Guardian Groom Page 11

  It was a great combination, he thought bitterly. He had no ethics, she had no morals—and yet, he wanted her anyway, wanted her so badly that he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

  “Grant?” Crista hesitated. “The ceiling… Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we do something about it?”

  He took a deep breath and forced his lips into a smile.

  “Of course. I’ll go up there and see what I can do.”

  He turned away, wondering which was louder, the rain drumming against the roof or the painful, thudding beat of his own heart.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS still raining, and the wind roaring through the palm trees sounded like a freight train.

  It was an awful night, Crista thought as she stared out her bedroom window, and she’d have given anything to be back in New York.

  But they were trapped here. Grant had appointments in the morning and the storm had grounded all the planes…

  What was there to worry about anyway?

  She had faced the truth, and now she was free.

  She sighed and let the curtains fall back into place. It wasn’t original, but now she knew just how wise a thought it was.

  This afternoon had been the end of whatever craziness had seized her the morning she’d stepped onto a curb and into Grant Landon’s arms.

  And she had the storm to thank for that.

  What would have happened if the roof hadn’t sprung a leak and a torrent of cold water hadn’t come plummeting down on her head?

  Crista’s cheeks pinkened. She’d have ended up in bed with Grant, that’s what would have happened. And heaven only knew how many lifetimes she’d have spent regretting it.

  She shivered as she pulled a heavy cotton sweater down over her head. The temperature had dropped considerably since the afternoon; the house felt damp and chilled.

  It would be a pleasure to get back to New York tomorrow, she thought as she tied the laces on her sneakers. Just a few hours from now, her life would be back on track, and Grant—Grant would be a question to be locked away, one she would never have to answer.

  A shudder went through her again, and she frowned. What was wrong with her tonight? She couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

  A cup of coffee would help. And something to eat. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t had a mouthful of food the entire day.

  Crista slipped open her door. She looked down the hall toward Grant’s room. His door was firmly shut. She took a breath and made her way quietly down the stairs.

  The kitchen was gloomy and old-fashioned, with dark wood cabinets, a noisy refrigerator, and an ancient gas stove. But there were still boxes and tins of food in the pantry, and that was all that mattered.

  She turned on the lights and began putting together what she could for a makeshift meal. Olives and crackers. A box of angel-hair pasta and an unopened tin of olive oil. Tiny jars of dried garlic and porcini mushrooms.

  And coffee. Definitely coffee.

  A veritable feast, she thought, smiling.

  Humming softly, she set to work.

  Grant stood at his bedroom window, staring out at the storm and wondering what it was that fate had against him.

  The weatherman—and the cabdriver—had predicted rain, but this stuff had as much relation to rain as the eruption of Krakatoa had to a campfire.

  “Damn,” he muttered, and dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  The storm was far offshore. That was what the radio kept saying, but for an offshore storm it was doing a great job of beating the hell out of this coastline—and an ever better job of trapping him here.

  He’d tried everything to get a flight out, but not even a charter outfit would take off in this. So here he was, stuck in a house that looked like an overstuffed museum with a woman he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off, and just for general effect, the wind was howling in the eaves like a banshee.

  And he was hungry. Hell, he was starving! When had he eaten last? All he could remember was that pot of acid he’d brewed in place of breakfast and an airline lunch that he wouldn’t have eaten under the best of circumstances…

  And, heaven knew, nothing about this endless day had taken place under the best of circumstances.

  Grant shuddered. It was like a refrigerator in here. Coffee, he thought as he pulled on a cable-knit sweater, that was what he needed. And a sandwich. There had to be something edible in that kitchen.

  Halfway to the door, he hesitated. Did he really want to run the risk of bumping into Crista tonight?

  “Stupid,” he said under his breath, and he turned the knob and stepped briskly into the hall.

  She was only a woman.

  What on earth was there to be afraid of?

  * * *

  He heard her before he saw her. She was obviously in the kitchen and she was singing, softly and sweetly and vaguely off-key.

  “…dah dee dah, and dah dee once again, it’s been a dah, dah time…”

  Grant paused in the arched doorway. She was standing at the stove, her hair loose and streaming down her back, stirring something with a big wooden spoon and swaying gently to the music as she built to a big finish.

  “…a lonnng, lonnng tiiime!”

  She swung around as he clapped his hands together. Surprise, and then embarrassment, flashed across her face.

  “Must you do that?” she said.

  He grinned. “I was only acknowledging a truly superior performance. It’s not often you hear an old song sung so—creatively.”

  “You know what I mean. You shouldn’t sneak up on people that way.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, Crista, but the only thing I was sneaking up on was my stomach. I got tired of listening to it growl.”

  She smiled a little. “Mine’s been complaining, too.”

  He frowned as he came into the room. “What’s that smell?”

  “What’s that smell?” She laughed. “It’s garlic, of course.”

  “Garlic?”

  “My God, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of garlic!”

  “Of course I’ve heard of it. I’m just surprised it smells so good.”

  She stared at him blankly. “You don’t like garlic?”

