One Touch of Moondust (14 page)

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.”

Paul refused to let a little thing like an unbridled libido destroy his common sense, which had been strengthening with a vengeance ever since that phone call. He had to find some way to remind Gabrielle of exactly how mismatched they were. They'd been living in isolated, idyllic harmony here for several weeks now. She hadn't been forced to face what his world was really like, how vastly different it was from her own.

“I've been thinking,” he began, still sorting through possible ways of introducing her to reality
. “This apartment will be finished in a few days now. Maybe we ought to show it off.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “Where did that come from?”

“It's just an idea. I mean why not have a party? You can meet some of my friends. I can meet some of yours. We've worked hard to get this place in shape. It's time we celebrated.”

“Under normal circumstances, that would make perfect sense. Why do I have this feeling that there's a catch in there?”

“Because you have a suspicious nature?” he suggested cheerfully.

“With good cause,” she retorted. “Are you trying to prove something to me?”

“What would I be trying to prove?” He concentrated very hard on dipping the roller into the paint, then spreading it onto a new section of the wall. He could not look into her eyes.

“That we mix like oil and water.”

He swallowed hard. “How would a party show that?” he asked innocently. “It's just a bunch of people getting together for a good time.”

“Exactly. So don't get any crazy ideas that
your friends will offend me so deeply that I'll stop wanting you or that my friends will be such snobs that your friends will hate them. In fact, I will go so far as to bet you that this will be the very best party you have ever been to.” Paul had a feeling he'd gone about this all wrong. Gabrielle was now determined to make this stupid party work and she would do it, if she had to invite the symphony and the New York Rangers to entertain the divergent crowd. He didn't even need to wait for Senator Clayton to show up with his hanging noose. Right now, he had all the rope he needed to hang himself.

CHAPTER NINE

D
espite her avowed self-confidence, Gabrielle felt trapped and more than a little worried. She had no choice now but to treat the upcoming party as a challenge. She knew perfectly well that Paul expected it to be a disaster, maybe even hoped it would be. She also knew that their future hinged in some twisted, obscure way on its success. While she resented having her fate tied to something so superficial, she accepted the situation, gritted her teeth and set out to prove Paul wrong.

Thankfully, being a politician's daughter had equipped her to play hostess at almost any kind of event from a Fourth of July picnic in a town square to a gala at the country club. She'd campaigned in factories and bowling alleys as readily as antebellum estates. She could make polite small talk with people she'd never seen before and would never see again, leaving each one convinced they were indelibly etched on her memory. It was easy enough to convince herself that unless Paul dragged in homicidal maniacs, she could maintain her aplomb.

In addition, planning a party for thirty people in her own home should be a piece of cake. She'd learned from a master. Her mother approached entertaining with the skill of a tactical expert in a military command post. Gabrielle knew all about guest lists and food quantities and wine selection. What she didn't know about, of course, were the tastes of Paul's friends.

It was the unknown factor, combined with the stakes, that gave all of her careful planning an edge of panic. A full week before the Saturday night party, she found herself filling a grocery cart with six different beers—imported
and domestic, light and regular—because she had no idea which one Paul's friends might like. She bought pâté and little quiches at a gourmet French bakery, then in a frenzy of uncertainty added bags of potato chips and pretzels to the menu. She polished her silver, then decided to use Paul's stainless steel flatware. She went through the closet and picked out a basic designer dress suitable for any occasion, then changed her mind and dragged out comfortable jeans and a handknit sweater.

Unless she asked him a direct question, Paul virtually ignored the preparations. On Saturday his contribution was a trip to the corner for ice, which he dumped in the tub—before she'd had her bath. At her scowl of displeasure, he took it back out and stored it in the already crammed refrigerator. Later, as he returned the ice to the tub and added the assorted six packs of beer, she caught him grinning.

“What's so funny?” she asked, glowering. She was in no mood for amusement at her expense.

