrielle Clayton in his life far more than he'd admitted up to now. He'd simply been afraid to acknowledge the feelings
that were growing in him. And, despite all his talk about freedom of choice, he was going to do everything in his power to see that she stayed right here.

Everything short of seduction, he amended. For now. Which meant he had to get her out of this room at once.

“Go,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “Get some sleep.”

“Can't I help? I'm lousy with a hammer, but I could paint or something.”

The offer tempted, not because it would speed the work, but because it would keep her close. His noble intentions weren't etched deeply enough for that. “Not tonight. It's late. If you want to do some work in here tomorrow, I'll bring the paint down for you.”

To his amazement, she actually seemed excited at the prospect. She dropped down off the counter, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek before starting from the kitchen. In the doorway, she paused and looked back. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“No problem.”

“You realize, of course, that you're shattering another stereotype.”

“What's that?”

“The ruthless, unsympathetic landlord.”

“Wait until you miss your first rent payment,” he said with mock ferocity, enjoying the burst of laughter that lingered long after she'd gone upstairs.

* * *

Over the next few weeks Gabrielle came to accept that her life was changing dramatically. She hadn't reached a decision about what sort of job to look for, but Paul had given her a short-term alternative. He'd offered her free rent in exchange for helping him with the painting in the remaining apartments. She'd protested the exchange, but he'd shown her figures to prove that he was getting the better part of the bargain.

The arrangement had a couple of side benefits, as well. She had time to continue haunting secondhand shops and fabric stores to complete the work on their place. And she got to spend time with Paul. They were together every evening, sharing sandwiches or homemade soup and, occasionally, pizza or Chinese take-out. Each day she learned something new about him, something that made her respect grow and her desire mount.

The fact that he pointedly kept his distance only escalated the heated longing that assailed her at the oddest moments. Her gaze would linger on his fingers as they clasped a wrench and her imagination would soar. She'd wipe a speck of paint from his cheek and her flesh would burn. Her body was in a constant state of repressed excitement but her thoughts were, surprisingly, calmer and more serene than she'd imagined possible.

On the day she finally finished the work on their apartment, she planned a surprise celebration. She'd even calculated the effect a bottle of wine might have on their wavering resolve. It was obvious that for the past week it had been difficult for Paul to say goodnight and go off to his own room. One night neither of them had gotten any sleep because neither would make the first move to break off the conversation that was punctuated by laughter and increasingly heavy-lidded looks of longing.

Gabrielle set the refinished oak dining room table with her best china and crystal. She polished her silver candlesticks and added a small bouquet of the last flowers from the dying garden
. She'd capitulated to Paul's secret passion for thick, rare steaks and bought two of the best the butcher had. She'd made her own dressing for the salad and snapped fresh green beans. She had even made an apple pie. From scratch. She'd spent the whole afternoon peeling apples and rolling the dough for the double crust. Still warm, it was sitting on the kitchen counter now, the tempting cinnamon scent wafting through the apartment.

After her bath, she dressed in wool slacks and a soft sweater with a cowl neckline. She brushed her hair until it shone with warm golden highlights, then added a light touch of makeup.

At dusk, her anticipation mounting, she lit a fire in the fireplace and sat down to wait. As the room darkened, her spirits sank. Worry replaced excitement, followed by indignation, then deepening concern, then fury. It was after midnight when he finally arrived.

Paul took in the spoiled dinner and Gabrielle's scowl at a single glance. She bit her lip to keep from shouting at him like a fishwife. She would be calm. She would be reasonable
. She would listen. And then she would heap guilt on him until he was drowning in it.

“What happened? Your date didn't show?” he said.

The man actually seemed to feel sorry for her. Either he was incredibly obtuse or he was a master at acting the innocent.

“Something like that,” she said coolly, very proud of her control. “Where have you been?”

“I had dinner with a friend.”

“I see.” She couldn't keep the edge out of her voice, though she'd sworn at least a dozen times during the evening that she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that he'd hurt her.

He sat down in the chair opposite her, looking perplexed. “I have the feeling I'm missing something here. Are you mad at me?”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “Paul Reed, you cannot possibly be that dumb.” So much for staying cool. “I spent thirty dollars on steaks and wine,” she snapped. “You bet your life I'm mad at you.”

He picked up the half-empty cabernet sauvignon
bottle. “Apparently the wine didn't go to waste.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“I wasn't aware that's what I was doing.”

“Couldn't you have called?”

Paul sighed. He'd stayed out on purpose tonight because it was getting so he couldn't bear being in the same room with Gabrielle and keeping his hands off her. He wanted to explore the satin texture of her skin, to set her flesh on fire. He wanted those velvet brown eyes to smolder with the heat of his touch. If he'd had any idea she was sitting in front of a fire waiting for him with wine and food, he'd probably have stayed out the rest of the night. His good intentions had withstood about all the temptation they could handle. Even now his fingers trembled from his effort at restraint. He wanted badly to caress the lines of tension on her face until they eased.

He sighed again and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, “Okay. I guess we'd better talk this out.”

“Please, don't do me any favors,” she said sarcastically. He winced under the direct hit.

