He swept her up into his arms and she clung to him while he carried her through the silent house, up the stairs and to his room. There, in an eddy of silver moonlight, he laid her down on his bed and undid the sash of her robe.
“How beautiful you are,” he said as he drew the lapels of the robe apart.
She felt the sigh of his breath against her breasts, and then the warmth of his lips. She cried out when he drew back and slowly circled her nipple with his fingertip.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, and he bent to her again and drew a waiting nub of flesh into his mouth.
The heat of his lips, the silkiness of his tongue, shot from her breast to her belly, coiled there like fire, then flamed out to heat her blood and melt her bones.
“Grant,” she whispered with a desperate catch in her voice. She reached for him, but he caught her wrists and held them gently in one hand.
“Wait,” he said softly. “Let me taste you and kiss you first. I’ve waited so long.”
A soft cry broke from her lips as his hand moved between their bodies, over her belly and between her thighs.
“You’re so hot,” he whispered, “God, so hot and wet and ready for me.”
Crista lifted her hips, moved blindly against his seeking hand.
“Yes,” she said brokenly, “oh yes. Please, Grant, please…”
He groaned, kissed her deeply, then rolled away from her and stripped off his denims.
“I can’t wait,” he said hoarsely. “Sweet Crista, I wanted to make this last forever, but—”
She had one sight of him as he loomed over her, his body beautiful and virile in the moonlight, and then she held up her arms.
“Now,” she whispered, and he came down into her waiting embrace and, with one velvet thrust, made her his.
Hours later, a soft, early-morning breeze rustled the curtains.
Grant stirred and awakened slowly from a deep sleep.
He lay still, his eyes closed, trying to get his bearings. He was in a strange room, in a strange bed, and there was a woman in his arms.
And then he remembered.
He turned his head carefully and looked down at Crista. She was asleep, her dark head on his shoulder, her hand curled lightly against his chest. Her lips were slightly parted; he could hear the faintest whisper of her breath.
He felt an almost unbearable tightening in his throat.
How beautiful she was. Everything about her was perfect. He loved the way her long lashes lay against her cheeks, the way her hair cascaded over her bare shoulder. He loved the curve of her brow, the tiny indentation above her upper lip, and the line of her jaw.
She sighed in her sleep and snuggled closer to him, her hand opening against his chest. Carefully, so as not to wake her, Grant put his free hand over hers, smiling when her fingers instinctively laced with his.
It was going to be a perfect morning. The breeze was warm, the air sweet, and the early-morning light had the clarity of a fine Rembrandt. And he was lying in a wide, soft bed with Crista in his arms.
In his arms? Grant’s smile tilted. That was a first. And she had surely been in his arms all these hours, now that he thought about it. His shoulder ached just a little, where her head lay against it.
Had he gone to sleep holding her? But he never did that after sex. Not that he was a thoughtless lover. On the contrary. He knew women liked to be held and he always obliged—but not to the point of discomfort. Besides, falling asleep with a woman in your arms was too intimate. More intimate, somehow, than the act of sex itself.
Grant frowned. The act of sex. What a way to describe what had happened in this bed. That instant when he’d first sheathed himself within Crista’s satin flesh, her incredible tightness as she’d closed around him, her soft cry as she’d wrapped her arms around him and taken him deep inside her…
Just remembering made his body harden.
It might almost have been her first time. It wasn’t, of course. He knew that. But if it had been, if he’d been Crista’s first lover…
His frown became a scowl. Why in hell would he have wanted that? He wasn’t a man given to scoring on virgins. Hell, no! If anything, he’d made it a point to avoid entanglements of that kind. He had no wish at all to become some wide-eyed innocent’s romantic fixation.
And yet—and yet, he couldn’t help thinking that it would have been wonderful to have been Crista’s first lover, to have been the first man to have made her cry out beneath him, the first to have made her whisper “yes, oh yes, oh please…”
“Dammit,” he said, muttering the word softly from between his teeth.
Carefully, he eased his arm from beneath her head and sat up.
What was the matter with him this morning? He’d slept with Crista and it had been terrific. It had been incredible.
But sex was all it was.
The old song said it best. Birds did it. Bees did it. And he did it—heaven knew he’d bedded enough beautiful women in his life and, if they were to be believed, none of them had left his bed unsatisfied.
He was, with all due modesty, a man who understood the pleasures to be found in sexual passion without ever being foolish enough to wax poetic about them.
So why was he sitting here, spinning drifts of purple prose in his head?
Why could he remember each touch, each whisper? Why did he ache with wanting to kiss Crista awake and then make slow, heated love to her again? There was no logical reason for it…
Maybe there was. His liaison with Crista had not been illegal but it had certainly been immoral. He’d violated his own code of ethics last night. That was why what had happened had seemed so special—because it had been wrong.
Forbidden fruit was always sure to taste sweeter.
Suddenly, the warm air seemed uncomfortably humid, the scent of the sea acrid and unpleasant. Grant rose, glanced at his watch as he put it on, and stepped into his denim cutoffs. He zipped the fly, then walked slowly to the window.
