One Touch of Moondust (7 page)

“How do you feel about art?” he asked, taking her by surprise again.

“Modern or classical?” she replied enthusiastically. She'd taken one art history course in college to fulfill what she'd considered to be a totally frivolous requirement. She'd enjoyed the class far more than she'd expected to and once in New York had indulged the fascination with regular visits to the museums and galleries. She was on the invitation list for the openings of all major showings.

“Take your pick,” Paul offered. “We can go to the Metropolitan or the Museum of Modern Art or we can go to a couple of places I know.”

She was instantly intrigued by the prospect of discovering what type of art interested him. “The places you know,” she said at once.

He smiled his approval, then led the way to Soho, where each gallery's art was more wildly imaginative than the one before.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully as they stood in front of a sculpture made of clock and auto
parts. It was called
Ride to the Future
. Gabrielle recalled the reviews. One critic had described it as “banal and lacking in excitement.”

“What do you think?” he inquired with what she assumed had to be feigned solemnity.

“You can't be serious.” She stared at his face for some indication he was merely teasing her. He met her gaze evenly. “My God, you really are serious.”

“That's right. Don't just dismiss it. Tell me what you really think of it.”

“I think…” She walked around the display, viewing it from all sides and perspectives, trying very hard not to be influenced by what she'd read or her own taste for far more traditional works. This was definitely not Michelangelo's
David
.

“I think it's an interesting concept,” she concluded finally, trying to squirm off the hook.

“Well executed?”

“I suppose.” She couldn't keep the doubt from her voice.

“But not to your taste?” he said at once.

She sighed and admitted reluctantly, “Definitely not.”

She waited for some expression of disdain for her lack of daring. Instead he nodded in satisfaction. “Good. I thought it looked like a piece of junk, too.”

Gabrielle was startled into laughter. “I thought you loved it.”

Amusement lit his eyes. “I know. I wanted to see how politely you could decimate it.”

“For a minute there I was terrified you might be the artist.”

“Trying not to insult the artist, huh? You succeeded admirably. My favorite word when I get invited to these shows is
interesting
. It's amazing how many inflections you can give that word to convey everything from approval to dismissal.”

“
Fascinating
is good, too. Or how about,
I've never seen anything quite like it before.
Delivered solemnly, it's very effective.”

Their amused gazes caught, sparks danced and the laughter slowly died between them. “Amazing how much we've already found we have in common,” Paul said with a disturbing mixture of satisfaction and defiance in his tone.

“Amazing,” she echoed softly, when what she really felt was fear, not amazement. Already she was struck by the sense that this man could turn her life in a totally unexpected and dangerously fascinating direction. He wasn't easily intimidated. Nor was he fitting neatly into the niche she'd carved for him. And when he looked at her, every bit of common sense ingrained in her since birth fled.

She reminded herself staunchly that she was in control, that the parameters of their relationship had been clearly drawn. They were short-term roommates, nothing more. And Paul, she sensed even after their short acquaintance, was an honorable man. Satisfied that their bargain was unbreachable, she relaxed her guard again.

It was nearly midnight when they got home, after eating spicy Mexican food in Greenwich Village and drinking far too many margaritas.

Gabrielle felt just as exhilarated as she had in the morning and slightly tipsy. She couldn't recall the last time she'd had so much uninhibited, unstructured, spur-of-the-moment fun. Nor was she feeling particularly guilty about it. How extraordinary!

“Thank you,” she said as they stood in their darkened living room.

Impulsively she stood on tiptoe to brush an appreciative kiss across Paul's lips. In the hushed silence she suddenly heard the pounding of her heart, the sharp intake of his breath. Then she looked into Paul's eyes and saw the unmistakable darkening of desire, felt her own blood race. As their breath mingled, she knew if she touched the warmth of his lips, even just this once she'd get burned. There were limits, even in the midst of magic. The idea that they could remain simply roommates, that their emotions would remain impassive, fled with the blink of an eye. The sense of destinies irrevocably entwining overcame her again.

