It was hard, imagining she could ever find a place to work in the pristine whiteness of Grant’s penthouse, but perhaps just having her things with her would make her feel better.
It was late as she made her way toward the front door of Grant’s apartment building, and her footsteps quickened. It had been a lovely day, and the last thing she wanted to do was spoil it with a confrontation…
“Miss Adams?”
She looked up. The doorman—a different one from those she’d seen before—was looking at her questioningly.
“Yes?”
He smiled politely. “I’m glad to see you, miss.”
Crista’s answering smile was puzzled. “That’s very kind of you, but—”
“If you’d just come with me, please?”
As if she had a choice, Crista thought, her smile dimming as he escorted her to the penthouse elevator. She’d forgotten you needed your own key. Well, Grant would simply have to—
She had a quick glimpse of the doorman reaching for the intercom as the doors slid shut, and suddenly she knew what to expect when they opened again.
Grant. Grant, you bastard!
He was waiting for her, his face hard, his mouth tight and thin.
“Where in hell have you been?”
Crista thought of half a dozen answers and discarded them all in favor of a cool smile.
“Good evening to you, too,” she said, and started past him.
She hadn’t gotten two feet when Grant’s hand closed on her shoulder.
“I asked you a question,” he said, spinning her toward him.
“You didn’t ask me a question. You started an inquisition.” She jerked away from him, her head high. “And you can just play that tune to yourself, Torquemada.”
He caught her again at the door to her room. “How dare you disappear? I did not give you permission to—”
“Dare? Permission?” She swung around and glared at him, feeling the lovely day falling away from her with the speed of sound. “You didn’t give me permission?”
“You heard me! As long as I’m in charge—”
“You’re not in charge of anything—except my money. If you think you can—”
She gasped as he shoved her inside the room. The door slammed shut after him.
“Where were you all day?”
“It’s none of your business!”
“Were you in the Village?”
“What if I was? I don’t have to—”
“Greenwich Village,” he said with disdain. “Hell, I might have known.”
His eyes raked over her, from head to toe and back again. She was dressed all in black, the bulkiness of her sweater only emphasizing the long, curved line of her legs; she was draped with silver and beads, those damned silver-bell earrings of hers tinkling softly and swaying against the ebony silk of her hair…
Grant’s gut clenched. She looked wild and untamed, and suddenly he ached to haul her into his arms and—and…
He took a step back and jammed his hands into his pockets.
“What kind of outfit is that? Dammit to hell, don’t you own a decent dress?”
Crista slung down her canvas bag and slapped her hands on her hips.
“Tell the truth,” she said with a cold smile. “You were hoping for another chance to drool over my leather boots!”
“Me? Drool over those boots? You’ve got to be joking.”
“Well, then, it won’t bother you to know that they’re gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
She hesitated. Now was the time to tell him, to say, well, the boots, the whole ridiculous outfit, was never anything I’d ever really wear in the first place. It was all just something I wore, like a uniform…
“Well?” Grant’s scowl deepened. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”
“I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but I hated those boots. And that skirt. I only wore it because Gus—”
“Gus?” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, Gus. He—”
“Who the hell is Gus?”
“I’m trying to tell you, dammit! Gus has this—this thing about girls wearing boots, and short skirts, and…”
She saw the look that came over his face. Damn you, Grant Landon, she thought, damn you for leaping to conclusions, for judging me, and damn me for ever thinking of trying to tell you the truth.
“…and I figured, it doesn’t matter what he likes now,” Crista said, her eyes cool. “So I decided to give him the whole outfit for his next girl.”
“For—his—next—girl,” Grant repeated through his teeth.
“Yes. Why not? I don’t need the stuff anymore. Someone else might as well have it.”
His hands fell hard on her shoulders. “How many men are there in your life? Do you know, or don’t you bother keeping count?”
“My life, and the men in it, are none of your concern.”
“What you do is very much my concern, and don’t you forget it.” His face darkened. “The trouble is, I’m the one who keeps forgetting. Hell, you’d think I’d know by now that you and morality are complete strangers.”
Crista wrenched away from him. “Just listen to you, preaching morality! After yesterday, in that elevator…” Her voice trembled with anger. “I didn’t notice you worrying about anybody’s morals then!”
He’d set himself up for that, and he knew it. But she was as guilty as he was. Hell, she was guiltier.
“Well? What’s the matter, Grant? Did I finally get through to you?”
“Listen, lady, I never pretended I was a candidate for sainthood.” He thrust his face toward her, his eyes cold as glass. “You were advertising what you have and I was in the mood to try it.”
“You bastard! You were acting like a—like a gorilla! You were—you were all over me—”
“Yes.” His hands slid to her waist. “I was. And you loved every minute of it.”
“Liar!”
He pulled her hard against him, reveling in the feel of her soft breasts against his chest and her rounded hips against his pelvis. “I could have pulled up your skirt and taken you against that wall.”
Crista slammed her fists against his chest. “Never!”
He laughed as his hands slid into her hair, easing beneath the black, silky strands, tilting her face to his.
