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.
“What’s all this?” he asked cautiously, staring at the two badly scarred tables and the large bag from a neighborhood hardware store.
“It’s for the apartment,” she said excitedly, determined to put the morning’s awkwardness behind them. “Aren’t they absolutely perfect.”
“For what?”
“End tables, of course. And I saw this really wonderful sofa. It was an incredible bargain, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it home and I decided you might want to take a look at it, too, before we get it.”
“Why are you doing this?” He looked thoroughly baffled.
“What?”
“Furnishing an apartment you have no intention of staying in more than a few months.”
“Because I’m not sure I can stand looking at what’s in there now, even for a few months.”
He regarded the tables skeptically. “If you don’t mind my saying so, these don’t appear to upgrade the quality of the decor by much. How many layers of paint do you suppose are on here?”
“Six,” she said readily. At his surprised glance, she grinned. “I counted when I was chipping my way down to the natural wood. I think it may be cherry. Come on. Help me get them upstairs.”
“How did you get them this far?” he asked, stacking them on top of each other.
“They didn’t walk by themselves, I can tell you that.”
He regarded her incredulously,