It would have been better not to have given in to temptation and slept with her, but he wasn’t a man to waste time on regrets. The thing to do now was put the mistake behind him. He had a couple of appointments this morning, but nothing that wouldn’t be finished in plenty of time for them to catch their return flight to New York. By this evening, Crista would be in Sam Abraham’s charge. And this time in his life would be history.
He felt as if a weight were lifting from his shoulders as he looked out at the sea. It was calm again, and the sun was a bright yellow disk in the cloudless blue sky.
Everything was back to normal—and so was he.
Crista lay in the bed, watching as the morning sunlight lit Grant’s stern profile.
A moment ago, she’d awakened to a feeling of such happiness that she’d almost flung herself from the bed and raced across the room to where he stood. But then she’d seen the tension in his shoulders, the look of cool disapproval on his lips, and the joy in her heart had died.
It didn’t take any great effort to figure out what he was thinking. He’d wanted to make love to her from day one, but he’d fought against it.
Now he was regretting last night’s lapse, and trying to figure out how to handle what might be a potentially disastrous “morning after”.
A lump rose in her throat. It had all seemed to be perfect. Nothing she’d ever read or heard or even dreamed had prepared her for such joy. The happiness she’d found in Grant’s arms had been indescribable, not just when they’d made love but even when he’d simply held her close, kissed her gently, and whispered of the pleasure she gave him.
Had it all been an illusion?
Maybe—maybe she was misreading the signs. She was embarrassingly new to this. How did she know what to expect from a man who’d just made love to a woman for the first time? Grant was simply standing at the window, staring out to sea. For all she knew, his thoughts were a million miles away. He could be thinking about a business deal back in New York, or all the work that needed doing on this
house, or the appointments he had scheduled this morning.
She took a breath, sat up quietly, and wrapped the sheet around herself. Then she rose from the bed and started toward the window and Grant, but he turned toward her before she’d gone half the distance.
“Good morning,” he said. His tone, and his smile, were the polite ones people give strangers.
“Good morning,” she replied. Silence stretched between them. “What—what time is it anyway?”
Grant looked at his watch, then at her. “Almost seven.”
“Ah.” She nodded foolishly. “Almost seven. I thought it was later.”
Silence engulfed them again, and then Grant cleared his throat.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Oh yes,” Crista said, “yes, I slept like a log. It must have been…” Her cheeks colored. “It must have been the sea air.”
“Yes. I suppose it was.” A faint furrow appeared between his eyes. “Crista. About last night…”
She looked at him and she waited, and, at last, she knew she had to face the truth.
“Yes,” she said, her head high, “about that, Grant. It was—it was—”
“It was—terrific.”
“Terrific,” she said, and shot him a bright smile. “Exactly. But—but—”
“But it was a mistake. My mistake entirely.” His mouth narrowed. “I know an apology is useless, but—”
“Please. Don’t—don’t apologize. What happened was—it was just one of those things. And—and—”
“And now we can get on with other things,” he said briskly. “Our business here, and then our flight back to New York—”
“Good. Good.” Horrified, she felt a sudden constriction in her throat. “I, ah, I think I’d like to take a shower, if you—”
“Of course.” Grant moved quickly to the door, obviously every bit as eager as she to end this uncomfortable scene. “I’ll, ah, I’ll start the coffee.”
Crista nodded. “Fine.”
“I’m not very good at coffee.” His smile was quick and overly bright. “I suppose you learned that yesterday morning, but—”
“For God’s sake, Grant! Just—just go on and get out of here, will you? Let me—let me…” She stared at him in dismay, then took a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wanted to make this easy, but—”
“Crista…”
She shook her head wildly, hating herself for such a pathetic show of weakness, hating him for the pity she saw in his eyes.
“Please, Grant. Don’t say anything. Just—just go.”
He hesitated, but finally he did as she’d asked. As soon as the door closed, she groaned and flung herself across the bed.
What had made her behave like such an awful fool? So she’d slept with Grant. So what? The world was filled with women who slept with men; one night together didn’t mean—didn’t mean—
The door banged open.
“Dammit to hell,” Grant roared.
Crista rolled over and sat up, clutching the sheet to her chin.
“Grant, what’s the matter? Is it the roof? The seawall? Is it—”
He came down on the bed beside her, gathered her close in his arms, and kissed her long and hard. She resisted at first but then, with a sob, she threw her arms around him and gave herself up to the kiss.
It was Grant who ended it, drawing back and framing her tearstained face in his hands.
“It’s bad enough that I’m a liar,” he said gruffly, “saying that making love with you was terrific when it was so much more than that, when it was like nothing I’ve ever known. But to go on and behave like a complete fool…” He paused and took a breath. “I don’t want to go back to New York, Crista. I want to stay here and make love under the heat of the sun, swim in the moonlight…”
A smile trembled on her lips. “Do you mean it?”
“And when we get back to New York, you won’t need Sam to look out for you because you’ll have me.”