“Never?”
“You’re damned right, never!”
She cried out as he bent to her and claimed her mouth in a kiss that was hot with anger.
“Stop lying to yourself, Crista. You wanted the same thing I did.”
“It’s not true! I didn’t. I don’t—”
“Yes. You do.” The anger was fading from his voice and something else was replacing it. She could see it in his eyes, feel it echoing to the beat of her heart. She shuddered when she saw his eyes darken, and his arms began to tighten around her. “Crista,” he whispered. “Crista—kiss me the way you did yesterday.”
She couldn’t hide it, the torrent of desire that was sweeping over her. He saw it, felt it as she swayed unsteadily in his arms, and he bent his head quickly, his breath whispering over her lips in the barest hint of a kiss.
Her hands lifted toward him, then fell away.
“No,” she said, but his mouth was at her throat, seeking out the pulse point where her blood leaped with the reality of her need. “Grant,” she said, “Grant, listen—”
“I am,” he said. She moaned as he cupped her breast. “I’m listening to every word you say. And I know that you want this as much as I do.”
She shook her head. “No. No, it’s—it’s insane.”
It was. It was the worst kind of insanity—but oh, she ached for him. For the feel of his hands, the heat of his kiss, the strength of his enfolding arms.
With a cry of surrender, Crista threw her arms around Grant’s neck and drew his head down to hers.
The kiss was fire, a flame that threatened to consume them both. Grant’s thumb move
d across her breast, urging the nipple to sweet, swollen fullness.
“Tell me what you want,” he said thickly. “Tell me, Crista.”
He watched her eyes turn to smoke as he waited for her answer. Her lips were parted, softly swollen from his kisses. Her skin was flushed with desire.
Dammit! Grant’s breath caught. What was he waiting for? What did he want her to say? That she wanted him more than she’d wanted Danny? Or Gus? Or any of the other faceless men who had possessed her?
With an anguished groan, he thrust Crista from him, wrenched open the door, and welcomed the return of his sanity.
CHAPTER SIX
GRANT sat on the terrace early the next morning. The sun was beating down on his shoulders and, thanks to the tropical disturbances far to the south in the Caribbean, the air felt oppressively thick.
He was drinking coffee, trying to convince himself it was not the black sludge it seemed to be.
He’d made it himself after he’d finally given up all pretence at sleep and gone for his daily run around the Central Park reservoir at an hour when sensible people, including Mrs. Edison, were still in their beds.
The run had helped. The coffee, miserable though it was, had helped, too, and now, after a sleepless night of wondering whom he despised more, himself or the woman in his guest room, things were finally coming into the proper perspective.
Grimacing, he put down the cup, got to his feet, and strolled the length of the terrace, his hands tucked into the pockets of his running shorts, his eyes focused on the skyline.
Last night, he’d bolted from Crista’s room like a man escaping a bad dream, gone straight as an arrow for the bar in the library, and poured himself a shot of brandy that he’d tossed down as if it were water. The stuff had burned his throat, proving that even fifty-year-old booze could taste like rotgut if you drank it the wrong way.
But the brandy had done its job, clearing his head and bringing back at least a glimmer of common sense. By the time he’d climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he’d known that it was time to cut the pretense.
He’d have horsewhipped a man who took on the responsibility of being a woman’s guardian and then behaving as he had.
It was time to walk away from this mess and not look back.
He made his way to his chair, sank into it, and picked up his coffee cup. Walk away, he thought. Yeah, that was the ticket. If he didn’t—if he didn’t…
He took a mouthful of coffee and shuddered.
Look what had almost happened last night.
What in hell had come over him? He had never in his life wanted a woman who didn’t want him, never forced himself on one…
But he hadn’t forced himself on Crista. No matter how she pretended, he could see the desire burning in her eyes like a fire storm when he touched her.
Okay. Maybe that was her thing. Maybe she got turned on by that kind of sexual insanity.
But he wasn’t, dammit! He never lost himself, not in sex or anything else. Self-control was what he was all about. Even his father had recognized that.
“I know you hate my guts, boy.” That had been Charles’s favorite taunt for so many years. “Why don’t you just admit it?”
But Grant had never given him what he wanted, never broken down or responded. He knew a shrink would probably say that that steadfast refusal to react to his father’s provocation had been his own form of rebellion, but whatever the reason, it had served him well, first as a boy and then as a man.
And yet, he’d almost lost all that taut self-discipline last night—and for what? For a woman he didn’t even like, a woman any man could have.
It was crazy—and he was going to put a stop to the craziness right now. He was only waiting for the hands of the clock to reach a reasonable hour and then he’d call Sam Abraham, one of his law partners, and set things in motion.
Sam would make the perfect guardian. He was old enough to be wise, invariably pleasant, and he had a couple of grandchildren Crista’s age. If Sam agreed to assume her guardianship—and Grant was sure he would—the court would almost definitely agree, too.
It was just that he’d never walked away from anything in his life, and it galled him to admit defeat.