“You could open a bar with this variety.”

“If you'd offered any suggestions, I might not have had to buy a little of everything.”

“My friends will drink whatever's available. Won't yours?” he inquired.

“Go to hell.”

The evening was certainly getting off to a stellar start, she thought as she put the finishing touches on a clam dip surrounded by chilled vegetables. Even the disparate guests were likely to get along better than the host and hostess. She absentmindedly snapped a carrot stick in two, then threw the pieces into the trash in disgust.

“Gaby.”

“What?”

“This is not worth having a nervous breakdown over.”

“Isn't it? You're hoping everyone will have a rotten time, just so you can say I told you so and move out of here with a clear conscience.”

He came up close behind her and slid his arms around her waist. The fresh, tangy scent of his after-shave teased her senses. “No. I'm not.”

“You are.” She turned around in his embrace so she could read his expression. “And I want your friends to like me. I really do, but if they don't, it shouldn't have anything to do
with what's happening between us. I'm not worried about what my friends think of you.”

“Aren't you?”

“No.”

“How many of your friends did you invite?”

“Okay. I only invited a few, but I don't have that many close friends here anyway. Ted and Kathy were the only couple I got really close to and Jeff was an office pal. They're the only people I've stayed in touch with. And no matter what you think, I am not a believer in the old adage that you can judge a person by the friends he keeps. People develop relationships—and marriages, for that matter—for all sorts of reasons.”

“I know that,” he said with a sigh.

Despite the reassuring words, the tone wasn't convincing. Gabrielle's feeling of dread returned as she turned back to the arrangement of carrot and celery sticks. Paul left to put music on the stereo.

When the first knock came at the door, she tensed and wondered exactly how long she could get away with taking refuge in the kitchen. Despite the fact that she was never
more than three feet from the stove, the quiches burned because she forgot all about them as she tried to hear how things were going in the living room.

She was on the verge of tears, infuriated by her own silly retreat, when Paul returned to the kitchen for beers for the first arrivals.

“What's wrong?” he asked at once.

“I burned the quiches.”

“There's enough food in there to feed all the homeless in Manhattan. Don't worry about the quiches. Just come on out.”

She shook her head.

He stared at her. “Why not? I thought you were going to stop worrying about how well everyone got along and just enjoy this party. I thought you wanted to prove something to me tonight.”

She glared at him. Talk about throwing down the gauntlet or hoisting her with her own petard. The man had a particularly nasty habit of throwing her words back in her face.

“Let's go,” she said determinedly, aware that there was an unmistakable note of doom in her voice.

Once in the living room she noticed that
people actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. Jeff Lyons, who was handsome, funny and gay, was discussing racketball with one of Paul's friends. Ted and Kathy waved from across the room, where they were talking to a young blond man she recognized as a member of Paul's work crew. A beautiful woman with spiky black hair and a studded leather jacket over her denim miniskirt was enthusiastically describing her latest art exhibit to a rapt woman in a Norma Kamali original. Since Gabrielle didn't recognize either one of them, she assumed they were both friends of Paul's. Apparently his own social circle contained an eclectic mix.

So, she thought with the first flicker of relief, it wasn't going to be so awful. People weren't sorting themselves out into his friends and hers with an obvious chasm in between. Maybe she'd been right all along. She allowed herself a small, triumphant smirk before going to introduce herself to the artist. She seemed like a likely person to begin with. They would at least have art in common.

She had barely given her name when the artist's heavily made-up dark brown eyes widened
to the size of a Kewpie doll's. “So you are the one. I'm so glad to finally meet you. I'm Theresa. Paul tells me he brought you to see some of my work.”

An unfortunate image of auto parts entwined with clocks came to mind. Tongue-tied with astonishment, Gabrielle stared at her. “Yes,” she said finally. “It was…”

Theresa laughed. “Don't bother trying to be polite. My work falls into that love it or hate it category. Maybe if I did something a little more mainstream, I wouldn't be broke all the time.” She shrugged indifferently. “What's money, though, as long as I have my artistic integrity intact?”

