“Please, no lectures. Just help me unload my things.”
“You’re a nice girl. I can tell you’re from a fine family. What would they think, they should see this?”
“They won’t see it.”
“You know what I mean. What you want, you want your father should have a heart attack, he finds out you’re living in a neighborhood you can’t go out in even in daytime.”
“It’s not that bad,” she said, getting out and slamming the door. She opened the back door, began removing things from the back seat and piled them up on the sidewalk. Still shaking his head, the taxi driver began getting the suitcases out of the trunk.
“You stay here,” he said. “I’ll take them inside. What floor?”
“Four.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’ll help,” she volunteered.
“If you help, who’ll watch? Stay.”
Just then Paul emerged from the building. His jeans were just as faded and just as snug as the ones he’d had on when they’d met, but he had buttoned his shirt either in honor of her arrival or in concession to the near-freezing temperature. He smiled at her, a slow, breathtaking smile that made her wish for a minute that he was her lover and that they were embarking on a mad, passionate affair.
Without saying a word, he took the full load of luggage from the taxi driver. Mort looked him over carefully, then nodded. He turned to Gabrielle. “Maybe it’ll be okay.”
“What was all that about?” Paul asked when the taxi finally had pulled away and they’d hauled everything up to the fourth floor landing.
“He doesn’t think I should be moving into this neighborhood.”
Paul opened his mouth. She spoke first. “I don’t care to have this discussion with you, too.”
“Fine.” He nudged the door open with his foot and stood aside for her to enter. She found…chaos. At least she hoped that’s what it was. Surely it couldn’t be his idea of furnishings.
A sofa that sagged dangerously in the middle had been shoved against one wall. Two chairs in a similar state of disrepair were situated haphazardly in the middle of the room. None of the pieces matched. An orange crate had been placed in the midst of this unlikely arrangement. A mayonnaise jar filled with marigolds had been plunked in the middle of it. As a gesture of welcome, it was a nice touch. As decor, it was frightening. She was terrified to look in the other rooms. Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she walked down the hall.
Each bedroom had a twin-size bed with a mattress that dipped in a way that set off desperate warning signals in her back. There was a scarred four-drawer dresser in each room. Each had a jar of marigolds on top. At least he was consistent, she thought with a sigh.
She dropped her suitcases in the room with the least offensive bedspread—pink chenille with a minimum of tufts missing. She would have to use the tiny dressers in both rooms and both closets for her clothes. She might not have her mother’s acquisitive nature, but she did own more than two dresses. Maybe Paul could at least keep his clothes downstairs while he worked on the apartment.
When everything had been dragged inside, she turned to Paul. “If you’ll just give me my keys now, I’ll start settling in and you can go on doing whatever you were doing before I arrived.”
He dropped the keys in her hand, picked up more of her bags and hauled them down the hall.
“Thanks, really, but I can manage the rest of this,” she protested.
“No problem. Until we get these things out of the way, we’ll just be stumbling over them.”
“Don’t you have work to do downstairs?”
“Not today. I took the day off so I could welcome you properly.”
Gabrielle was just picking up a box of dishes when the seductive undertone to his words registered. She dropped them. The crash of Limoges didn’t even faze her. “Welcome me?”
“Yeah,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m glad you like the pink room. I figured you would. I’d already put my stuff in the other room.”
“Why would you want to welcome me?” she said, regarding him suspiciously. “We have an arrangement. That’s all. You come and go as you please. I come and go as I please.”
He grinned at her. “Does that mean you don’t want lunch?”
Before she could say a strenuous no, her stomach rumbled. “Okay. Fine. Lunch would be good. We can iron out the details of the arrangement and make a schedule for the kitchen.”
“Whatever you say.”
In the kitchen there were more marigolds on the counter. A bottle of wine had been opened, an omelet pan was on the stove and she could smell French bread warming in the oven. Her mouth watered. She tried not to notice that the wallpaper was still peeling.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Nope. It’s all under control, unless you’d like to pour the wine.”
“Sure. Where are the glasses?”
He nodded toward the cabinet to his left. “Up there.”
She found four jelly glasses with cartoons on them and a stack of plastic cups. Well, why not? The wine would taste just as good from a glass with little yellow Flintstone characters on it as it would from her Waterford. She selected the two that matched and poured the wine, then handed Paul his glass.
“Shall we have a toast?” he asked, glancing over at her.
“To what?”
“Roommates.” His gaze lingered on her until she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Her heart thumped unsteadily. “And friends.”
Before she could protest, he tapped his glass to hers and sipped the wine. “It may not be French, but it’s not bad.”
Gabrielle wondered at the defensive tone, then taunted back, “I prefer California wines myself.” She grabbed two mismatched plates from the cupboard and turned around to set the table…only there wasn’t one.
“Where… ?”
“We’ll have to eat in the living room, unless you’d like to go outside. I think it’s warm enough today for the garden, if we stay bundled up. The sun’s just getting around there.”
