One Touch of Moondust (6 page)

She immediately looked chagrined. Rudeness apparently was inconceivable to someone of her unfailingly polite Southern upbringing. Every time she crossed the boundaries of what she considered polite conversation, she looked guilty. And apologized.

“I'm sorry,” she said, right on cue.

“Hell, you don't have to be sorry on my account. I like where I am. I like who I am. What about you? What does it take to make you happy, Gabrielle Clayton?”

“Success,” she said instantly, but that trace of uncertainty was back in her eyes.

“How do you measure success? By the number of shares of stock you've sold? By the size of the portfolios you handle? By the take-overs you've manipulated? When you played Monopoly, were you only happy when you'd bought up all the real estate?”

She looked uncomfortable with the question. “I wanted to win, if that's what you're asking. Don't you?”

“Sure, but I only compete with myself. I don't have to conquer the world.”

“We're all entitled to different goals.”

“Don't patronize me, Gaby.”

She flushed guiltily again. “That's not what I was doing.”

“Wasn't it? I'm sure you think it's just terrific that I'm content when the paint goes on smoothly. Isn't it nice that Paul can be happy with so little?” When she started to deny it, he shook his head. “Those eyes again, sweetheart. They say it all.”

“And what about your eyes?” she snapped back. “You've jumped to a few conclusions about me, too. Rich. Spoiled. What else, Paul? What labels did you stick on me at first sight?”

He slumped back in the booth and grinned ruefully. “Touché. Maybe we ought to start all over again without any preconceptions.”

“Why?” she asked softly. “In a few weeks I'll be out of your life. What we think of each other won't matter at all.”

“Are you so sure of that?” he responded just as quietly, not sure why he was so quick to defend the possibility of a future for them.

He saw the heat rise in her cheeks, caught yet another glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes. “Never mind. We've gotten entirely too heavy
for an outing that was meant to relax you. Let's play hooky for the rest of the day and just have some fun.”

“But the apartment, all those boxes, you promised to get the medicine chest and the towel rack…”

He heard the token resistance in her voice, saw the wavering resolve in her eyes and wondered how long it had been since she had allowed herself the simple pleasure of an afternoon off.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough, Gaby.”

A spark of irritation flared in her eyes and something else, a surprising wistfulness. It confirmed his suspicion about the lack of stolen moments she'd captured for her own joy. He played to that tiny hint of vulnerability.

“Please,” he coaxed, “Gabrielle.”

CHAPTER FOUR

D
espite its brightness, the sun hadn't taken the crystal sharp bite out of the fall air. Gabrielle shivered as they strolled toward the subway entrance at Paul's favored leisurely pace. Seeking warmth, she poked her icy hands into the pockets of her denim jacket. She should have worn the fox coat, but it would have looked out of place with her jeans and sweater. It would also have underscored the vast differences between herself and Paul. His idea of style seemed to consist of clean jeans, an unrumpled
shirt and a sheepskin jacket that was several years removed from the sheep.

“Come on,” he said, apparently noticing the effect the brisk air was having on her. “It's freezing out here. I'll race you.”

Gabrielle's prompt protest was lost as he took off with the loping, natural stride of an athlete. She sputtered indignantly, but was too much of a competitor to ignore the challenge. By the end of the block, the cold air hurt her lungs and her side ached, but she was filled with the strangest sense of exhilaration. Her whole body felt alive with anticipation.

Paul grinned at her and she found herself smiling back, suddenly more lighthearted than she'd felt in years. It was a beautiful day, her housing problem was temporarily resolved and until Monday there was not a thing in the world she could do about finding a new job. Paul was a handsome, sexy companion with a sense of humor. Why not enjoy this day, this moment?

“That run put some color in your cheeks,” he said approvingly.

She shook her head with feigned impatience. “What is this fixation you have about my coloring
? Did you have aspirations for being a doctor?”

“No medical hopes at all,” he said, taking a slow step toward her. Gabrielle's breath caught in her throat as he reached over, caught a strand of her hair and tucked it behind her ear. The unexpected gesture startled her with its tenderness. His rough knuckles grazed her cheek and sent warmth flooding through her.

“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, dear. 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.