One Touch of Moondust

by Sherryl Woods

  He hesitated far too long before answering. “No,” he said finally. “I asked you to move in. I certainly don’t want to turn right around and throw you out.” He sounded very stoic. She wanted to throttle him. In fact she might have, if he hadn’t looked quite so miserable and confused. “It’s just that we have to reach some sort of understanding.”

  “About what?”

  “This relationship.”

  “That’s easy. We don’t have one.” The remark was glib, but there was considerably less conviction in her voice than she would have liked.

  “Exactly.”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand the all-too-adamant response. “I think I see what you’re getting at. Every now and then our bodies take over and pretend they haven’t gotten the message that we’re off-limits to each other, that we’re coming from different places, heading in different directions. Is that it?”

  “Yes. I mean you’re an attractive woman. A man would have to be dead not to respond to you, even though he knows it’s an impossible situation.”

  “And you are far from dead,” she concluded.

  “Exactly.”

  “Would it help if I wore baggy clothes?”

  He grinned at that. “I don’t think so. I have a feeling you could wear a gunny sack and I’d see right through it. So to speak,” he amended.

  “Any other suggestions?”

  He stared at her helplessly, then shook his head.

  She considered their situation analytically. Normally it was something she was very good at. “Maybe we’re going about this all wrong. Maybe we should just get this right out in the open. You’re attracted to me. I’m attracted to you. We both know we shouldn’t do anything about it, so that makes it forbidden and, therefore, all the more interesting.”

  He held up a hand to interrupt her. “There’s only one problem with that particular logic. Taken to its natural conclusion, we should just go right ahead and explore the possibilities and see where these feelings take us.”

  Gabrielle swallowed hard. The idea had far more merit than she cared to admit. Every time she glanced at Paul’s strong hands, she recalled the magic in his most casual caress. She glanced at them now and her skin burned. “I see what you mean,” she said shakily. “You think we’d be in even more trouble than we’re in now.”

  “I know it,” he said with such conviction that she smiled.

  “Okay, I’m open to suggestions.” She leaned forward, eyes wide, and propped her chin in her hand.

  Paul’s eyes widened and he leaned away from her hurriedly. “Don’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “Look so damnably inviting. You could tempt a man to ruin with that look.”

  She did laugh at that. “If something’s going to happen between us, it will be with our mutual consent, right? Since you want to keep this strictly platonic and so do I, we should have no problem. We’re not a couple of lusty kids with no sense. It should be even easier beginning tomorrow. You’ll be back at work. I’ll be job-hunting. We probably won’t even see each other.”

  He seized on her logical, unemotional comments with transparent relief. “Absolutely. That’s right.” He got to his feet looking far more relaxed than he had when he’d joined her a half hour earlier. She was surprised he didn’t hold out his hand to be shaken. He was even whistling when he went back inside.

  So, she thought when he had gone, it was all out in the open. Discussed and resolved exactly the way it should be between two rational, mature adults who knew a mistake when it stared them in the face.

  Now all they had to do was live with it. And that was complicated by the realization that with every hour that passed, she was having more and more difficulty recalling why she and Paul were so terribly wrong for each other. It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with artichokes. She didn’t like them, either.

  CHAPTER SIX

  In the morning their unemotional, carefully conceived plan went wildly awry.

  Still half-asleep and suffering from a splitting morning headache that she blamed totally on Paul’s seductive invasion of her dreams, Gabrielle wandered barefooted into the chilly kitchen. She began running water for her bath, only dimly aware that there seemed to be plenty of hot water. Yawning, she slipped off her robe and climbed into the tub, sinking slowly down into the luxurious warmth. She slid lower, sighed and rested her head against the back of the tub. Some of the tension began to ease in her shoulders and neck.

  The she heard a door open. The bathroom door! Not five feet away. And only one person could possibly be opening that door at this hour of the morning, unless a particularly fastidious burglar had stopped in to shave.