“Money pays the bills,” the owner of the Norma Kamali outfit said. “Maybe you should just marry wealth the way I did. I can paint what I want without worrying about critical or popular success.”

“Don't pay any attention to all that cynical talk,” Theresa said. “Maureen is also crazy in love with the man in spite of his millions and her work is now selling for $2500 a canvas. By the way, Gabrielle, Paul was telling us you're responsible for the decor in here. It's
fantastic. You have a real eye for color and proportion.”

Gabrielle tried to survey the room with an objective eye. It was better than before, but hardly the stuff of an interior designer's dreams.

“I'm glad you like it,” she said cautiously, wondering how much simple politeness had contributed to the compliment.

“I do. Did it cost a fortune? I know I'm being terribly nosy, but when you've lived in a dump like mine, this looks wonderful. I'd give anything to have my place fixed up like this, but most of my money goes right back into art supplies.”

“Actually, I did this on half a shoestring.”

Maureen looked surprisingly impressed. “How? I just paid a fortune to an interior designer and the results aren't half as interesting. My apartment looks exactly like twenty others on the Upper West Side.”

Basking in the apparent enthusiasm, Gabrielle described her forays through the secondhand stores and fabric shops. “Actually, it was fun. I refinished the furniture myself. It's not exactly professional caliber work, but
there's a sense of adventure in discovering what's under all the grime.”

“It looks great to me,” Theresa said enthusiastically. “I don't suppose you'd like to take on a client. You'd have to work with a pretty limited budget and we'd have to negotiate your commission, but I'd love to see what you could do with my place.”

The idea intrigued her. “What exactly would you need to have done?”

“Everything,” Maureen said fervently before Theresa could respond. “How an artist can live in that dreary place is beyond me. I'd be painting in black and gray. Come to think of it maybe that does explain your sculpture.”

“Very funny. As you can see, Gabrielle, I do need help. Paul volunteered to come over sometime and help me paint, but I haven't even had time to pick out a color scheme.”

“Thank God,” Maureen said. “Her idea of subtlety is purple and orange.”

Gabrielle laughed. “I suppose I could take a look at your place and see if I get any ideas. I wouldn't want to charge you for it, though. I have some time right now and I enjoy digging around for bargains.”

“Oh, no,” Theresa said. “This is business. Don't sell yourself short. Turning an empty space into a warm, inviting home is a talent. I insist on paying you for it.”

Just then Jeff came over. She introduced him to the two women, then after a promise to call Theresa about the decorating, she began circulating, checking the food, greeting newcomers. She finally made her way to Paul, who was chatting enthusiastically with Ted and Kathy. To her surprise they were discussing the construction of the apartments. Ted was amazingly knowledgeable.

“I was just telling Paul that Kathy and I have been looking for a place just this size,” Ted said, after giving her a kiss. “We want to move before the baby comes.”

“But you have a wonderful apartment,” she protested. Paul's arm settled around her shoulders. She was surprised at how right the gesture felt and how casually Paul had made it. Perhaps he was beginning to relax with the success of the evening, too. She glanced at Ted, trying to judge his reaction, but he seemed far more interested in examining the quality of the woodwork.

“A wonderful, expensive, small apartment,” Kathy corrected, rubbing her hand over her expanding belly. “It's not big enough for us
and
the baby. I'm not going to be working for at least a few months after the baby is born and with the market slow right now, we don't want to get in over our heads financially.”

“You could rent one of these, if you're interested,” Paul said. Gabrielle stared at him in astonishment. The second and third floor were already rented. The tenants were moving in December first. The only empty apartment was Paul's on the ground floor. He'd intended to move in next week. They hadn't discussed what their living arrangements would be after that. This was the first indication she'd had that Paul was actually thinking that they should continue living together.