One Touch of Moondust

by Sherryl Woods

  Suddenly he grinned at Gabrielle. “That’s amazing. I just realized that I was bored to tears. For ten years I’ve been hating myself for not being able to fit in, only to discover I’d hate being like that crowd.”

  “Does that mean we can put my family background aside from now on?” Before he could answer, her gaze clashed with his. He read the challenge that was in her eyes long before it crossed her lips. “Do you want me, Paul?”

  He’d thought he’d prepared himself for anything, but he was stunned by the direct question. His body responded before he could begin to find the right words for an answer.

  “Yes,” he said finally.

  “And I want you.”

  “Which doesn’t resolve the real problem,” he reminded her, ignoring the sudden tightness of his jeans across his abdomen. “Come here.”

  She stepped into the room. He hesitated, then put his hands around her waist and lifted her up to sit on a completed section of the counter. He stepped between her splayed knees, his hands sliding down to rest on her thighs. It took everything in his power to leave the contact between them at that.

  “Gaby, what you just said makes a lot of sense. Just because your family has money doesn’t mean you’re at all like Christine. But you are the kind of woman who’s bound to have certain expectations in a relationship. I can’t promise you anything right now. I’m just beginning to get on my feet financially. My goals aren’t extravagant or earthshaking, but I don’t want to lose sight of them. It took me a long time to become comfortable with who I am. Now that I am, I don’t want to start dreaming impossible dreams.”

  “Am I an impossible dream?” she said quietly, her clear eyes meeting his, then becoming shadowed by doubts. Her gaze dropped to his chest.

  “Right now, yes.” When she tried to interrupt, he said, “I know you’re not the same shallow person Christine was. But you are confused and vulnerable. You’re searching for answers for yourself and your future. If we become involved now, you could stop looking. Remember that Robert Frost poem about the road not taken?”

  Surprise flickered in her eyes. Then she nodded.

  “It was all about choices, Gaby. Unless I’m very much mistaken, tonight you don’t think you have any and it terrifies you. Gabrielle Clayton has probably always had the world at her feet. She could choose any direction for her life and with a snap of her fingers, it was hers. You’re facing now what I faced years ago. You can set almost any goal in life you want, you can work like hell to attain it, you can even have money and power behind you, but there are absolutely no guarantees of success. The satisfaction has to come in making the effort.” He sighed, wondering if he was only talking in circles. “Am I making any sense?”

  “Too much,” she said with weary resignation. “I’m just not sure what it has to do with us.”

  He searched for the right words. He wanted her to understand that his decision was for now, but perhaps not for always. No guarantees, though. No commitment. And only a suggestion of hope.

  “When—if—you and I get together, I want it to be because you have options again. I want you to feel strong and in control of your life, to know every road that’s open to you. And then, if you choose to be with me, it will be because we both know it’s what you want and not the desperate act of a woman who’s afraid to be alone.”

  She listened thoughtfully, but frowned at the end. “I am not desperate,” she said heatedly.

  He grinned at the sign of renewed spirit. “Good. Then you won’t mind waiting a while, until we both know exactly what we want.”

  “I’ll mind,” she said. “But you’re right. Waiting makes a lot more sense.”

  Just to make sure he diminished temptation, he changed the subject. Something had put her into this strange mood tonight and he needed to understand what it was. “Want to tell me what happened on those job interviews today?”

  She met his gaze, then looked away. “Not particularly.”

  He pressed the issue. “Were they that discouraging? Had they already hired someone?”

  “No.”

  “Then maybe they’ll call tomorrow.” She shrugged indifferently. “Maybe.”

  Puzzled, he probed for an explanation for her negativity. It was totally out of character for a woman who was normally optimistic, direct and determined. She had not made that climb on Wall Street by accepting defeat so readily. “Didn’t you like what they were offering?”

  “It wasn’t that,” she admitted with obvious reluctance. “In fact, the jobs were fine. So were the benefits packages.”

  “What about the people?”

  “They were okay, I guess.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m not sure I handled myself that well in the interviews. I just couldn’t get it together somehow.”

  “Why?” He watched the blush creep into her cheeks and felt a pang of guilt. “It wasn’t because of what happened this morning, was it?” The shade of pink deepened to rose. “Oh, Gaby, I’m sorry.”

  She gave him a faint smile, obviously meant to reassure. “Don’t worry about it. At first I blamed it on being distracted by that, too, but I think it was more than that.”

  “What?”

  She hesitated a long time before answering, staring at the floor when she finally did. “I think I was bored by it all.” She glanced up, her expression filled with astonishment at the admission. “Can you imagine? I fought like hell to get to New York, to make it on Wall Street, then I come to one little hurdle in my career and I’m suddenly bored. Do you suppose I’m trying to find an excuse for failing?”

  “Nope,” he said with certainty. “I’ve suspected for some time now that the enchantment was past. With your drive, you’d have found another Wall Street job by now, if you’d really been looking. Besides, I don’t think you’re the kind of lady who needs excuses. I think you’ve come to a turning point. Instead of being down, you should be excited.”

  “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 nobl
e 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

  For 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 o
f 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.