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.
“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.
&n
bsp; 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?”
One Touch of Moondust Page 6
