One Touch of Moondust (8 page)

“Be thankful I'm wearing those. At least it's probably enough to keep the neighbors from calling the cops about the crazed nudist on our fire escape. Now before I lift this chest up, does anything hurt?”

“Mostly my pride.”

“Sorry. I'm afraid you can't afford any just now.”

He lifted the chest up slowly, making a frantic grab for the drawers as they slid forward. He just barely kept them from tumbling out on top of her.

Once the piece of furniture was righted and out of the way, he saw that she'd been trapped not so much by the weight of the chest as by that damnable carpet. It was wrapped halfway around her, pinning her arms to her sides, raising all sorts of interesting possibilities. He knelt down beside her, trying very hard not to stare at the rounded swell of her breast peeking from the top of a very sexy nightgown. That view fueled those possibilities more effectively than matches and gasoline.

“You're not dressed,” he said, his choked voice laced with surprise and sudden uncertainty. His mind was screaming
off-limits
so loudly his head hurt. It wasn't the only part of his body responding to the intriguing combination of sensuality and indignation before him.

“I hadn't planned on having company,” she retorted dryly. “I might add that my body is covered more adequately than yours.”

Paul had a horrible feeling that was all too
true. Fighting embarrassment and desire and a whole new meaning of panic, he freed her from the carpet with swift, trembling fingers, then shoved the bed aside. He noticed that she seemed to be holding her breath, her eyes wide as they met his. A man could get lost in those eyes.

“Get dressed,” he ordered brusquely as he left the room.

“Aren't you going to help me clean up the mess?” The laughing request followed him down the hall, daring him to stay. He wondered how often Gabrielle was tempted to play with fire.

“Later.” Perhaps after he'd taken vows of celibacy.

He went back to his room, grabbed his clothes and practically ran through the apartment to the bathroom. En route he regarded the tub balefully and promised himself that he would install a shower in every one of the apartments the minute he had the money…even if he could only supply it with cold water. That was all he was likely to use for the next few weeks anyway.

* * *

Gabrielle was filled with confusion as she watched Paul storm off. She hadn't realized at first that he really was furious. Otherwise she would never have teased him after he'd come to her rescue. Why on earth had he gotten so upset? She certainly hadn't meant to get trapped in her room. And, given time, she probably could have extricated herself. She hadn't damaged the battered old furniture, for heaven's sake. And how much could it cost to replace a pane of glass?

Of course, the swift reversal of his mood from concern to testiness might have had something to do with the highly charged atmosphere between them. Even she had to admit that it was incredibly disconcerting to keep tripping over their physical attraction. She had not been immune to the flying sparks just now. Her own pulse was just beginning to settle back into its normal rhythm.

Well, there was nothing to be done about that except to ignore it. They simply couldn't allow another quiet, intimate moment like last night's to occur. Of course, if this morning was any indication, perhaps they shouldn't be together in the same room—even in broad daylight
. If Paul truly felt that uncomfortable in her presence, then maybe he should consider moving downstairs.

That decided, she put on her jeans and a soft rose-colored sweater before venturing into the kitchen to make coffee. She heard Paul swearing in the bathroom. When he threw open the door and caught sight of her at the stove, he just glared and stomped on past. Moments later she heard the front door slam.

“I guess he doesn't want breakfast,” she muttered, searching through the refrigerator for something edible. She poked at a loaf of bread that was definitely past its prime. There was a package of luncheon meat that had dried out and curled on the edges. In fact, the only thing that appeared to have been purchased more recently than the Stone Age was a bottle of catsup. She sighed and settled for the coffee.

Paul returned before she'd taken the first sip of her coffee. He was carrying the Sunday paper and a bag, which he dropped on the orange crate. “Bagels,” he announced abruptly. “If you want one.”

“Thank you.”

“Any coffee left?”

“On the stove.”

“Thank you. Do you want any more while I'm getting it?”

“No, thank you.”

The politeness was beginning to grate on her nerves. She grabbed the front section of the paper and hid behind it. Bad as they were, the headlines were less depressing than the awkward wariness between the two of them.

Still, when Paul returned, she said politely, “Did you want to see the front section of the paper?”

“No. I'll read the sports section first.”

“Fine.” When she'd finished, she reached for the rest of the paper. Her hand collided with Paul's. Startled, they both looked up as if they'd made contact with a live electrical wire. “Sorry,” they said simultaneously.

Gabrielle wondered if all relationships went through cold wars like this, wars that erupted for no apparent reason and sizzled with tension. She opened her mouth to force a confrontation, but Paul's forbidding expression silenced her. Now wasn't the time. Instead she got to her feet, took her dishes into the kitchen and washed them. As she was heading back to
her room, Paul called to her. She walked to the doorway.

“Yes.”

“Sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you earlier.”

“No problem,” she said. When he turned back to the paper, obviously satisfied that the matter was concluded, she went on down the hall, torn between puzzlement and irritation. The apology had acknowledged the situation, but it certainly hadn't resolved it. Her own failure to pursue the matter was an indication of how thoroughly out of her element she felt.

As the morning went on, Paul's mood didn't improve, though eventually he did come down the hall to help her move the furniture back into place and sweep up the shards of glass. As they worked they exchanged a minimum of conversation, all of it exceedingly polite. When they'd finished, he pulled on his jacket and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked, then remembered it was none of her business. “I just meant in case someone calls.”

“I'm going to get new glass for the window.”

“Then let me give you some money.”

“I broke it. I'll pay for it.”

“You broke it on my account.”

“Forget it, Gaby. Just sit down and relax. Read the paper or something.”

“What about groceries?”

“What abut them?”

“Shouldn't we go to the store today? Or would you rather I go alone?”

