He grinned and applauded.
“What was that for?”
“You’ve made your first choice.”
“I made that one when I left,” she said, dismissing it as any sort of big deal.
“Times change. The stakes change. The choice you made tonight is not the same one you made when you left for New York. Give yourself a little credit.”
He wanted to kiss away the doubts, but knew it would be sheer folly to risk touching her at all. He’d been entirely noble for the last half hour. He’d meant every word he’d said about giving her time to find her way. But he’d realized something about himself along the way. He wanted Gabrielle Clayton in his life far more than he’d admitted up to now. He’d simply been afraid to acknowledge the feelings that were growing in him. And, despite all his talk about freedom of choice, he was going to do everything in his power to see that she stayed right here.
Everything short of seduction, he amended. For now. Which meant he had to get her out of this room at once.
“Go,” he said, his voice suddenly husky. “Get some sleep.”
“Can’t I help? I’m lousy with a hammer, but I could paint or something.”
The offer tempted, not because it would speed the work, but because it would keep her close. His noble intentions weren’t etched deeply enough for that. “Not tonight. It’s late. If you want to do some work in here tomorrow, I’ll bring the paint down for you.”
To his amazement, she actually seemed excited at the prospect. She dropped down off the counter, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek before starting from the kitchen. In the doorway, she paused and looked back. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“No problem.”
“You realize, of course, that you’re shattering another stereotype.”
“What’s that?”
“The ruthless, unsympathetic landlord.”
“Wait until you miss your first rent payment,” he said with mock ferocity, enjoying the burst of laughter that lingered long after she’d gone upstairs.
* * *
Over the next few weeks Gabrielle came to accept that her life was changing dramatically. She hadn’t reached a decision about what sort of job to look for, but Paul had given her a short-term alternative. He’d offered her free rent in exchange for helping him with the painting in the remaining apartments. She’d protested the exchange, but he’d shown her figures to prove that he was getting the better part of the bargain.
The arrangement had a couple of side benefits, as well. She had time to continue haunting secondhand shops and fabric stores to complete the work on their place. And she got to spend time with Paul. They were together every evening, sharing sandwiches or homemade soup and, occasionally, pizza or Chinese take-out. Each day she learned something new about him, something that made her respect grow and her desire mount.
The fact that he pointedly kept his distance only escalated the heated longing that assailed her at the oddest moments. Her gaze would linger on his fingers as they clasped a wrench and her imagination would soar. She’d wipe a speck of paint from his cheek and her flesh would burn. Her body was in a constant state of repressed excitement but her thoughts were, surprisingly, calmer and more serene than she’d imagined possible.
On the day she finally finished the work on their apartment, she planned a surprise celebration. She’d even calculated the effect a bottle of wine might have on their wavering resolve. It was obvious that for the past week it had been difficult for Paul to say goodnight and go off to his own room. One night neither of them had gotten any sleep because neither would make the first move to break off the conversation that was punctuated by laughter and increasingly heavy-lidded looks of longing.
Gabrielle set the refinished oak dining room table with her best china and crystal. She polished her silver candlesticks and added a small bouquet of the last flowers from the dying garden. She’d capitulated to Paul’s secret passion for thick, rare steaks and bought two of the best the butcher had. She’d made her own dressing for the salad and snapped fresh green beans. She had even made an apple pie. From scratch. She’d spent the whole afternoon peeling apples and rolling the dough for the double crust. Still warm, it was sitting on the kitchen counter now, the tempting cinnamon scent wafting through the apartment.
After her bath, she dressed in wool slacks and a soft sweater with a cowl neckline. She brushed her hair until it shone with warm golden highlights, then added a light touch of makeup.
At dusk, her anticipation mounting, she lit a fire in the fireplace and sat down to wait. As the room darkened, her spirits sank. Worry replaced excitement, followed by indignation, then deepening concern, then fury. It was after midnight when he finally arrived.
Paul took in the spoiled dinner and Gabrielle’s scowl at a single glance. She bit her lip to keep from shouting at him like a fishwife. She would be calm. She would be reasonable. She would listen. And then she would heap guilt on him until he was drowning in it.
“What happened? Your date didn’t show?” he said.
The man actually seemed to feel sorry for her. Either he was incredibly obtuse or he was a master at acting the innocent.
“Something like that,” she said coolly, very proud of her control. “Where have you been?”
“I had dinner with a friend.”
“I see.” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice, though she’d sworn at least a dozen times during the evening that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d hurt her.
He sat down in the chair opposite her, looking perplexed. “I have the feeling I’m missing something here. Are you mad at me?”
She stared at him, then shook her head. “Paul Reed, you cannot possibly be that dumb.” So much for staying cool. “I spent thirty dollars on steaks and wine,” she snapped. “You bet your life I’m mad at
