Revisit this heartfelt story of finding love where you least expect it from New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods.
Down on her luck, ex-Wall Street dynamo Gabrielle Clayton agreed to move into Paul Reed’s ramshackle but affordable apartment on one condition: no funny stuff. Then Gabrielle discovered she and Paul shared a good deal more than the rent—including one outrageous claw-footed bathtub located smack in the middle of the kitchen—and things started heating up!
For Gabrielle, the most irresistible distraction of all was the sexy, blue-eyed renovator himself. Paul was the most romantic man she’d ever met! Suddenly, practical, down-to-earth Gabrielle was dreaming of magical nights spent in Paul’s arms. What had come over her? Was it the man, the moon–or love?
“I can’t speak for you, but I’m falling in love for the first time in my life.”
Paul felt his heart stop then start again at a faster beat. He shook his head adamantly.
“You can’t do that.”
“Who says?”
“I do. It won’t work.”
“It was working well enough a few hours ago.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Gabrielle walked toward him until they were standing practically toe to toe. He felt as though he were suffocating.
“I think I have to,” she said softly, curling her fingers into his hair. His scalp tingled and the sensation danced straight down to his… Oh, hell, he thought weakly as her lips claimed his with a possessiveness that captured his breath and robbed him of all sensible thoughts.
Sparks danced in her eyes when she released him. “Remember that the next time you get any crazy ideas about going back to being my pal.”
Sherryl Woods has written more than seventy-five romances and mysteries in the past twenty years. She also operates her own bookstore, Potomac Sunrise, in Colonial Beach, Virginia, where readers from around the country stop by to discuss her favorite topic—books. If you can’t visit Sherryl at her store, then be sure to drop her a note at P.O. Box 490326, Key Biscayne, FL 33149 or check out her Web site at www.sherrylwoods.com.
One Touch of Moondust
Sherryl Woods
For Lucia Macro, who sees beyond my blind spots and always finds the heart of the story, with thanks for her editing skill, her patience and her humor.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ONE
Gabrielle came to a halt in the middle of a cracked sidewalk richly decorated with dramatic and colorfully executed graffiti. She checked the address she’d marked in the paper against two numbers that dangled precariously upside down beside a dilapidated building’s front door. If the empty space between them had once been filled by a seven, then this was in fact “Recently Renovated Brownstone.” Apparently the renovations were less recent than hoped for.
Tucking her chilled hands in the pockets of her coat for warmth, she regarded the faded facade, dirt-streaked bay windows and dingy, peeling trim with a sense of resignation. It was a very long way from Park Avenue. Taking a deep breath of the brisk fall air, she wrapped her fur coat more tightly around her and stepped into the dreary foyer.
It had possibilities, she decided, viewing the muddy tile floor and dull brass fixtures with a critical eye. The construction looked sound enough and she’d be willing to bet that the apartments all had hardwood floors. She seemed to recall a chimney on the outside, which meant there were fireplaces. Yes, it definitely had possibilities, she thought with a vague sense of anticipation, the first she’d felt in weeks.
In fact, a few months earlier when her career on Wall Street had been ascending at a dizzying pace, she might very well have bought the whole place and restored it as a promising investment. Now, with no brokerage house work to be found for a talented but still very junior financial analyst, she could barely afford the advertised bargain rent. In fact, if she didn’t make some career decisions soon and find another job, she’d be forced to retreat to her family home in South Carolina and live on humble pie for the rest of her life. It was not an alternative she cared to endure.
Gritting her teeth with determination, she began climbing the endless, creaking steps to apartment 4B, where the smell of fresh paint was wafting through the open door. She considered that an encouraging sign after the dinginess and disrepair below.
Gabrielle tapped on the door and waited. The hammering sounds coming from deep inside the apartment didn’t let up. She knocked harder and called out. The pounding stopped.
“Yo,” a husky masculine voice responded cheerfully. “Be right with you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart? Gabrielle’s vivid imagination immediately supplied an image to go with that impertinent voice: a well-muscled, catcalling construction worker atop steel beams overlooking Fifth Avenue. He’d be rugged, impervious to slights and persistent. She’d walked past the type half a dozen times a day and they’d always made her want to check to see if her slip was showing. When this man emerged a moment later she was startled to see how accurately he fit the image. She was also startled to discover that in this case her slip was the last thing on her mind. The man quite simply took her breath away.
Bold blue eyes examined her with a disconcerting, leisurely thoroughness. As if on cue, impudent lips emitted an approving whistle. Light brown hair, still streaked with highlights from the summer sun, waved in casual and charming disarray. Faded, paint-spattered jeans clung to narrow hips and muscular thighs. Despite the chill in the air, a shirt hung open, revealing a chest covered with coarse brown hair that arrowed provocatively downward. Gabrielle was torn between clutching her coat more protectively around her and stripping it away from her suddenly burning flesh. She settled for trying to stare him down.