He sighed heavily. “Get your coat. We might as well go now.”

She opened her mouth to remind him that they hadn't made a list, then clamped it shut again. If they forgot something, they'd get it later. In his present mood Paul was unlikely to want to discuss the relative merits of green beans versus broccoli before he'd even reached the produce section.

At the store Paul grabbed a shopping cart and steered it deftly through the narrow, crowded aisles to the dairy case on the far side of the store. “We'll work our way back.”

“But we should do this last,” she protested.

“Why?”

“It'll spoil.”

“Not unless it takes you all afternoon to shop.”

She glared at him. “Okay. Fine. What do you want?” she said as she grabbed a package of butter and a triangle of Brie. He picked up a block of cheddar cheese and a tub of margarine.

“Eggs?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She reached for brown eggs. He shook his head adamantly. “Eggs are supposed to be white.”

“You don't eat the shells,” she reminded him. “What's the difference?”

“If there's no difference, then you might as well get the white ones.”

She picked up a half dozen of each, then stalked off to the cereal section. She had a box of oat bran in her hands when Paul arrived with the cart.

“What's that?” he inquired suspiciously.

“Oat bran. It's good for your cholesterol.”

“I eat cornflakes.”

“Can't you just try this?”

“I have always eaten cornflakes.”

Gabrielle threw up her hands in resignation.
“Fine. If this is some nostalgic thing for you, we'll get cornflakes.”

Suddenly his lips twitched. She felt the first tiny break in the tension.

“I suppose you have a thing about bread, too.” She recalled that the loaf in the refrigerator had once been white. He nodded. She sighed. “We'll get white and whole wheat.”

As they approached the meat section she said, “What about dinners? Do they have decent fish here?”

“Beats me.”

“What do you eat?” she began, then held up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess hot dogs and steak.”

He grinned. “What else?”

“You're going to die before you're forty.”

“As long as I don't do it while we're sharing the apartment, it shouldn't bother you.”

“Couldn't we make a deal for the next few weeks? I'll do the cooking and you'll try whatever I prepare.”

He glanced down at the groceries they'd already collected. “Okay,” he said finally. “But none of those funny looking green things.”

Gabrielle's mind went blank. “Funny looking green things?”

“You know, they look sort of like a cactus.”

“Artichokes?”

“Yeah. That's it.”

She bit back a laugh. “Okay. No artichokes. Anything else?”

“No fish eggs.”

“I wouldn't dream of wasting caviar on you.”

“And we go out for pizza one night a week, so I won't starve to death.”

Laughing, she held out her hand. “It's a deal.”

After an instant's hesitation, he took her hand. “Deal,” he said softly, his gaze locked with hers. It was not a look meant to be shared over raw hamburger. It spoke of candlelight and white damask napkins. Or maybe satin sheets.

She knew without any explanation that the truce had to do with far more than artichokes and caviar. Paul, a man whose life had probably been quite simple only a few days ago, was struggling to find the right balance for
their complex and confusing relationship. That handshake was his renewed commitment to try.

* * *

But despite the pact in the grocery store, the day continued to have moments of high tension, moments when a glance threatened to turn into far more, moments when a casual remark took on added meaning. Paul's edginess communicated itself to her until they were practically tiptoeing around the apartment to avoid offending each other.

Finally Gabrielle retreated to her room and sat down with the classified ads. Moments later she heard Paul leave the apartment. Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach, but she forced herself to concentrate on the ads. She already had two interviews lined up for the following morning. Both were for jobs she'd heard about by word of mouth. Still she looked, circling one or two that she'd at least call about.

“And what if these don't pan out?” she said aloud. “How long are you going to wait before taking Paul's advice and looking for something different?”

One more day, she promised herself finally.
If Monday's meetings and calls failed to result in at least a strong possibility of a job offer, she would turn elsewhere. To remind herself of the commitment, she folded the classified section and placed it prominently where she couldn't miss it, propped against the mayonnaise jar of flowers that had barely survived the morning's calamities with petals intact.

She decided it was time to replace them. A visit to the garden might also soothe her frazzled nerves and keep her out of Paul's way. If he was going to growl around like an angry bear, it was definitely wise to stay out of his path.

Unfortunately he found her.

“We need to talk,” he began at once, sitting down in the chair opposite her. He picked up one of the flowers she'd cut and began stripping it of its petals.

“Okay,” she agreed cautiously, moving the remaining flowers out of reach. “What about?”

“Our…” He hesitated, refusing to meet her eyes. “Our arrangement.”

“Does that include an explanation about
why you've been in such a foul humor ever since this morning?”

“You noticed?” he said with a touch of wry humor.

“That doesn't necessarily qualify me for a Ph.D. in psychology. So, what's the story?”

“We have a problem.”

“Already? I've only been here two days.”

“That's long enough.”

Gabrielle drew in a sharp breath. The response was hardly unexpected, but disappointment began somewhere deep inside and settled around her heart. “Are you suggesting that I leave?”

He hesitated far too long before answering. “No,” he said finally. “I asked you to move in. I certainly don't want to turn right around and throw you out.” He sounded very stoic. She wanted to throttle him. In fact she might have, if he hadn't looked quite so miserable and confused. “It's just that we have to reach some sort of understanding.”

“About what?”

“This relationship.”

“That's easy. We don't have one.” The remark was glib, but there was considerably less
conviction in her voice than she would have liked.

“Exactly.”

She didn't pretend to misunderstand the all-too-adamant response. “I think I see what you're getting at. Every now and then our bodies take over and pretend they haven't gotten the message that we're off-limits to each other, that we're coming from different places, heading in different directions. Is that it?”