One Touch of Moondust
Read One Touch of Moondust Online
Authors: Sherryl Woods
Revisit this heartfelt story of finding love where you least expect it from
New York Times
bestselling author Sherryl Woods.
Down on her luck, ex-Wall Street dynamo Gabrielle Clayton agreed to move into Paul Reed's ramshackle but affordable apartment on one condition: no funny stuff. Then Gabrielle discovered she and Paul shared a good deal more than the rentâincluding one outrageous claw-footed bathtub located smack in the middle of the kitchenâand things started heating up!
For Gabrielle, the most irresistible distraction of all was the sexy, blue-eyed renovator himself. Paul was the most romantic man she'd ever met! Suddenly, practical, down-to-earth Gabrielle was dreaming of magical nights spent in Paul's arms. What had come over her? Was it the man, the moonâor love?
“I can't speak for you, but I'm falling in love for the first time in my life.”
Paul felt his heart stop then start again at a faster beat. He shook his head adamantly.
“You can't do that.”
“Who says?”
“I do. It won't work.”
“It was working well enough a few hours ago.”
“Don't remind me.”
Gabrielle walked toward him until they were standing practically toe to toe. He felt as though he were suffocating.
“I think I have to,” she said softly, curling her fingers into his hair. His scalp tingled and the sensation danced straight down to his⦠Oh, hell, he thought weakly as her lips claimed his with a possessiveness that captured his breath and robbed him of all sensible thoughts.
Sparks danced in her eyes when she released him. “Remember
that
the next time you get any crazy ideas about going back to being my pal.”
Sherryl Woods
has written more than seventy-five romances and mysteries in the past twenty years. She also operates her own bookstore, Potomac Sunrise, in Colonial Beach, Virginia, where readers from around the country stop by to discuss her favorite topicâbooks. If you can't visit Sherryl at her store, then be sure to drop her a note at P.O. Box 490326, Key Biscayne, FL 33149 or check out her Web site at
www.sherrylwoods.com
.
One Touch of Moondust
Sherryl Woods
For Lucia Macro, who sees beyond my blind spots and always finds the heart of the story, with thanks for her editing skill, her patience and her humor.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
G
abrielle came to a halt in the middle of a cracked sidewalk richly decorated with dramatic and colorfully executed graffiti. She checked the address she'd marked in the paper against two numbers that dangled precariously upside down beside a dilapidated building's front door. If the empty space between them had once been filled by a seven, then this was in fact “Recently Renovated Brownstone.” Apparently the renovations were less recent than hoped for.
Tucking her chilled hands in the pockets of her coat for warmth, she regarded the faded facade, dirt-streaked bay windows and dingy, peeling trim with a sense of resignation. It was a very long way from Park Avenue. Taking a deep breath of the brisk fall air, she wrapped her fur coat more tightly around her and stepped into the dreary foyer.
It had possibilities, she decided, viewing the muddy tile floor and dull brass fixtures with a critical eye. The construction looked sound enough and she'd be willing to bet that the apartments all had hardwood floors. She seemed to recall a chimney on the outside, which meant there were fireplaces. Yes, it definitely had possibilities, she thought with a vague sense of anticipation, the first she'd felt in weeks.
In fact, a few months earlier when her career on Wall Street had been ascending at a dizzying pace, she might very well have bought the whole place and restored it as a promising investment. Now, with no brokerage house work to be found for a talented but still very junior financial analyst, she could barely afford the advertised bargain rent. In fact, if she
didn't make some career decisions soon and find another job, she'd be forced to retreat to her family home in South Carolina and live on humble pie for the rest of her life. It was not an alternative she cared to endure.
Gritting her teeth with determination, she began climbing the endless, creaking steps to apartment 4B, where the smell of fresh paint was wafting through the open door. She considered that an encouraging sign after the dinginess and disrepair below.
Gabrielle tapped on the door and waited. The hammering sounds coming from deep inside the apartment didn't let up. She knocked harder and called out. The pounding stopped.
“Yo,” a husky masculine voice responded cheerfully. “Be right with you, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
Gabrielle's vivid imagination immediately supplied an image to go with that impertinent voice: a well-muscled, catcalling construction worker atop steel beams overlooking Fifth Avenue. He'd be rugged, impervious to slights and persistent. She'd walked past the type half a dozen times a day and they'd always made her want to check to see if her slip was showing. When this man
emerged a moment later she was startled to see how accurately he fit the image. She was also startled to discover that in this case her slip was the last thing on her mind. The man quite simply took her breath away.
Bold blue eyes examined her with a disconcerting, leisurely thoroughness. As if on cue, impudent lips emitted an approving whistle. Light brown hair, still streaked with highlights from the summer sun, waved in casual and charming disarray. Faded, paint-spattered jeans clung to narrow hips and muscular thighs. Despite the chill in the air, a shirt hung open, revealing a chest covered with coarse brown hair that arrowed provocatively downward. Gabrielle was torn between clutching her coat more protectively around her and stripping it away from her suddenly burning flesh. She settled for trying to stare him down.