“I'm sorry if you went to all this trouble for
me, but you didn't mention you were going to do it,” he said reasonably.

She shot him a look of pure disgust. “It was supposed to be a surprise. You've come home every night since I've been here. You have been downstairs hammering or sawing or painting by no later than five-thirty. You've stayed at it until midnight. How was I supposed to know that tonight would be the one night in a month you'd find something better to do?”

Paul couldn't think of a single adequate response for her logic. Feeling a nagging hunch that he was playing dirty, he tried putting her on the defensive. “We're roommates, Gaby. We both agreed it was for the best right now. I shouldn't have to check in with you.”

She stared at him, absorbing the low blow. “I'm not crazy about the definition of our relationship, but don't even roommates deserve consideration?”

Her chin was tilted defiantly, but there were huge tears clinging to the corners of her eyes. She looked so forlorn that he muttered a curse and went to her. Overcome with guilt, he took her chin in his hand and met her gaze.

“Of course they do. And I am very sorry I spoiled your evening.”

Suddenly her bottom lip quivered and one tear rolled freely down her cheek. Paul thought he could bear anything but her crying, especially when he felt responsible for her pain.

To prevent a second tear from following the first and then a third and on and on until his own heart broke, a kiss seemed to be the only answer. He seized it far too readily.

Just one, he promised himself as his mouth claimed hers, slowly savoring the touch of velvet against fire.

Just a fleeting taste of her lips, he vowed again, his tongue discovering the salt of tears and the tang of wine.

Just a brief offering of warmth and tenderness and understanding. Just to keep her from crying. Just between friends.

Of course, it wasn't enough.

CHAPTER EIGHT

F
or a man who was all hard angles and gruffness, Paul seduced with surprising gentleness, Gabrielle decided as he kissed away her tears. She wasn't sure what she'd expected, but it hadn't been these slow, tender caresses that melted every last bit of icy anger and left her gasping for more. The persuasive, eager touch of his lips, so long in coming, was like a taste of heaven. She wanted to linger there forever, surrounded by this astonishing sense of contentment.

“Gaby,” he murmured, breaking away far too soon, just when she was getting used to the sensuous warmth of his mouth. “We can't do this.”

“We can,” she said, pressing her mouth against his to assure his silence. Her tongue declared a daring assault on his firmly closed lips, until they parted on a groan of pure pleasure. Desire welled inside her, filling her with an aching sense of need. The faint scent of sawdust and paint and masculinity seduced as effectively as any heady man's cologne of musk or spice. This powerful attraction between them was no longer something to talk about or even think about. It was time to feel, to let their emotions lead them for once.

Though Gabrielle had never been more certain about her own desires, more ready to listen to her heart, Paul fought this latest kiss. Her own senses heightened, she recognized his struggle to do the right thing in the tense set of his shoulders, his rigid stance. The marines would have approved of that stance. She could imagine the desperate, rational argument being waged in his head as his skin burned beneath her touch. That kind of determined logic required
bold tactics. A shudder swept through him as she slid her hands beneath his shirt.

“Gaby, no.” This time the protest was breathless and far less emphatic.

She lifted her confident gaze to meet his troubled expression and smiled. “Yes.”

“You've had the better part of a bottle of wine. You don't know what you're doing.”

She experimented with proving otherwise. She pressed her body closer to his, trailing kisses along the side of his neck, then running her tongue along the shell of his ear. A soft but distinct moan of pleasure rumbled deep in his throat. She grinned in satisfaction. “Oh, really?” she said demurely.

He scowled at her. “I was not referring to your technique.”

“That's nice,” she said, beginning to unbutton his shirt. Now that she was getting the hang of this, she was thoroughly enjoying it. He grabbed her hands.

“Gaby! Enough!”

She stared into eyes that glittered dangerously. “Okay.”

He regarded her suspiciously, then nodded and released her. Her gaze never left his as she
reached out and ran one finger lazily along the zipper of his jeans. After his first startled gasp, his jaw clenched and he swallowed convulsively. The determined look in his eyes wavered. His body's response beneath her daring touch was unmistakable.

“Damn you,” he said softly, his breathing shallow.

“You don't mean that,” she said, refusing to back away. Her confidence surged more powerfully than it had in weeks.

Finally Paul's hard, unblinking expression softened to one of wry acceptance. “No. I don't mean it,” he said, his arms pulling her close. She could feel the ragged whisper of his breath across the top of her head.

“I don't want this to be a mistake,” he said.

“It isn't,” she said with astonishing certainty. If anything, Paul's doubts and restraint had proved that to her. He respected her and that was every bit as important as loving her.

She had yet to define her own feelings clearly, but she recognized that they were stronger and more powerful than anything she'd known before, a blend of friendship and desire that might very well become love. But
the relationship needed intimacy to grow, to mature into something lasting. Whatever happened in the future, tonight's risk was one that had to be taken.

His hands cupped her face, the pads of his thumbs playing across her lips as he studied her intently. Gabrielle felt her heart thundering against her ribs as she waited. Finally he nodded, then lowered his mouth to hers again in a gentle promise.

When the kiss ended, he kept the promise, scooping her into his arms and carrying her through the darkened apartment to her room. He reached for the light switch, but she shook her head.