Paul's well-muscled body, tight with tension, was suddenly too tempting, too overpowering. Shaken, she backed away a step, the friendly kiss abandoned as a very bad idea.

“You're running again, Gaby,” he said with heart-stopping accuracy.

“Gabrielle,” she said with a touch of her old defiance.

His lips curved into a faint smile. He ran a finger along her jaw. “Gabrielle,” he said in
a whisper so soft it caressed as gently as a spring breeze. Her resistance turned to liquid fire as he moved toward her. Her whole body trembled in anticipation.

“You promised,” she said with a broken sigh as he bent closer. Still, despite the nervous plea, her lips remained parted for the kiss, waiting, longing. The mere sensation of anticipation was one she'd denied herself for too long. It sang through her veins.

At her protest, though, a shadow passed over Paul's features and he straightened slowly, reluctance etched on his face. “So I did.”

He settled for running his fingers through her tangled, wind-tossed hair, the light touch grazing her cheeks. Her body ached from the tension of wanting more and knowing that satisfaction of that need would be wrong for both of them.

The expression in his eyes was regretful as he whispered, “Sweet dreams, Gabrielle.” Then he turned and went straight to his room without a backward glance.

* * *

Paul's body was hard and charged with the urgency of his desire to claim the woman who
slept in the next room. In just a few hours curiosity had slipped into fascination and was quickly turning into something much stronger. It wasn't supposed to have been this way, but he should have known it would be. He'd always wanted things that weren't his to take.

It had been hellish for a small boy to discover that the toys his friends took for granted would never be his. His mother had been a housekeeper, his father a gardener. Honest, kind, hardworking people, they had loved him all the more because he had come along late in their lives.

Because of his parents' jobs, he had grown up on a huge estate on Long Island. His playmates had been the children of the manor, children just like Gabrielle Clayton. No matter how hard he'd tried to be one of them, though, they were always just beyond his reach. He wore their cast-off clothes and he dreamed their dreams. But for him those dreams were unattainable. At age five, the differences had been insignificant. By twenty they'd torn at his gut. That was when he'd realized with irrevocable and heartbreaking finality that Christine Bently Hanford would never really think of
him as anything more than the son of the hired help.

It had taken him ten years away from there to get over the anger, to find his own niche, to become comfortable with who he was and what he wanted out of life. Envy and bitterness had faded, replaced by contentment. Or so he had thought until Gabrielle had appeared on his doorstep. Was he still trying to capture the unattainable? To prove he was good enough? If that's what he was doing, he was being unfair to himself and to her.

Then again, maybe she was just a lady who was going through the same sort of identity crisis that had torn him apart ten years ago. He'd learned to live with reality, rather than fantasy, to find satisfaction in what was, rather than what he wished life could be. Maybe he could teach Gabrielle the same lesson.

And then what? Could they live happily ever after? Not likely. That happened only in story-books, where Cinderella was swept away by the handsome prince. No one ever wrote about what happened when the prince woke up to reality and found out Cinderella was no princess.

This story—his and Gabrielle's—would end now, before anyone got hurt. He smiled in the darkness, his lips touched with irony and the sensible finality of the decision.

Famous last words.

CHAPTER FIVE

W
ith a disconcerting sense of déjà vu, Paul awoke to the thumping of furniture. He smiled. Then a sudden crash from the room next door was followed by a surprisingly extensive barrage of colorful words. Paul would have sworn Gabrielle Clayton had never heard that particular vocabulary at home, except possibly during one of those infamous poker games. He leaped out of bed and ran for the door, stopping just in the nick of time to tug on a pair of gym shorts.

When he got to Gabrielle's bedroom, he pushed on the door, but it wouldn't budge. He panicked, pounding on the door. “Gaby, are you all right? What happened in there?”

There was no response.

“Gaby?”