  “Paul, don’t you dare come into this room!” Admittedly overly hysterical and definitely wide-awake, her screech echoed off the walls and made her head throb even more.

  The door slammed shut, the noise like a shotgun blast reverberating through her head. She prayed he was on the far side of it.

  “Dammit all, Gaby, we had a schedule.”

  He had retreated. But even through the door, she could hear that his indignation was tempered by a slight breathlessness. Apparently her warning shout hadn’t been quite in time to prevent a very thorough look at her unclad body. The temperature in the kitchen seemed to warm by several degrees, setting her cheeks aflame.

  “I forgot it,” she said with unaccustomed meekness as embarrassment washed over her.

  “It was your schedule. You wanted me out of the kitchen by seven-thirty. It is now seven-twelve.”

  “Okay. So I didn’t look at the clock. Are you going to kill me over eighteen measly little minutes?”

  “I wouldn’t if I were anywhere other than trapped in this bathroom. Get out of the tub. You’ll have to finish your bath later, after I’ve had mine.”

  She did not want to get out of this water, now that she was in it. She knew instinctively that there was not enough hot water in the entire building to give her a second bath this temperature. “Give me ten minutes. That’s all.”

  “Out,” he repeated with stubborn insistence. “You’re on my time.”

  “Five minutes,” she bargained, reaching hurriedly for the soap.

  “Forget it. I have to get to work. I’m already running late. I might as well forget about my own bath. I’ll be doing good just to make it across town. I am coming out now.”

  It occurred to her that for a man she’d pegged as irresponsible, he was suddenly awfully conscious of time management. Under the circumstances, the turnaround seemed extraordinarily suspicious.

  “Don’t you…” She began the warning with haughty indignation. It failed her as she heard the latch click. She stared at the opening door with a growing sense of incredulity and dismay. He was actually coming out. Wearing a towel and a frown. Her heart thumped unsteadily. His arms and shoulders were every bit as muscled as she’d imagined. His stomach… well, never mind. His stomach was much too low and definitely too bare for a lady to be studying.

  Then she considered her own predicament. She glanced down. There were no bubbles in this water. No frothy covering. Not even a bar of soap floating on the surface. Come to think of it, there wasn’t even a towel nearby. She hadn’t been nearly alert enough to remember to bring one. Towels belonged in bathrooms. Then, again, so did tubs. Logic aside, the fact of the matter was that there probably wasn’t a decent covering within twenty or thirty feet. In his current belligerent mood, she certainly couldn’t count on Paul to supply one…except perhaps for the one he was wearing and that would create far more problems than it solved.

  “Paul Reed, if you’re going to insist on walking through here, then you can at least close your eyes,” she said imperiously, lifting her gaze—very hurriedly—to clash defiantly with his. It was a tactic she’d seen her mother use with extraordinary success with everyone from her father to the gardener. They, however, had not reacted with the same amusement that played about Paul’s lips.

  “If I close my eyes, I
’m liable to trip and join you in that water,” he pointed out, clearly unimpressed by the command in her tone. In fact, he looked as though he was beginning to enjoy her discomfort.

  She switched to a heartfelt plea. “Then look at the counter. That’ll guide you right out of here. Please.”

  It was only after he’d done just that with her watching him warily, that she realized she was essentially trapped in the kitchen—in the damned tub—until he left the apartment. Of course, she could retreat to her room soaking wet, leaving a trail of water for Paul to complain about and wearing a silk robe that, when wet, would reveal almost as much as it concealed. Or she could break down and request a towel.

  She was still debating the relative merits of the alternatives when she heard a sharp intake of breath behind her. She held her own breath for the impatient outburst that was sure to follow.

  “Dammit, Gaby, aren’t you out of here yet?”

  She sank lower in the now murky, icy water. She wanted very badly to respond to the exasperated tone. She wanted almost more than anything to tell him exactly where he could go with his badgering and his self-righteous indignation. She wanted to lambast his insensitivity to her predicament. She wanted to remind him of how any gentleman would have handled the situation.