The attempt failed miserably. He laughed, an all-too-knowing gleam in his eyes.
“So,” he said, amusement lacing through his voice, “what's a sophisticated lady like you doing in a place like this? Slumming?”
Detecting sarcasm rather than humor in the remark, she had to bite back an instinctive angry
retort. He had an apartment. She needed one. It was no time to look around with the hauteur of Bette Davis and declare, “What a dump,” much less deliver a lecture on manners to the hired help.
She held up the paper instead. “I've come about the apartment. May I see it?”
With a wide smile punctuated by dimples, he gave a grand, sweeping gesture. “Be my guest.”
Gabrielle stepped cautiously inside and took a slow survey of the empty room. She had difficulty registering the apartment's features because the man stood right behind her, watching her every move. Where she went, he followed, first with his eyes, then by ambling along behind. Since he couldn't possibly be concerned about theft, she had to assume he was doing it to rattle her.
It was working. Quite well, in fact. She tried to shake off the feeling with common sense. With her whole life off-kilter, the last thing she needed was an instantaneous physical attraction to a man of apparently limited means and ambition. A handyman, for heaven's sake. The members of the Junior League of Charleston
would die laughing at the notion of Senator Graham Clayton's daughter having palpitations over a handyman.
“Do you know anything about the building?” she asked when she'd seen the living room and two tiny bedrooms. She'd been right about the fireplace. It was small, but suggestive of cozy winter evenings. She was less hopeful about the floor. It was wood all right, but paint-spattered, scuffed and marred by several generations of spills. It would require extensive elbow grease, sanding and quite possibly a miracle to restore it.
“What did you want to know about the building?”
“When was the last time an exterminator was here?”
He shrugged doubtfully. “There's always a can of Raid.”
One blond brow arched significantly. “I see.” She glanced once more around the empty living room. “The ad said furnished.”
“It will be.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Whenever I get finished with the work.”
The man obviously had a careless disregard for timetables. To a woman whose calendar had always been carefully scheduled in fifteen-minute increments such a blasé attitude was both irritating and irresponsible. “When exactly will it be available?” she persisted. “I'm facing a deadline.”
“An anxious client?”
She stared at him blankly. “Client?”
“You're a real estate agent, right? If you want to buy, it's not for sale. If you have someone who wants to rent, I'd prefer to deal direct. Sorry, no agents.”
“I'm not in real estate. I'm looking for myself. To rent,” she amended, in case he was worried that she was planning to buy the property and fire the helpâstarting with him.
Instead of putting his mind at ease, though, she seemed to have astonished him. “You actually want to live here yourself?”
“Why not?” she said defensively, though she knew perfectly well what he meant. “It's an apartment. I need a place to live.”
“Try Park Avenue.”
“I did,” she admitted ruefully. “The price is right here.”
“So,” he said, conducting a more thoughtful survey, “the lady's down on her luck.” There was little sympathy in his voice, only mild curiosity.
She drew herself up with dignity and tried to wilt him with a haughty stare. “Temporarily.”
The stare had no discernible effect. “Does that mean you'll be moving out the minute you get a few bucks together?”
She considered lying, but figured he'd never believe her if she did. There was a disconcertingly astute gleam in his eyesâone that was all too typical of corporate sharks.
“Yes,” she said finally.
“Then why would I want to rent to you?”
“I'm here. I've got the money.” At least for the first month, she amended to herself.
“This is New York, sweetheart. You're not the first person to stop by and you won't be the last.”
“Are you holding out for the highest bidder?”
“Maybe. What're you offering?”
The speculative look in his eyes brought a flush to Gabrielle's normally pale complexion.
This time she did settle her coat more protectively around her and headed for the door. In the past few months she'd sacrificed just about everything but her pride and her dignity. She wasn't about to lose those, as well.
“Never mind,” she said on her way out. “I don't think this would work out.”
He caught up with her before she could reach the door. “I'm sorry,” he said with what sounded like total sincerity. She studied his expression, assessing him as she might a prospective investor. His eyes, for once, were serious, which did the strangest things to her ability to breathe. He touched her sleeve. “Please. Accept my apology. If you want the place, it's yours.”
“Why?”
“I've been through a few rough times myself.”
The suddenly sympathetic, contrite demeanor made her extraordinarily suspicious. Leopards rarely changed their spots in the blink of an eye. This leopard was also shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. She waited for his next move.
“There is one thing you should know about first, though,” he said finally.
“Which is?”
“The bathroom.”
Despite herself, she grinned at his cautious tone. “I'm familiar with the concept. I assume this one has all the usual amenities.”
“More or less,” he said, intriguing her as he beckoned and headed toward the opposite end of the living room. “Through here.”
