“It’s not your coloring,” he said, his intent gaze lingering. “It’s your health I’m worried about. You don’t take care of yourself properly.”
“And you still want me to ride the subway?” she retorted. She was teasing, but she was unable to hide the slight catch in her voice.
“Now, with me, you’re perfectly safe,” he promised in a voice that could have seduced a saint.
Their gazes collided. Her pulse beat erratically and she wondered just how true his statement about her safety actually was. The instinct to run was powerful, the temptation to stay even stronger.
They spent the rest of the day exploring Paul’s New York. It wasn’t the same part of the city Gabrielle had grown used to seeing. Instead of the elegance of Lincoln Center, they wandered through the colorful seediness of Chinatown. The narrow, crowded streets smelled of garlic and ginger and incense. Shop windows were jammed with displays of gaudy trinkets side by side with graceful Oriental antiques. In one, buried beneath worthless porcelain vases, Gabrielle spotted a small silk rug, its colors muted by age, its fringe tattered in spots. Despite its worn appearance, it appealed to her sense of proportion and color.
“Oh, Paul, it’s perfect,” she exclaimed.
“For what? A dust rag? It’s decrepit.”
She glared at him. “No more than our apartment building.”
Only after the words were out of her mouth did she realize that she’d actually sounded proudly possessive about the still shabby Brooklyn apartment they’d shared for less than twenty-four hours. From the quizzical expression on Paul’s face, she knew he’d noted the slip of her tongue.
“Really, don’t you think it would be perfect for one of the bedrooms?” she said hurriedly.
He looked skeptical, but said agreeably, “If you want it, get it.”
Once inside the store, however, the price daunted her. It would put a significant dent in her savings, though from what she knew of Oriental carpets, it was not outlandishly high. Making a quick calculation in her head, she made a decision. She told the smiling proprietor she would pay him half what he was asking.
“No, no. Not possible,” he said, his expression suitably horrified. “Price firm. No discount. It is very valuable. Fine silk. Good workmanship.”
Gabrielle examined the rug closely, then dropped the edge in exaggerated disgust. “It needs repairs. I will have to pay at least half what you’re asking just to clean and restore it.”
He could hardly deny the truth of that. Reluctantly he knocked the price down by a fourth. Gabrielle glanced at Paul and saw the amused quirk of his lips.
“Another fifty dollars and we have a deal,” she said with finality.
The man looked as though she were trying to rob him. “No, no, lady. That is too much.”
Gabrielle sighed heavily. “Okay,” she said, and started for the door. She took one last, longing look at the carpet. Then she noticed Paul’s dismayed expression, just in time to keep him from intervening. She grabbed his hand and dragged him purposefully toward the exit before he could offer to pay exactly what the man was asking in a misguided attempt to please her.
“But—” he protested.
“Don’t you dare make an offer,” she whispered. He stared disbelievingly, but kept quiet.
They were in the street when the proprietor caught up with them. “Okay, lady, we make a deal.”
She gave Paul a smug smile and followed the man back inside. When she’d written her check, he rolled and wrapped the carpet with loving care before handing it over to Paul to carry.
She held in her delight until they reached the corner, then turned and grabbed Paul’s arm in excitement. “Can you imagine? He actually sold that carpet to me for a fraction of what it was worth.”
“But you said…”
She waved aside his obvious confusion. “I was bargaining.”
Paul shook his head in astonishment. “You really must have been good on Wall Street. I’d never have guessed from your expression that you were cheating that poor old man.”
“I wasn’t cheating him,” she explained patiently. “He probably got it for even less than that. He knew what he had to get to make a profit and I guarantee you, I didn’t get him below that.”
“But you will still have to pay for cleaning and repairing it.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll hang it over a tree limb and beat it. I can stitch up the fringe myself.”
Paul stared at her, openmouthed.
“What’s wrong now?”
“You. In the first place, I would never have expected you to be satisfied with anything less than brand-new and top of the line.”
“You have a lot to learn about the value of antiques,” she countered.
He ignored the barb. “Okay, but I definitely would never have imagined you bargaining over the price of something.”
“How do you think rich people stay that way?”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m sure you learned those tactics at your daddy’s knee along with poker, but the idea of your sitting down with needle and thread completely boggles my mind.”
She grinned at him then and adopted her most Southern accent, the one that called to mind hamhocks, black-eyed peas and grits. She laced it with the sweetness of honeysuckle. “Why, Paul, honey, don’t you know we gentlewomen always learn sewing and piano along with the social graces.”
He winced. “Sorry. I did it again. Is there anything about you that fits the image or can I anticipate constant surprises?”
“You won’t be surprised, if you remember I’m Gabrielle Clayton, not Scarlett O’Hara or Faye Dunaway in Network.”
A fleeting frown gave away his guilt. She wondered which of the personae he found the more disconcerting—the Southern belle, born to the manor, or the sharp-witted career woman. Or perhaps it was the seemingly contradictory blend of the two. Whichever it was, he tried to cover his confusion by quickly pointing her in the direction of a bakery in Little Italy. “As a reward for your success, you get coffee and dessert.”