  The fact remained that she needed a towel and there wasn’t a gentleman in sight.

  “If you’ll bring me a towel, I will be happy to get out of your way,” she said, substituting stiff formality for angry charges.

  To her surprise he did exactly as she asked without a murmur. When he returned, however, he lingered just a shade too long in the doorway. The ragged sound of his breathing warned her of his presence nearby. He was either dramatically out of shape or he’d paused to take in the view. She’d seen his well-toned muscles and bet readily on the latter. He was gawking again. Despite the rapidly cooling water, her skin burned under his slow, thorough surveillance. She recalled the smoldering deep blue of his eyes in the moonlit living room on Saturday night, the quickening then of his breath and her pulse.

  Finally she heard his footsteps, soft and coming heart-stoppingly close. Unless his nobility was far stronger than she had any reason to credit him with, he could see quite clearly the tightening of her nipples just below the surface of the water, the bare plane of her belly, the shadowy triangle of hair below. Swallowing hard, she held out her hand for the towel.

  “I’ll hold it for you,” he said thickly.

  They both knew it was not a gentlemanly gesture. Far from it. It was temptation. It was daring all sanity. But short of staying stubbornly right where she was so Paul could witness the deepening rose of a blush in her cheeks and God knows where else, there seemed to be little alternative.

  Furious, yet undeniably intrigued by the sensations rocketing through her, she shot a quick peek up. The indiscreet glance caught the visible rise and fall of his chest, saw the lines of tension at the corners of his mouth, the blatant hunger in his eyes as he caught her gaze and held it for an eternity.

  Just when Gabrielle thought he’d stolen her breath forever with something as simple as a look, he closed his eyes and murmured something that sounded like a cross between a curse and a sigh of regret. He dropped the towel and left, slamming the front door behind him. The sound echoed through her soul.

  Surrounded by deafening silence, Gabrielle trembled violently at the nearness of her escape. Their escape. She dressed hurriedly and left the apartment with a sense of urgency, trying to leave behind the undeniable thrill of pleasure she had felt for one all-too-brief, maddening moment under his hot, longing gaze. With pesky, troubling persistence, it followed her, creating distraction in its wake.

  She remembered her all-important briefcase midway to Manhattan. She snagged her last pair of expensive hose on a torn subway seat she would ordinarily have been alert enough to avoid. She filled out the first two-page job application with visibly shaky handwriting that bore little resemblance to her usual firm script. For a few panicky seconds she couldn’t recall her new address. During her first interview, she found herself staring blankly at her prospective employer, unable to recall his name or his question, but remembering Paul’s face all too vividly.

  The interview ended shortly afterward with a noncommittal and unpromising handshake. For the first time in her life Gabrielle found herself ordering a drink with lunch. She downed the martini in two quick gulps and was tempted to order another. Only rigid selfdiscipline and the prospect of that two o’clock interview kept her from it. She never touched her salad. Her thoughts in turmoil, she ripped the crisp French roll into a mound of crumbs, then stared at the resulting mess in astonishment.

  In the ladies’ room, she examined herself in the mirror and caught the confusion in her eyes. No man had ever taken her so much by surprise. No man had ever breached her defenses so skillfully, though many had tried. Worse, Paul wasn’t even trying. He was as shaken as she was by the attraction that warred with an incompatibility so basic only a fool would ignore it. If ever their common sense failed simultaneously, however, she had no doubt the resulting explosion of desire would be thrilling beyond imagination. Sadly, their broken hearts would be destined to lie in the ultimate rubble of that explosion.

  If she were wise, she would move out now. She would take an offer of temporary shelter with one of her friends and make Paul Reed nothing more than a distant memory. Without a doubt, she knew she should go while there were no wounds to heal. And yet.…

  * * *

  The hammer slipped, missing the nail and leaving a semicircular gash in the expensive mahogany paneling. Cursing, Paul glared at the offensive hammer. It wasn’t his. His was at home, left behind with all of his other tools in his frantic race from the apartment that morning. Rather than returning for them and risking yet another disconcerting encounter with Gabrielle, he’d been borrowing what he needed from the men he’d hired to work with him on this renovation job in an increasingly swank section of Brooklyn Heights.