He sighed. Was it really only a little while since he and Cade and Zach had laughed over the easy job he’d been stuck with? It had all seemed so simple then, with their hands joined in that old Deadeye Defenders pledge.
Cade was having his own troubles down in Texas; he’d called days ago, sounding grim. And Zach had ended up stuck out in Hollywood longer than he’d expected, but he had to be having a ball. He had a suite in a cushy hotel where the starlets probably filled the swimming pool from one end to the other.
On impulse, Grant put down his coffee cup and reached for the phone. He dialed, then waited, and finally a voice mumbled something that might have been hello.
“Zach?”
“Yeah. Who the hell is this?”
Grant chuckled, sat back, and stretched out his legs. He felt better already.
“Is that any way to say hello to your big brother?”
Zach groaned into the phone. “Grant?”
“On the nose, buddy. How’re you doing?”
There was another groan, followed by a deep sigh. “Grant, you jerk, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Sure.” Grant glanced at his watch. “It’s two minutes after seven, and…” He blinked. “Damn!”
“Yeah,” Zach said wearily. “You got that right.”
“Oh, man, I’m sorry! I forgot about the time difference. What is it out there—4:00 a.m.?”
“Uh-huh.” Zach’s voice was stronger now; Grant could imagine him sitting up against the pillows, rubbing his eyes. “And I only got to bed a couple of hours ago.”
Grant smiled. “Party time, huh?”
There was a moment’s pause. “Not exactly.”
“Hey, pal, if you’re doing business until the wee small hours—”
“Grant? Why are you calling?”
Zach sounded abrupt, but who could blame him? It was four in the morning. Four in the morning? Grant shook his head. He was really in bad shape! How could he have made such a dumb mistake?
“I swear to God, Grant, if this is some gag you and Cade cooked up…”
“No. No, it’s not a gag. It’s…” Grant took a breath. “I suppose it sounds crazy, but I was sitting here, thinking about—about things, and—and—”
And, all of a sudden, he knew exactly why he’d phoned.
“Zach? You remember once we were talking about how to score in the market?”
“You called me at this hour for stock market advice?”
Grant laughed a little. “No, no. It’s just—you said—you once said something that stayed with me, that only the true believers and the certifiably insane didn’t know when it was time to cut their losses and get out.”
“So?” Zach chuckled. “My clients pay a lot of money for that kind of advice.”
“It’s good advice, isn’t it?” Grant switched the phone to his other ear and leaned forward. “I mean, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t think a man was admitting defeat if—if he put it to use?”
There was a silence before Zach spoke. “Listen, Grant, what’s going on? Have you run into financial trouble?”
“No. Hell, no. It’s just—you remember this deal I walked into, this guardianship?”
“The twelve year old kid. Sure.”
“The thing is, she’s not twelve.”
“Younger?”
“Older. Lots older. And…” Grant hesitated. “She’s not a girl at all, Zach. She’s a woman, and—”
“And,” Zach said, his voice suddenly harsh, “she’s doing a number on your head.”
Grant gave a little laugh. “That’s the simple way of putting it.”
“Cherchez la femme!”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I know what you said. Look for the woman. But what’s
that got to do with—”
“Wherever there’s trouble, there’s a dame. You can count on it.” Zach blew out his breath. “Listen, man, do yourself a favor. Hand the babe off to somebody else.”
“Yeah. I thought of that. But dammit, I signed on for this and—”
“Well, sign off! Remember? Cut your losses.” Zach gave a choked laugh. “It’s such good advice I might just take it myself.”
Grant frowned. “Are you talking about that production company?”
“Yeah,” Zach said, his voice flat, “of course. What else would I be talking about? Listen, brother mine, I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a bunch of West Coast sharks. If I’m gonna be my usual brilliant self, I need at least a couple of hours of shut-eye.”
Grant smiled. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Zach cleared his throat. “And Grant? I’m serious about cutting your losses. Do it—while you still can.”
“Thanks for the advice. You stay well, you hear?”
“Yeah. You, too.”
Grant hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. When they were kids, his brothers had often turned to him for advice, but it was such a long time since he’d had to ask anyone for an opinion that he’d almost forgotten how to do it.
Talking with Zach had made him feel better. In fact, he’d phone Sam Abraham right now and—
The phone rang as he reached for it, and he grinned.
“Listen, Zach,” he said, “you don’t have to worry. I’m going to do what you said and—”
But it wasn’t Zach calling, it was Horace Blackburn—and by the time Grant hung up the telephone, he knew that his brother’s advice had come one day too late.
* * *
Crista had spent a sleepless night, too, but it had, at last, resulted in something positive.
Somewhere between darkness and dawn, she had finally come to the only conclusion possible.
She had to leave Grant and this place, and she could not let anything he said or did stop her.
There was no point in beating herself over the head for what had happened last night, or trying to figure out the reasons. It had happened, that was all, and it made no sense to keep playing the ugly scene over in her mind, telling herself that she should have slapped Grant’s face or shouted for the housekeeper when neither thought had ever occurred to her.
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