  Grant laughed. “Come on, Crista. You make it sound un-American. I promise, I like apple pie as much as the next guy.”

  “Well, anybody who loves apple pie should love this.”

  Grant peered over her shoulder. “This” was a mélange of golden and tan bits, saut6ing in a skillet.

  “What is it?”

  “Sauce for the pasta in that colander. It’s garlic and mushrooms and onion all browned together in olive oil.”

  He looked at her. “And it’s good?”

  “Good? It’s delicious.” She dipped the spoon into the pan and held it up to him. “Take a taste.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Oh, come on. Be brave. Try a little.”

  He leaned forward and took a hesitant taste. Then he cocked his head, leaned forward again, and licked what remained from the spoon.

  “Well?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad?” She shook her head. “Delicious, is what you mean.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Come on, Grant. Just because it doesn’t look like sushi—”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I hate sushi.”

  “Well, whatever’s trendy, then.”

  Grant leaned back against the sink. “I think I’ve just been insulted,” he said, his lips twitching.

  Crista laughed. “Look, you’re—what? Twenty-eight? Thirty?”

  “Thirty-two,” he said, still smiling.

  “And you’re a bachelor. And a New Yorker. And you’re rich. That means—”

  “That I eat raw fish?”

  “It means you eat lots of nutritionally sound, incredibly expensive, basically tasteless things my mother wouldn’t have let into her kitchen.”

  Grant laughed. “Don�
��t tell me. Your mother was really Julia Child in disguise.”

  Crista reached past him for the pepper mill. A faint scent of violets drifted from her hair to his nostrils and he fought back the desire to reach out and touch his finger to the dark locks.

  “My mother was half-Mexican.” She glanced up at him with a sudden challenge in her eyes. “Did you know that?”

  “No. But I suppose I should have guessed.”

  “Why?” Her chin tilted, more than matching the glint in her eyes.

  Grant smiled. “The color of your hair for one thing. And your temper. They’re both—”

  “What?”

  “Hey.” Grant held up his hands in surrender. “What happened here? You were telling me that your mother was the Hispanic version of a master chef, and then, wham, you’ve got that look in your eye—”

  “What look?”

  “That one. The one that says you’re spoiling for a fight.” He tried not to smile. “I’ve come to recognize the signs.”

  Crista glared at him in silence and then she let out her breath.

  “Sorry,” she said, turning back to the stove. “It’s just that—well, I suppose I’m a little touchy on the subject. My…lineage was a problem the past few years.”

  Grant’s smile faded. “I don’t understand.”

  “Uncle Simon,” she said as she poured a thin stream of golden olive oil into the skillet.

  “I still don’t—”

  “He never lost an opportunity to tell me that my father had married a woman who was—I think the kindest thing Simon ever called her was ‘exotic’.” Sighing, she dipped the spoon into the sauce, then lifted it to her nose, and took a sniff. “Mmm,” she said. “It smells good.”

  Grant watched as she blew gently on the spoon. His body clenched as her lips parted; he saw the tip of her tongue and he turned away and took a deep, deep breath.

  “It is good. Want another taste?”

  He cleared his throat and looked at her.

  “No,” he said carefully, “no, I’ll, ah, I’ll pass.”

  She grinned. “Coward.”

  She bent toward the skillet again, lifting her hand to her hair and tucking it back behind her ear as she did. Her breasts rose gently beneath her sweater, and he almost groaned aloud.

  Hell, she was right. He was a coward. Otherwise, he’d take her in his arms, claim her mouth with his, then carry her up to his bedroom, strip away her clothes, and finish what had been between them from the first minute they’d met…

  “…worst food I’d ever eaten.”

  Grant swallowed. “I’m, ah, I’m sorry. I missed that.”

  “I said, when I went to live with my uncle, I couldn’t believe the things his cook served.” She was setting the table now, and she smiled at him over her shoulder. “Of course, Simon thought it was ambrosial. He said I was just being difficult when I didn’t finish what was on my plate.”

  Grant forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying. “Sushi?”

  Crista laughed. “You need a lesson in demographics. Simon was an old-line WASP of the worst kind. He believed in the restorative powers of vegetables cooked until they were limp and beef and chicken roasted until they were dry. Anything in a sauce was suspect.” She gave a delicate shudder. “Meal after meal was the same. His cook gave a whole new meaning to the word ‘predictable’.”

  Grant leaned back against the counter, his arms crossed.

  “Predictable is bad?”

  “Not necessarily. It’s just that sometimes you need to try something different, something with—oh, I don’t know. Something colorful.”

  “And if it turns out you don’t like it?”

  Crista laughed. “So what? You say yuck, that was awful. I hated it, I won’t go near it ever again.”

  “I suppose you think that philosophy should apply to everything, not just to cooking,” Grant said.

  She looked at him in surprise. “I never thought about it, but—yes. I suppose I do.”

  His expression hardened. “That’s a foolish way to live.”

  “Trying new things is foolish?”