  Still muttering under his breath, he yanked out the few properly placed nails that held the damaged strip of wood, then tossed it aside. He was about to replace it when he heard a nervous cough.

  “Uh, boss?”

  Only one of his workers respectfully called him “boss.” He turned to stare into the concerned eyes of the skinny, blond eighteen-year-old he’d been training as a carpenter’s assistant. His own expression softened. Underneath the often cocky demeanor and bitter cynicism, Mike was a good kid. He’d just needed somebody to believe in him, not unlike Paul himself had at that age.

  “What’s up, Mike?”

  “Don’t you think maybe you ought to take a break?” he said cautiously.

  The comment sounded suspiciously like advice. From a snot-nosed kid no less. Paul’s hackles rose.

  “Why?” he said. The retort was unnaturally soft. It should have been taken as a warning.

  Unused to such subtleties, Mike persisted. “It is time for lunch.”

  “Then take it,” Paul said in a dismissive tone that would have sent a lesser man scurrying. Mike’s pimpled chin tilted defiantly. He even risked taking a step closer. A tiny spark of approval flared inside Paul as he waited for the counterpunch.

  “You coming?” Mike said hopefully.

  “Not now.”

  Mike drew in a deep breath, but his gaze never wavered. “Maybe you should.”

  Exasperated, Paul scowled.

  “I mean,” Mike persevered. “You’ve already ruined five strips of this stuff this morning.” He poked a scuffed workboot at the stack of discarded boards. “At this rate, the job’s going to cost you money.”

  Paul found himself staring at the pock-marked wood as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. He sighed heavily, then grinned. “You may have a point,” he admitted finally. “You grab the lunches and I’ll run down the block and pick up some soda.”

  Mike held out one black pail, identical to Paul’s own. “I’ve already got my lunch. I couldn’t find yours.
”

  Of course not, Paul thought with wry acceptance. It was still at home in the damned kitchen. Not far from his tools. Even closer to the spot where he had very nearly lost his head and seduced Gabrielle Clayton at seven thirty-two this morning.

  Tomorrow he would put the tools and his lunch by the front door the minute he got up. Tomorrow he would be out of the apartment by seven-fifteen and not one second later. Maybe even seven o’clock. Tomorrow, if he was lucky, he would avoid temptation altogether.

  Tonight was another story.

  * * *

  Gabrielle’s day improved only to the extent that she actually did get home without taking the wrong subway, leaving her purse behind or getting mugged. Beyond that, it could be counted as one of the worst days of her life. The two interviews she’d had—and the others that hadn’t panned out—convinced her that she would never work as a broker again. Despite her promise to herself that she would take this as a clear sign to move on to a new challenge, her spirits were at an all-time low.

  It didn’t help to open the door and see that horrible hodgepodge of furniture Paul had collected. Without removing her coat, she flipped through the yellow pages, whirled around and went back out.

  Two hours later, her mood vastly improved, she was back again, stumbling awkwardly up the front steps with her purchases, dumping them in the foyer and collapsing on the bottom step. Listening to the sound of music and hammering, rather than being nervous as she’d expected to be, she was simply grateful that Paul was home to help. She shouted at the top of her lungs to be heard over the noise.

  The hammering paused, though some rock tune she didn’t recognize blared on. She didn’t hear the opening of the apartment door over the din, but she looked up in time to see Paul peer over the fourth floor banister.

  “Thank goodness,” she said with heartfelt relief.

  “What?” He held his hand to his ear to indicate he couldn’t hear her.

  “I need your help,” she shouted.

  “What?”

  She shrugged and pointed at the collection of items in the foyer, then gestured for him to come down. He approached her slowly with the wariness of a man who expected anything but a friendly reception. He stayed a careful three steps from the bottom, as if he expected to need a head start back up.