“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