“Go away,” she muttered finally, sounding thoroughly disgruntled.

“Gaby, sweetheart, open the door,” he pleaded more gently. He suspected the persuasive tone was about as wasted on Gabrielle as it would have been on a three-year-old who'd locked herself in the bathroom. “I just want to make sure you're okay.”

“I am perfectly fine,” she growled. “Just go back to sleep.”

Paul's panic began to recede in the face of her spirited responses. Now he was simply curious. “How can I possibly sleep when it sounds like war has erupted in the room next door? Do you need any help?”

“No. I can handle this.”

“Handle what?”

“I'm just rearranging things a little.”

“With dynamite?”

“Very funny.”

“That furniture's too heavy for you to manage alone. Wouldn't you like a little help? Open the door.”

He heard her mumble something and suspected it was another of those words. “What did you say?”

“I said I can't open the damn door.”

“Why not? Is it locked? I have a spare key. I'll slide it under the door.”

“It's not locked.”

“Is it stuck?”

“No, dammit.”

Amused by the mixture of irritation and fierce pride he detected in her voice, he inquired lazily, “Well, if it's not locked and it's not stuck, what's the problem?”

“The bed's in front of it.”

He chuckled.

“Don't you dare laugh.”

“I'm not laughing,” he swore, fighting the urge to do exactly that. “Just move the bed.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, don't you think I would if I could?” she snapped.

Paul bit back another laugh. “Gabrielle, exactly what is wrong in there?”

“I was trying to put down my new rug,”
she began after a lengthy pause. Her voice trailed off forlornly. That odd note in her voice concerned him as nothing else had. Gabrielle Clayton forlorn? Defeated by an inanimate object?

“And,” he encouraged.

He could practically hear her taking a deep breath before she said in a rush, “I moved the bed and then the chest fell over and now I'm sort of trapped in here.”

Any desire to laugh died at once. “Under the damn chest?” he demanded, his voice rising in panic again.

“Sort of,” she said softly. “Oh, hell, I was so sure I could do this on my own.”

“Just wait there,” he said soothingly before he realized the utter absurdity of the order. Of course she would stay right where she was. What else would a woman with most of her bones crushed do?

Without giving it a second thought, he raced through the apartment, down the steps and around the building to the fire escape. He was halfway up when the icy metal against his bare feet registered. Suddenly he realized exactly how ridiculous he must look climbing a fire
escape in gym shorts on a morning when the temperature could not possibly be much above freezing. It wasn't something he had time to worry about, though. Gabrielle might even be going into shock. She'd sounded pitiful and frail there toward the end, when she'd finally admitted she was trapped. That tone of voice was definitely unusual for her.

He reached the bedroom window and tried to lift it, peering through the glass for some sign of Gabrielle under the hodgepodge of furniture. He saw bare toes and a slender calf. He followed the curve of her leg upward, trying not to linger over it, and encountered—the chest of drawers, on its side. Only the fact that a corner had snagged the edge of the bed on the way down had kept it from landing on top of her with its full weight. His breath caught in his throat and his heart seemed to stop right then. The silence inside that room seemed particularly ominous. Impatient with the stuck window, he shattered the glass, oblivious to the cuts on his hand.

At the sound of glass breaking, Gaby shouted at him. “Don't you dare come in here and bleed all over my new carpet.”

His heart began pumping again.

“Did you hear me?” she called out. “No bleeding.”

He grinned at the feisty warning. She must be improving. “I heard, but I don't give a damn about your carpet,” he said, feeling suddenly more cheerful. “Just stay still until I can get to you. I have to be careful where I step because of all the glass.”

“Aren't you wearing shoes?”

“Sorry. I didn't take time to stop and dress formally. Think of this as a come-as-you-are party.”

“What are you wearing?” she asked curiously.

“Shorts,” he said curtly.

“That's all?” She definitely sounded better. In fact, she sounded downright perky.