The attempt failed miserably. He laughed, an all-too-knowing gleam in his eyes.
“So,” he said, amusement lacing through his voice, “what’s a sophisticated lady like you doing in a place like this? Slumming?”
Detecting sarcasm rather than humor in the remark, she had to bite back an instinctive angry retort. He had an apartment. She needed one. It was no time to look around with the hauteur of Bette Davis and declare, “What a dump,” much less deliver a lecture on manners to the hired help.
She held up the paper instead. “I’ve come about the apartment. May I see it?”
With a wide smile punctuated by dimples, he gave a grand, sweeping gesture. “Be my guest.”
Gabrielle stepped cautiously inside and took a slow survey of the empty room. She had difficulty registering the apartment’s features because the man stood right behind her, watching her every move. Where she went, he followed, first with his eyes, then by ambling along behind. Since he couldn’t possibly be concerned about theft, she had to assume he was doing it to rattle her.
It was working. Quite well, in fact. She tried to shake off the feeling with common sense. With her whole life off-kilter, the last thing she needed was an instantaneous physical attraction to a man of apparently limited means and ambition. A handyman, for heaven’s sake. The members of the Junior League of Charleston would die laughing at the notion of Senator Graham Clayton’s daughter having palpitations over a handyman.
“Do you know anything about the building?” she asked when she’d seen the living room and two tiny bedrooms. She’d been right about the fireplace. It was small, but suggestive of cozy winter evenings. She was less hopeful about the floor. It was wood all right, but paint-spattered, scuffed a
nd marred by several generations of spills. It would require extensive elbow grease, sanding and quite possibly a miracle to restore it.
“What did you want to know about the building?”
“When was the last time an exterminator was here?”
He shrugged doubtfully. “There’s always a can of Raid.”
One blond brow arched significantly. “I see.” She glanced once more around the empty living room. “The ad said furnished.”
“It will be.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Whenever I get finished with the work.”
The man obviously had a careless disregard for timetables. To a woman whose calendar had always been carefully scheduled in fifteen-minute increments such a blasé attitude was both irritating and irresponsible. “When exactly will it be available?” she persisted. “I’m facing a deadline.”
“An anxious client?”
She stared at him blankly. “Client?”
“You’re a real estate agent, right? If you want to buy, it’s not for sale. If you have someone who wants to rent, I’d prefer to deal direct. Sorry, no agents.”
“I’m not in real estate. I’m looking for myself. To rent,” she amended, in case he was worried that she was planning to buy the property and fire the help—starting with him.
Instead of putting his mind at ease, though, she seemed to have astonished him. “You actually want to live here yourself?”
“Why not?” she said defensively, though she knew perfectly well what he meant. “It’s an apartment. I need a place to live.”
“Try Park Avenue.”
“I did,” she admitted ruefully. “The price is right here.”
“So,” he said, conducting a more thoughtful survey, “the lady’s down on her luck.” There was little sympathy in his voice, only mild curiosity.
She drew herself up with dignity and tried to wilt him with a haughty stare. “Temporarily.”
The stare had no discernible effect. “Does that mean you’ll be moving out the minute you get a few bucks together?”
She considered lying, but figured he’d never believe her if she did. There was a disconcertingly astute gleam in his eyes—one that was all too typical of corporate sharks.
“Yes,” she said finally.
“Then why would I want to rent to you?”
“I’m here. I’ve got the money.” At least for the first month, she amended to herself.
“This is New York, sweetheart. You’re not the first person to stop by and you won’t be the last.”
“Are you holding out for the highest bidder?”
“Maybe. What’re you offering?”
The speculative look in his eyes brought a flush to Gabrielle’s normally pale complexion. This time she did settle her coat more protectively around her and headed for the door. In the past few months she’d sacrificed just about everything but her pride and her dignity. She wasn’t about to lose those, as well.
“Never mind,” she said on her way out. “I don’t think this would work out.”
He caught up with her before she could reach the door. “I’m sorry,” he said with what sounded like total sincerity. She studied his expression, assessing him as she might a prospective investor. His eyes, for once, were serious, which did the strangest things to her ability to breathe. He touched her sleeve. “Please. Accept my apology. If you want the place, it’s yours.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been through a few rough times myself.”
The suddenly sympathetic, contrite demeanor made her extraordinarily suspicious. Leopards rarely changed their spots in the blink of an eye. This leopard was also shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. She waited for his next move.
“There is one thing you should know about first, though,” he said finally.
“Which is?”
“The bathroom.”
Despite herself, she grinned at his cautious tone. “I’m familiar with the concept. I assume this one has all the usual amenities.”
“More or less,” he said, intriguing her as he beckoned and headed toward the opposite end of the living room. “Through here.”
She walked into a narrow kitchen with peeling wallpaper and yellowed linoleum and came to a halt, her mouth dropping open. “I hope that’s a planter,” she murmured, staring at the large, claw-footed ceramic tub in the middle of the room, then at her guide. He was laughing.
