Guardian Groom Page 12

  “Your father must have been furious.”

  He smiled tightly. “He said if I chose my own school and my own future, I could pay for it on my own, too.”

  “What did you do?”

  Grant folded the towel neatly and hung it away. “I won a track scholarship to college, worked my tail off summers as a logger in northern Maine to pay for law school, and generally made it clear what my old man could do with his money.”

  “Ah,” Crista said softly. “A self-made man.”

  He laughed. “Something like that.”

  “I’ll bet your mother was proud of you, though.”

  His smile vanished. “My mother—”

  He broke off in the middle of the sentence. My mother died before she should have, he’d almost said. She never knew what I did or didn’t do with my life. And what would have made him say something like that, especially to this woman? As it was, he’d told Crista Adams more about himself in five minutes than he’d ever told anyone in a lifetime.

  Well, that was what you got for being trapped in a mausoleum of a house with the rain beating down and the wind howling like something out of a bad horror film…

  But it wasn’t doing that anymore, he suddenly realized.

  “It stopped,” he said.

  Crista blinked.

  “What stopped?”

  “The storm.” He went to the back door and opened it wide. “Will you look at that? The moon is up.” He turned to her and smiled. “Would you like to take a walk?”

  It was such a simple question. Why was she so reluctant to answer? It was only a walk—a walk with Grant, along that dark, private beach, with the moon an ivory globe against the inky sky…

  “Crista?”

  He held out his hand, and she took it.

  It was cool outside, and the air had the sharp, clean tang of the sea. Waves rolled heavily against the shore, the final, determined reminders of the storm.

  Crista shivered slightly as they strolled along, and Grant put his arm around her shoulders.

  “Cold?” he said.

  She shook her head. “Only a little.” She sighed. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”

  Grant stopped walking and turned her gently toward him.

  “Not as beautiful as you,” he said softly.

  The words were out before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that; he’d only meant to take Crista for a walk along the beach. But all at once, he knew he needed more than that from her tonight.

  Crista looked up at him. Was this the same man who’d spent the past few days barking out orders? It was as if he’d turned into someone else between the afternoon and the evening, a man whose smile was making her heart constrict within her chest.

  It was a wonderful realization, but a terrifying one, too.

  “Grant? Maybe we should—maybe—”

  “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  Crista laughed. “Are we talking about my broken heel?”

  “What if I were to put out my hand and say, ‘Hello there, Miss Adams, my name is Grant Landon.’?”

  “If you did—if you did, I’d say I thought it was time I cleared up some misconceptions.”

  “Misconceptions?”

  “Yes.” She took a breath. “Such as—such as—Gus.”

  Grant’s smile tilted just a little. “I haven’t asked you for any explanations, Crista.”

  “That’s good,” she said. Her smile was a little wooden. “Because I don’t have to give you any.”

  “That’s behind you anyway. Gus, and Danny, and—”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Grant. Gus was—”

  “Wrong for you. I know. But—”

  “Dammit,” she snapped, shrugging free of his hands, “why in heaven’s name did I think you’d changed? You’re still a pompous jerk! Gus was my boss. My boss, do you understand? He owns the tavern where I waited tables. And—”

  “You wore that rather interesting outfit to wait tables?”

  “Yes! It’s what gets you tips!”

  “Let me get this straight. Am I supposed to be impressed because you got good tips?”

  Crista glared at him. “No. No, you’re not. I don’t want to impress you. I don’t even want to talk to you. I made the mistake of thinking you could be understanding, but—but you aren’t even human! I promise, I won’t forget it again.”

  Grant reached out his hand but she jerked away and started up the beach, away from the house.

  “Crista! Come back here!”

  She didn’t turn around. Why had he ever thought he could carry on a conversation with this woman? And, dammit, why did he keep letting her work him into an obvious rage? No one had ever been able to do that, not until Crista Adams had come walking into his life.

  “Crista!” His voice rose. “Crista—you’re acting like a fool!”

  She kept on walking, and he growled something sharp under his breath and started after her.

  “Crista!”