The garden. Perfect. Just the thought of it brought a smile to her lips. “We’ll go outside.”
She loaded up everything she could carry and went downstairs. Paul followed minutes later with the steaming food. When they’d finished the cheese and mushroom omelets, the entire loaf of French bread and a bowl of grapes, he slid lower in the chair, stretched his powerful legs out in front of him and stared at her as he sipped his wine.
“You should spend more time outdoors,” he said finally. “You’re too pale.”
“Haven’t you heard? The sun is bad for your skin.”
“Use sunscreen and moderation. It’ll put a little color in those cheeks. You could add a couple of pounds, too. You’ve probably been starving yourself.”
“I have not been starving myself, thank you very much, and my figure is no concern of yours.”
“I’m the one who has to look at it.”
“You don’t have to. In fact, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Remember our deal.”
“Our deal was that I’d stay in my own room at night. There were no restrictions on what I’d do during the day.”
“Which brings us to something very important. We need to set a schedule.”
“I don’t do schedules.” The response was deceptively soft and pleasant. She had a feeling it hid a mulish personality.
“If this is going to work, we have to have a schedule,” she said firmly. “You can’t just come barging into the kitchen when I’m…” She could not bring herself to complete the thought.
“Fixing breakfast?” he offered with a grin.
She scowled. “No, dammit. When I’m taking a bath.” She struggled for a businesslike demeanor. “Now, it seems reasonable that I have the use of the kitchen in the morning, since I have to go out on job interviews. You probably like to bathe at the end of the day anyway. So that should work out nicely.” He was shaking his head.
“What’s wrong?”
&nbs
p; “I take two baths a day. Morning and night.”
“Why?”
“Habit.”
“Break it.”
“Two baths.”
It was hard to argue with cleanliness. “Okay, fine. Take your damn bath in the morning. Just make sure you leave me some hot water and be out of the kitchen by seven-thirty.”
“I eat breakfast at seven-thirty.”
“Where? In the tub?”
“At the counter, standing up. Toast, cereal, eggs and coffee.”
“That’s not healthy. You need to sit down and digest your food properly. You can eat your breakfast in the living room.”
“But I always…”
“If you want your morning bath, you will eat your breakfast in the living room.”
“That’s blackmail,” he retorted.
“That’s compromise,” she growled.
He grinned. “Okay.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “You’re agreeing?”
“I just said I’d do it, didn’t I? Who’s going to do the dishes?”
“We’re each going to do our own.”
“That means I’ll have to come back into the kitchen, while you’re…”
Oh, dear heaven! “Never mind,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Leave the dishes. I’ll do them.”
“Then what do you want me to do to even things out?”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll fix lunches for both of us,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken.
“I won’t be home for lunch.”
“You can take it with you.”
“I prefer to eat in restaurants.”
He tilted his head knowingly. “Can you afford to do that right now?”
“No,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Fine. Which do you prefer, peanut butter or tuna fish?”
“Yogurt.”
“On a sandwich?”
Patience, Gabrielle. Have patience! “No. In its own little container. I’ll pick some up when I go to the store.”
“Don’t you think we should go to the store together? For the next few weeks, I mean. If we combine groceries, we’ll both save. Right?”
She supposed it did sound practical. “Okay. We’ll make up a list when we go back upstairs.”
“Who needs a list? We’ll just go and get whatever appeals to us.”
“That’s inefficient and expensive. We’ll end up with things we don’t really need and we’ll forget some of the basics.”
He stared at her solemnly. “You need to loosen up. Do you put everything in your life on little lists?”
“Not everything,” she said stiffly. He was, however, remarkably close to the truth. She didn’t have much patience with wasted motion.
“That’s a good way to miss out on what’s important.”
“It works for me.”
He shrugged. “If you say so. Now there’s one thing we haven’t talked about.”
“Which is?”
“Guests. What do we do if we want to have someone over?”
“You mean like a date?” The mere thought of it raised all sorts of awful possibilities she hadn’t considered. She supposed a man like Paul would date a lot. She also imagined he wouldn’t leave those dates at their own front door with a chaste peck on the cheek. The thought stirred a little agony of uncertainty deep inside her. She met his amused gaze.
“Yes, a date,” he said softly.
“Can’t you wait until you move into your own apartment?” she grumbled.
“I’m willing to compromise here, but let’s not go nuts about it. Don’t you date?”
“Of course, I do, but it won’t kill me to meet my dates in a restaurant for the next few weeks.”
“And after?”
“After what?”
“After dinner?”
“We’ll each go to our respective homes.”
“Sounds sensible.” The way he said it, it sounded like a death sentence. He cast a meaningful look at her. “I’m not that sensible.”
“Fine. If you are unable to curb your male hormones for a few weeks, just let me know and I will arrange to be out for the evening.”
“For the night,” he corrected.
Of course, it would be for the night. She seethed. “I will not be kept out of my own bed for an entire night.”
“I don’t mind, if you don’t,” he said easily. “I guess that settles everything.”