“Nope. That’s the tub all right. It’s more convenient to the stove in here.”
“The stove?” she repeated weakly.
“In case the hot water runs out and you…”
“I get the picture. Where’s the rest of it?”
“It?”
“The bathroom.”
“Through that door.”
Deciding it wouldn’t be wise to take anything else for granted, Gabrielle peeked through the door. Thankfully there were no more surprises. The sink and toilet appeared old, but functional—she checked just to be sure—and the room was clean.
Now she was the one hesitating. She had finally accepted the idea that her current budget wouldn’t allow for luxuries, but a tub in the kitchen? Still, she thought of the long list of depressing, unsatisfactory apartments she’d already seen. With all its flaws—and she wasn’t minimizing them—this was still far and away the best.
“Okay,” she said eventually, if reluctantly. “I can live with this.”
“There’s one other thing.”
She felt her heart sink. The way he’d said that told her it was even more ominous than having to take her bath in the middle of her kitchen. “What?” she said with a weary sigh.
“If you’re in a hurry to move in, you might have to deal with a roommate.”
Her eyebrows shot up. She gave him a hard stare. He looked decidedly uneasy again, which was unnerving in a man of his apparent self-confidence. “A roommate? You mean it’s already rented?” She felt oddly disappointed.
“Not exactly.”
“Well, it’s either rented or it’s not.”
“Actually it’s just temporarily occupied.”
“Does this have anything to do with the sleeping bag I saw rolled up in one of the bedroom closets?”
He nodded. “It’s mine.”
That was definitely a problem. “When will you be moving out?”
“In a couple of months, as soon as I can get the apartments downstairs finished, but it’s okay. We could share the place until then. It has two bedrooms and I’d promise to stay in mine.”
He crossed his heart dramatically, then treated her to that wide, high-voltage smile. Obviously he meant it to be friendly and reassuring. He had no idea that it set her pulse to racing in a way that normally indicated such crises as imminent stock market crashes or a dramatic fall in the value of the dollar. If there had been a chair in the room, she would have collapsed into it. She refused to sit in the tub.
“This isn’t such a good idea,” she said. It was an eloquent understatement. It was a horrible, impossible, not-to-be-considered-for-an-instant idea. “I’ll have to keep looking.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Someplace.”
“Can you stay where you are?”
“Not after Saturday.”
“Is there a friend you can move in with?”
She thought of several who’d offered, all of them part of the fast-paced, well-heeled world she was leaving behind. “No.”
“Can you afford a hotel?”
For the first time she heard a note of compassion in his voice. She sighed. “No.”
“Then think about my offer. Come see the garden before you decide,” he encouraged, holding out his hand. Gabrielle ignored it and he jammed it into his pocket. The snub didn’t faze his upbeat mood as he enthused, “It’s a little ragged now, but in the spring with tulips and crocuses and forsythia in bloom, it’ll be magnificent. At least that’s what my father says and he’s got a
green thumb that’s known all over Long Island.”
Gabrielle felt a ridiculous twinge of doubt. She was a sucker for a garden. Always had been. The Clayton house in South Carolina had been surrounded by azaleas and roses with an extravagantly colorful and overgrown English country garden in back that had been her personal domain.
“I’ll take a look,” she said finally. “But I don’t think it will change my mind. I’ve never had a roommate, not even in college.”
Left unspoken was the fact that she’d never lived with a man under any circumstances. Where she came from it still wasn’t considered proper, especially for the daughter of a highly recognizable politician. Goodness knows, her relationship with her former fiancé had been proper. Which, she admitted ruefully, was probably part of the problem. With Townsend Lane she hadn’t even been tempted to commit a casual indiscretion, much less have a sizzling affair.
She followed her prospective roommate downstairs, through a narrow hallway and onto a tiny stoop. What she saw made her smile in a way that she hadn’t smiled in a very long time. A bit of sunshine stole into her heart.
The tiny, walled-in area had flower beds along the fringes. Now they were jammed with a haphazard display of chrysanthemums, marigolds and zinnias in yellows and oranges and reds. A wrought-iron table and two chairs fit tidily into the middle. The whole garden was shaded by a huge maple tree next door, its leaves already turning to the fiery shades of autumn. It was charming, utterly and irresistibly charming.
“What’s the rent?” she asked finally. Perhaps if she concentrated on the business aspects of the transaction, she wouldn’t be quite so vibrantly aware of the fact that she was committing herself to living with a man she’d met less than an hour earlier. It would be a practical decision under the circumstances, a way to stretch her remaining savings. She waited for his response to see just how far she could make those last dollars go.
“We can work it out.”
“Will I have to sign a lease?”
“What for?” he asked. “You’ve already told me you have every intention of breaking it.”
One Touch of Moondust Page 1