“Oh, Grant—” A shrill bark made them both start. Crista wiped her eyes and laughed. “The puppy! I forgot all about—”
“Yeah.” Grant sighed and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I suppose we’d better see what it wants.”
“What she wants.” Crista smiled. “And that’s easy to figure out. She wants a meal, a walk, and a scratch behind the ears.”
Grant smiled, too, but as he watched Crista hurry off to tend to the dog, his smile faded.
Moments ago, he’d come bursting back into the room, filled with the knowledge that he could not let Crista walk out of his life.
The puppy barked again, and he sighed.
The dog knew what it wanted—but what did he want, Grant wondered, of himself and of Crista? If only it were as simple to figure that out…
Lord, if only it were.
CHAPTER TEN
THE sun was hot, the sky was the color of sapphires, and the sand glinted as if it had been shot through with diamonds. Crista and Grant came pounding toward the house side by side, the puppy racing after them at the end of an improvised rope leash.
“I win,” Grant yelled.
“No, you don’t!” Crista gave a wild whoop, clipped him with an elbow—and then the puppy darted between them and they both went down in a heap.
Grant gave a dramatic groan and flopped onto his back, his eyes shut.
“No fair,” he said. “You bribed the dog so it would do that.”
Crista rolled onto her belly and lay spread-eagled in the sand.
“Why would I resort to bribery?” she panted. “I was winning.”
“Impossible.” Grant opened one eye and looked at her. “I’m the best, and I’ve got a drawer full of medals at home to prove it.”
“Yeah, yeah. The bigger they talk, the harder they fall.”
She shrieked as he caught her in his arms and rolled her beneath him.
“Watch the way you talk to me, madam, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
“Promises,” Crista said, rolling her eyes. “All the man makes are prom—”
Grant silenced her with a long, deep kiss.
“When was the last time I told you how beautiful you are?” he whispered when the kiss ended.
“Probably the last time I told you how beautiful you are.”
He laughed. “Men aren’t beautiful.”
“Says who?”
“Says—hey!” Grant laughed as the puppy began tugging at his shorts and growling. “What’s with you, monster?”
Crista smiled. “She wants to play.”
“Okay, pal.” Grant scrambled to his feet and the puppy yipped with joy. “You wanna play rough? We’ll play rough!”
Smiling, Crista watched as man and dog settled into a fierce game of feint and run, and then, slowly, her smile faded away.
The past days had been so wonderful—it was hard to think that they’d be back in New York tomorrow evening. But there was no choice. Grant had already put off a week’s worth of appointments.
She sighed and flung her arm over her eyes. Returning to New York was something that had been bound to happen eventually. It was just that she had an awful feeling that nothing would ever be the same once they were back in the real world.
Palm Beach, after all, was not reality. It was magic. It was where she’d discovered passion, and happiness, and Grant.
Grant, she thought with a little sigh. What a complex man he was. He could make friends with the puppy by getting down on his knees in a game of mock combat as easily as he could bring to heel a sommelier brandishing a wine list whose primary function in life was surely intimidation. He was, by turns, funny and warm and wise…
He was, in other words, the man she’d sensed him to be all along—and the man she’d fallen in love with.
Crista sighed, rose to her feet, and made her way slowly into the house. It was cool and dark after the bright, sunlit beach; she shivered slightly as she climbed the steps to the bedroom she and Grant shared and pau
sed in the doorway. There was something about seeing the bed that put a lump in her throat. They had shared so many nights there together and now—now, it was all coming to an end.
No! Why did she keep thinking things like that? They were going back to New York tomorrow, that was all. Nothing else would change, she reminded herself as she took off her bathing suit and stepped into the shower. Grant wanted her to be with him, he’d talked about the places they’d go in the city and the things they’d see…
But he’d never said he loved her, that he could not imagine a future without her as she could not imagine one without him…
She gasped as the door to the shower stall opened.
“Excuse me, madam,” Grant said politely. “I was wondering if you’d mind practicing water conservation and sharing that shower with me.”
Crista laughed and thought how glad she was that the water would hide the dampness that glittered in her eyes.
“I don’t know, sir,” she said. “I’m not sure there’s room for two.”
He stepped under the spray and took her in his arms. His body was hot from the sun, hard with masculine power, and she felt herself quicken when he touched her.
I love you, Grant, she thought.
And then she couldn’t think anything at all.
Grant watched as Crista puttered around the kitchen. She was barefoot, dressed in shorts and a cotton shirt. Her hair was a dark plume that tumbled down her back, her forehead was red, and she had a gob of white zinc oxide on her nose.
He smiled. In other words, she was gorgeous. And she was his.
He had never known a woman like her, a creature of ardor, fervor, and pure emotion. The other morning, he’d found her sitting on the floor with the puppy in her arms, sobbing. And when he’d come down quickly beside her and asked her why, she’d said, laughing and crying at the same time, that it was because she’d just thought again of how the little dog might have died.
And then there was last night, when he’d asked her how she liked the vintage burgundy he’d chosen for their dinner, and she’d laughed and said, well, it tasted better than the jug wine she was used to—but not by much.
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