The thought of food so soon after their huge brunch held no appeal. Normally her breakfasts consisted of coffee and half a grapefruit, her lunches of yogurt and her dinners of fish and a salad. She frequently forgot all about one or more of those. Today she’d already eaten more calories than the three meals combined. “Not for me,” she said. “I’m still stuffed.”
He pulled her inside the warm, fragrant bakery anyway and led her straight to the display case. “Maybe you can resist one of these sinfully rich, chocolate cannoli, but I can’t. I have to give in to temptation once a day or I feel I’ve failed to live up to my image as a hormone-driven rogue.”
The pointed rejoinder, reminding her that she’d made a few snap judgments of her own, shut her up.
Paul picked out the creamy pastry, then compounded the temptation by ordering capuccino. “Sure you don’t want some?”
“No. Absolutely not. Just a cup of black coffee.”
“It’s bad for your nerves. How about decaf?”
She looked at the waitress. “Black coffee, loaded with caffeine.”
The waitress glanced deferentially at Paul, earning a scowl from Gabrielle. “Whatever the lady wants,” he confirmed. “But bring two forks, just in case.”
Seated, with the cannoli in front of her, Gabrielle’s resistance diminished considerably.
“Try it,” Paul urged, cutting into the pastry. Chocolate and cream puffed out the ends. She swallowed hard. He held the bite in front of her. Her mouth watered. “Come on. We’ll walk it off.”
Challenged by determined blue eyes, she took the bite at last, slowly licking the cream from her lips. It was heavenly. “Mmm.”
“Another one,” he tempted.
“No, really.” But with the taste lingering on her tongue and Paul’s eyes still intent on hers, her usually indomitable willpower faded. Before she realized it, she’d eaten the entire cannoli. She glanced at the empty plate and blinked guiltily. “Oh, de
ar. I’m sorry.”
He laughed. “For what? They have more.” He signaled the waitress for another order. “You sure you won’t want your own this time?”
“Very funny. I wouldn’t have eaten the last one, if you hadn’t tempted me.”
“Are you that susceptible to temptation?” he inquired with a devilish gleam in his eyes.
“Only before four o’clock in the afternoon on the fourth Saturday in months that begin with O.”
He glanced at his watch and gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “I’ll mark my calendar for next year.” Grinning, he sat back, sipped his capuccino and studied her. “What would you like to do now?”
She hesitated, uncertain of his interests or his budget and aware of a surprisingly strong desire to accommodate both. Usually she scoured the weekend events listings in the papers on Friday, then planned exactly how she would spend her all-too-rare free time. It was about as spontaneous as the ticking of a clock.
“It’s up to you,” she said, experiencing a daring sense of excitement that was all out of proportion with the innocence of the situation.
“How do you feel about art?” he asked, taking her by surprise again.
“Modern or classical?” she replied enthusiastically. She’d taken one art history course in college to fulfill what she’d considered to be a totally frivolous requirement. She’d enjoyed the class far more than she’d expected to and once in New York had indulged the fascination with regular visits to the museums and galleries. She was on the invitation list for the openings of all major showings.
“Take your pick,” Paul offered. “We can go to the Metropolitan or the Museum of Modern Art or we can go to a couple of places I know.”
She was instantly intrigued by the prospect of discovering what type of art interested him. “The places you know,” she said at once.
He smiled his approval, then led the way to Soho, where each gallery’s art was more wildly imaginative than the one before.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully as they stood in front of a sculpture made of clock and auto parts. It was called Ride to the Future. Gabrielle recalled the reviews. One critic had described it as “banal and lacking in excitement.”
“What do you think?” he inquired with what she assumed had to be feigned solemnity.
“You can’t be serious.” She stared at his face for some indication he was merely teasing her. He met her gaze evenly. “My God, you really are serious.”
“That’s right. Don’t just dismiss it. Tell me what you really think of it.”
“I think…” She walked around the display, viewing it from all sides and perspectives, trying very hard not to be influenced by what she’d read or her own taste for far more traditional works. This was definitely not Michelangelo’s David.
“I think it’s an interesting concept,” she concluded finally, trying to squirm off the hook.
“Well executed?”
“I suppose.” She couldn’t keep the doubt from her voice.
“But not to your taste?” he said at once.
She sighed and admitted reluctantly, “Definitely not.”
She waited for some expression of disdain for her lack of daring. Instead he nodded in satisfaction. “Good. I thought it looked like a piece of junk, too.”
Gabrielle was startled into laughter. “I thought you loved it.”
Amusement lit his eyes. “I know. I wanted to see how politely you could decimate it.”
“For a minute there I was terrified you might be the artist.”
“Trying not to insult the artist, huh? You succeeded admirably. My favorite word when I get invited to these shows is interesting. It’s amazing how many inflections you can give that word to convey everything from approval to dismissal.”
“Fascinating is good, too. Or how about, I’ve never seen anything quite like it before. Delivered solemnly, it’s very effective.”
Their amused gazes caught, sparks danced and the laughter slowly died between them. “Amazing how much we’ve already found we have in common,” Paul said with a disturbing mixture of satisfaction and defiance in his tone.