“Yes. I guess it does.” Why had all this talk of dates left her feeling empty and alone all of a sudden? She enjoyed living alone. She was perfectly capable of entertaining herself. She had her collection of CDs and tapes, her videos of her favorite movie classics, and a stack of unread books. Let Paul Reed go out tonight. Every night, for that matter. She’d be just fine. It would be good to have the apartment to herself…until he came home with these dates of his.
She stood up suddenly and began snatching the dishes off the table.
“Something wrong?” Paul inquired innocently.
“Of course not. What could possibly be wrong?”
“You seem upset.”
She slammed the dishes right back on the table. “I am not upset. Nothing is wrong. I am going upstairs to unpack, if you don’t mind.”
She stalked away from the table, then turned back. “Thank you for the lunch,” she said politely.
He was grinning. In fact he looked rather pleased with himself. “You’re welcome,” he said softly.
To her unreasoning fury, she heard the quiet lilt of his laughter as she stormed up the stairs. This was going to be the longest damn four weeks of her entire life.
CHAPTER THREE
Paul couldn’t sleep, not with those provocative sounds emanating from Gabrielle’s room next door. Apparently she’d taken him at his word and had invited a date over on her very first night. So much for all of those self-righteous protests of hers.
In an attempt to give her some of the space she so obviously wanted, he’d spent the rest of the day away from the apartment. He’d hoped, on his return, that she would be settled in and that his own rampaging hormones would have quieted down. At first he’d been relieved that she was already in her room with the door closed. He wouldn’t have to put his libido to the test. Then, as he’d stripped off his shirt, he’d heard the soft music, the low, intimate murmur of voices. Something had knotted painfully inside him.
Retreating to the kitchen for a beer, he’d told himself it didn’t matter. Gabrielle Clayton was a roommate, a source of income. That was it. He had absolutely no personal interest in what she did with her evenings. He told himself it was good that he saw her for exactly the kind of woman she was from day one. He told himself to go to bed and forget all about her.
Fat chance!
He stared at the ceiling, his imagination running rampant. The messages it sent to his body were not restful. He flipped on his own radio, found a station playing quiet, soothing music…all about romance. Why didn’t somebody just play lullabies at night? He turned the dial and found a classical station. The music was soft and just as romantic, but at least there were no words. He closed his eyes, thought about the lulling rhythm of waves against the shore and felt the tension in his body begin to fade at last.
Then, just about the time he finally began to drift off, he heard the start of a rhythmic thumping from next door. He groaned and buried his head under a pillow. It didn’t shut out the music or the other far more tantalizing sound.
What in the hell was she doing in there? Never mind. He knew what she was doing. He could picture it all too vividly, her long legs sleek and bare, her golden hair spilling across the bed, her body slender and urgent.
He groaned and debated getting another beer. At this rate she’d drive him to alcoholism within a week. Telling himself it was his own fault was no comfort at all. Telling himself there was absolutely nothing he could do about it without seeming like a meddling, jealous jerk didn’t quiet his tightly strung nerves, either. Telling himself he
could not possibly survive an entire night of this torture motivated him to get out of bed, yank on a pair of jogging shorts and risk humiliation by pounding on Gabrielle’s door. He acted quickly, before he could think about the consequences.
“Keep it down in there,” he yelled, then stomped back toward his own room.
With surprising speed for someone engaged in such heated activity, she flung her door open and stepped into the corridor. He hadn’t counted on that. It stopped him right in his tracks, unable to do any more than stare at her as his pulse throbbed. Her face was flushed, her hair mussed. Her chest was heaving. His entire body tightened in immediate response. Knocking on that door had been the second stupidest damn mistake of his entire life, topped only by inviting her to live here in the first place. If listening had been torment, witnessing her sensual arousal was pure agony.
“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I had no idea you could hear me. I didn’t even realize you’d come home.”
“I’m not surprised,” he said.
Apparently the sarcasm escaped her. She continued to regard him with wide, innocent eyes. “I couldn’t sleep,” she explained, “so I had my radio on for a while, but it didn’t help. Then I got to thinking about how I’ve been missing so many aerobics classes and, since I couldn’t sleep anyway, I thought I’d just run through the exercises. I’m sorry if the tape woke you.”
As the significance of her explanation sank in, Paul felt his entire body go slack with relief. “Aerobics?” he said, hoping that the grin spreading across his face wasn’t nearly as silly as it felt. “That’s what you were doing in there?”
“Of course. What did you think?” Her eyes widened, then sparked with amusement. She bit back a chuckle. “You didn’t?”
He stared back indignantly, still fighting his own grin.
“You did, didn’t you? You thought I had someone in there.” Then she began laughing, the first genuine, honest emotion he’d ever seen from her. It was a glorious sound. She peeked at him and started chuckling all over again.
“Okay,” he grumbled. “So I got it wrong. Just go back to bed.”
She swallowed back another laugh with effort. “I told you. I can’t sleep.”
One Touch of Moondust Page 3