  “Dangerous, then. It’s—it’s…”

  He frowned and clamped his lips together. When had this simple conversation gotten so complicated? And what the hell was he talking about? Crista was looking at him as if she thought he’d lost his mind, and he couldn’t much blame her.

  “Hell,” he said, choking out a laugh, “I think I must be showing the effects of hunger on the human brain. Isn’t that stuff ready yet?”

  Crista looked at him a second longer and then she smiled.

  “I think it is. Are you willing to risk my cooking?”

  “Sure.” Grant shot her a quick grin. “I can always go out the back door and catch myself some sushi on the hoof if I don’t like the main course.”

  They smiled and settled opposite each other at the table and Crista watched as Grant took the first mouthful.

  “Well?”

  “It’s good.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing.

  He laughed. “Okay. It’s delicious. Does it have a name?”

  Crista picked up her fork and twirled it through the steaming pasta on her plate.

  “Uh-huh. Pasta with garlic and olive oil.” She smiled. “I’m sure it does have a name, but I don’t know it. I could…”

  I could ask Danny, she’d almost said, and caught herself just in time. She didn’t want to spoil this fragile peace. After all, they were parting tomorrow. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk away from each other with a handshake instead of a grimace?

  “You could what?” Grant asked.

  On the other hand, she could tell him the truth. It was silly to let him go on thinking Danny was her lover.

  “Crista? What were you going to say?”

  No. It was none of his business what her relationship with Danny was. And besides, it seemed—it seemed safer tonight to let the deception continue…

  “I was going to say that I could check my mother’s recipes. She used to make something similar to this, except that her version had chili peppers in it.”

  “Chili peppers!”

  She laughed. “Her Mexican heritage was incorrigible sometimes.”

  Grant looked at her. “You must have been devastated when your parents died,” he said softly.

  Crista’s smile dimmed. “Yes. What made it even worse was Simon’s determination to make me forget them.”

  “Forget your parents? But why—”

  “Well, not my father. But my mother—that was a different story. ‘I know you loved her, my dear Crista,’ Simon would say, ‘but now she is gone, and you must work to overcome that part of your ancestry.’”

  Grant put down his fork. “Surely he didn’t mean—”

  “Of course he did. And I—well, I’d never run into that before. Growing up in the Village—”

  “That’s where you grew up? In Greenwich Village?”

  She nodded. “Why do you look so surprised?”

  “Well…” Grant frowned. “Blackburn said—he said…” He cleared his throat. “So. You weren’t happy living with your uncle?”

  Crista let out a sighing breath. “I tried to be grateful, to remember that he’d been under no obligation to take me in. But I didn’t want to forget who I was. So I rebelled. Simon sent me to boarding school after boarding school. Each was supposed to make me sound and look like a lady, but I wouldn’t cut my hair, or give up the way I dressed, or say what people wanted to hear instead of what I really believe.”

  “I see,” Grant said quietly.

  “So they’d send me back to Simon, who’d warn me that I was going to grow up to be just like my mother unless I mended my ways, and I’d tell him that was perfectly fine with me, and—and…”

  Her eyes met Grant’s and she flushed and shoved back her chair. “Just listen to me,” she said as she snatched up their plates. “I
don’t know why I told you all this.”

  Grant stood up, too, and jammed his hands into his pockets. It was the only sure way he could think of to keep from walking to where she stood, putting his arms around her, and telling her that her uncle was a fool and that she was a fool for wasting herself on Danny. And Gus. And who knew how many others?

  “Forgive me, Grant. I didn’t mean to bore you to death.”

  Grant took a deep breath, then smiled.

  “You didn’t bore me,” he said, “and, just for the record, good old Uncle Simon sounds like a prime ass.”

  Crista laughed. “Believe me, he was. And I never missed the chance to point it out to him. Subtly, of course.”

  Grant chuckled. “Of course.”

  “The only trouble was, it just reinforced what he already thought of me,” she said as she filled the sink with soapy water. “I’d tell myself I was just playing into his hands, but—”

  “But,” Grant said as he took a towel from the rack, “you hated him so much that you could never resist the chance to nail him.”

  Crista looked at him in surprise. “How would you—”

  “Life With Father,” he said with a tight smile. “My brothers and I all did whatever we could to rebel.”

  “You?” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Do I strike you as such a straight-arrow, Crista?”

  She looked up. His voice was suddenly soft and dangerous, and when she looked into his eyes, the images of what had happened between them in this room only hours before seemed mirrored in their depths.

  “No,” she said, dragging her eyes from his, “no, I didn’t mean that. I just—I can’t imagine you breaking the rules.”

  There was a silence. When Grant spoke again, his voice was harsh.

  “We all did—Cade, and Zach, and me. Of course, we all did it differently.”

  Crista looked at him. “How did you do it?”

  “Well, I was the eldest, so I was supposed to walk in the old man’s footsteps. Be a football hero. Go to his university. And come home to work at Landon Enterprises.”

  “But?” she prompted softly, her eyes on his face.

  “But, I went out for track instead of football, attended the university that was the longtime rival of his, and made my career in New York.”