  What was she doing now? She’d come to a sudden stop, about a hundred feet away, and she was staring out to sea where waves as high as houses were building and crashing.

  Grant frowned. There was something else out there—a tangle of storm-tossed debris and in its midst—in its midst…

  A dog. A stupid, pathetic, doomed-to-death dog.

  Grant’s gaze swung quickly to Crista. “No,” he said, and he began to run. “Crista, no!”

  But he was too late. She was already racing across the sand, her hair flying out behind her, her feet sending up sprays of water as she hit the surf, and with his heart in his throat and her name on his lips, Grant pounded after her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  GRANT had been a runner almost his entire life.

  He had run for the scholarship that freed him from his father’s domination and for the glory of his school, but he had never run as hard or as fast as he ran now, with fear churning his blood and a desperate prayer on his lips, his eyes fixed not on some lofty prize but on something painfully real.

  On Crista.

  He could see her clearly in the moonlight. She was swimming strongly toward the dog, her strokes propelling her swiftly through the water.

  But just beyond her, a wave was building, up and up until it looked like a wall of foam.

  “Crista!” he shouted—but it was useless. She would never hear him, not with that wave roaring like a freight train as it came toward her. And even if she did, he knew she would never listen.

  “Please,” he whispered, “please, God…”

  The surf churned around his ankles as he flung himself into the sea. The water was shockingly cold; he could feel it surge around him, and he kicked hard and struck out toward Crista, his powerful arms cleaving the night-black water just as the wave broke over her. Its waning edge caught him and tumbled him under. He broke the surface, gasping, straining to see.

  There! There she was, ahead in the foaming water, a dark, struggling shape in her arms.

  “Crista!”

  She turned at the sound of his voice, though it seemed impossible she could hear him. Grant drew air into his lungs, buried his face in the water, and drove toward her.

  Later, he would not remember how he got to her. He would only remember reaching for her, hanging on to her with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, telling her to let go of the dog, demanding she let go of it, and finally giving up any hope that she would.

  “Hang on,” he yelled, and together they struck out for shore.

  When his feet finally touched bottom, he lurched forward, propelling her along with him. They fell forward, their faces in the sand.

  Grant sat up, coughed out a mouthful of salt water, and clasped Crista’s shoulders.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded while she struggled for air. Her face was a pale oval in the moonlight; her hair trailed down her shoulders like the ebony tendrils of some undersea flower.

  “Yes,” s
he gasped, “I’m okay.”

  The dog, still tightly clasped to her breast, shivered and gave a shrill yip. Crista hugged it closer and buried her face in its neck.

  “Thank you,” she said with a shaky smile.

  Grant could feel every muscle in his body tighten. Did she have any idea how close she’d come to death? He had almost lost her. God, he’d almost—

  A fiery mix of fear and rage surged through him, fueled by an unreasonably more volatile emotion.

  “Damn you, Crista,” he said through his teeth, and he yanked her to her feet, his hands coiled tightly around her arms. “What kind of a stunt was that?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You could have drowned out there!”

  “But I didn’t,” she said, her smile dimming. “I’m a strong swimmer, and—”

  “What you are is a self-centered, shortsighted fool! Don’t you ever think before you act?”

  “What was there to think about? The dog didn’t have a chance.”

  “You could have died, dammit! We both could have!”

  She pulled away from him, her spine stiffening. “I didn’t ask for help.”

  “No, you didn’t. What was I supposed to do? Watch you and that damned mutt drown?” He grabbed hold of her again and shook her. “Answer me, damn you!”

  A convulsive shudder traveled the length of her body, leaving her drooping against him. Grant cursed and swung her into his arms.

  “You don’t have to carry me—”

  “Next thing I know, you’ll come down with pneumonia,” he said as he strode across the sand and into the house.

  “Nobody gets pneumonia from a midnight swim in Florida. You’re making more out of this than it deserves.”

  Grant shouldered open the door to her bedroom and deposited her in the middle of the rug.

  “Is that why your teeth are clicking like castanets?” He switched on the light and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom. When he emerged, she could hear the sound of water running. “I’ve turned the shower on. Go on now. Get out of that clothing and—dammit, Crista! Will you let go of that dog?”