“Amazing,” she echoed softly, when what she really felt was fear, not amazement. Already she was struck by the sense that this man could turn her life in a totally unexpected and dangerously fascinating direction. He wasn’t easily intimidated. Nor was he fitting neatly into the niche she’d carved for him. And when he looked at her, every bit of common sense ingrained in her since birth fled.
She reminded herself staunchly that she was in control, that the parameters of their relationship had been clearly drawn. They were short-term roommates, nothing more. And Paul, she sensed even after their short acquaintance, was an honorable man. Satisfied that their bargain was unbreachable, she relaxed her guard again.
It was nearly midnight when they got home, after eating spicy Mexican food in Greenwich Village and drinking far too many margaritas.
Gabrielle felt just as exhilarated as she had in the morning and slightly tipsy. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had so much uninhibited, unstructured, spur-of-the-moment fun. Nor was she feeling particularly guilty about it. How extraordinary!
“Thank you,” she said as they stood in their darkened living room.
Impulsively she stood on tiptoe to brush an appreciative kiss across Paul’s lips. In the hushed silence she suddenly heard the pounding of her heart, the sharp intake of his breath. Then she looked into Paul’s eyes and saw the unmistakable darkening of desire, felt her own blood race. As their breath mingled, she knew if she touched the warmth of his lips, even just this once she’d get burned. There were limits, even in the midst of magic. The idea that they could remain simply roommates, that their emotions would remain impassive, fled with the blink of an eye. The sense of destinies irrevocably entwining overcame her again.
Paul’s well-muscled body, tight with tension, was suddenly too tempting, too overpowering. Shaken, she backed away a step, the friendly kiss abandoned as a very bad idea.
“You’re running again, Gaby,” he said with heart-stopping accuracy.
“Gabrielle,” she said with a touch of her old defiance.
His lips curved into a faint smile. He ran a finger along her jaw. “Gabrielle,” he said in a whisper so soft it caressed as gently as a spring breeze. Her resistance turned to liquid fire as he moved toward her. Her whole body trembled in anticipation.
“You promised,” she said with a broken sigh as he bent closer. Still, despite the nervous plea, her lips remained parted for the kiss, waiting, longing. The mere sensation of anticipation was one she’d denied herself for too long. It sang through her veins.
At her protest, though, a shadow passed over Paul’s features and he straightened slowly, reluctance etched on his face. “So I did.”
He settled for running his fingers through her tangled, wind-tossed hair, the light touch grazing her cheeks. Her body ached from the tension of wanting more and knowing that satisfaction of that need would be wrong for both of them.
The expression in his eyes was regretful as he whispered, “Sweet dreams, Gabrielle.” Then he turned and went straight to his room without a backward glance.
* * *
Paul’s body was hard and charged with the urgency of his desire to claim the woman who slept in the next room. In just a few hours curiosity had slipped into fascination and was quickly turning into something much stronger. It wasn’t supposed to have been this way, but he should have known it would be. He’d always wanted things that weren’t his to take.
It had been hellish for a small boy to discover that the toys his friends took for granted would never be his. His mother had been a housekeeper, his father a gardener. Honest, kind, hardworking people, they had loved him all the more because he had come along late in their lives.
Because of his parents’ jobs, he had grown up on a huge estate on Long Island. His playmates had been the children of the manor, children just like Gabrielle Cla
yton. No matter how hard he’d tried to be one of them, though, they were always just beyond his reach. He wore their cast-off clothes and he dreamed their dreams. But for him those dreams were unattainable. At age five, the differences had been insignificant. By twenty they’d torn at his gut. That was when he’d realized with irrevocable and heartbreaking finality that Christine Bently Hanford would never really think of him as anything more than the son of the hired help.
It had taken him ten years away from there to get over the anger, to find his own niche, to become comfortable with who he was and what he wanted out of life. Envy and bitterness had faded, replaced by contentment. Or so he had thought until Gabrielle had appeared on his doorstep. Was he still trying to capture the unattainable? To prove he was good enough? If that’s what he was doing, he was being unfair to himself and to her.
Then again, maybe she was just a lady who was going through the same sort of identity crisis that had torn him apart ten years ago. He’d learned to live with reality, rather than fantasy, to find satisfaction in what was, rather than what he wished life could be. Maybe he could teach Gabrielle the same lesson.
And then what? Could they live happily ever after? Not likely. That happened only in story-books, where Cinderella was swept away by the handsome prince. No one ever wrote about what happened when the prince woke up to reality and found out Cinderella was no princess.
This story—his and Gabrielle’s—would end now, before anyone got hurt. He smiled in the darkness, his lips touched with irony and the sensible finality of the decision.
Famous last words.
CHAPTER FIVE
With a disconcerting sense of déjà vu, Paul awoke to the thumping of furniture. He smiled. Then a sudden crash from the room next door was followed by a surprisingly extensive barrage of colorful words. Paul would have sworn Gabrielle Clayton had never heard that particular vocabulary at home, except possibly during one of those infamous poker games. He leaped out of bed and ran for the door, stopping just in the nick of time to tug on a pair of gym shorts.
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