  “It’s just a puppy,” she said through the chattering of her teeth. “I have to dry it off.”

  “Dammit,” Grant snarled, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He marched back into the bathroom, came out with a stack of towels, and snatched the dog from her. “I’ll dry the miserable thing while you get that clothing off.”

  “But—but you’re soaked, too.”

  “Nice of you to notice, but at least my teeth aren’t playing the rumba.” When she didn’t move, he glared at her. “So help me, get moving or I’ll put this damned creature back where you found it.”

  Crista glared back at him, and then she stormed into the bathroom. The door slammed and Grant turned his attention to the shivering dog.

  He dried it briskly and, in less time than he’d have imagined, it began wagging its tail and making playful feints at his hand.

  “Feeling better, are you?”

  The puppy yipped happily.

  “You’re wasting your efforts on me, dog.” Grant scowled, crossed the room to a club chair, and arranged several dry towels on the cushioned seat. “As far as I’m concerned,” he said as he placed the puppy in the improvised dog bed, “you’re just one step up from her damned cat.”

  The puppy waggled its tail and delivered a sloppy kiss to Grant’s hand.

  “That won’t keep me from being angry. Just thinking about what that headstrong, stupid woman did…”

  The puppy curled into a tight ball, yawned, and fell instantly into untroubled sleep.

  “That’s it,” Grant muttered. “Go to sleep. Why not? You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  He watched the sleeping animal for a moment. Then, slowly, he knelt beside the chair and put out his hand. He hesitated, and then, very gently, he stroked his fingers over the soft, damp fur.

  The dog would be dead now if not for Crista. What she’d done had been foolish, and risky, and crazy—and he could only hope he’d have done it himself if he’d seen the animal before—

  “Grant?”

  He shot to his feet and turned toward the sound of her voice.

  She stood framed in the bathroom door, wearing a white terry-cloth robe that covered her from her throat to her toes. Her face was shiny and scrubbed, her hair was damp and loose—and with terrifying swiftness, Grant knew that it wasn’t anger that had kept him going at all.

  It had been fear—the fear of losing her, of never having had the chance to take her in his arms and make love to her, not in passion brought on by rage but in the sweet hunger of mutual desire.

  “I thought you’d have gone to your room by now,” she said.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Well, it took a while to get your pal settled in.”

  Her gaze flew to the puppy. “He’s all right, then?”

  “Yes.” Lord! Here they were, having this foolishly mundane conversation about a dog, when all he wanted to do was go to her and take her in his arms… “Yes, he’s fine. How about you? How do you feel?”

  She smiled. “I’m fine, too.”

  “No more chills?”

  “No. The shower did the job.” She seemed to hesitate. “Grant? I—I never thanked you.”

  “Yeah,” he said briskly, “you did.”

  “No.” She came toward him slowly, her eyes on his face. “I mean, I did try, down there on the beach, but you—you got me so angry that—”

  “I got you angry?” Grant laughed. “Hey, I wasn’t the loony who went dashing into that water.”

  He saw the smile slip from her face and he wanted to call back his words, but it was too late.

  What was the matter with him anyway? What she’d done had been dangerous and impetuous—and wonderful. She was who she was; it was part of the reason he—he—

  “You’re absolutely right,” she said woodenly. “I suppose if you’d been the one to spot the dog first, you’d have thought about it, analyzed it, probably demanded a case study of the situation, and by then—”

  She gasped as Grant caught hold of her shoulders.

  “If I were the coldhearted bum you claim I am,” he said sharply, “you and that dog would be fish food.”

  “Listen, Grant, I’m grateful for what you did. But I told you, I’m a strong swimmer. I could have made that rescue without—”

  “If I were a rational man, neither of us would be in Palm Beach!” His fingers dug into her flesh. “I’d have laughed myself sick the day Blackburn read us your uncle’s will, turned around, and never looked back.”

  “I only wish!” Crista said, grimacing as she tried to free herself from his grasp.

  “But I didn’t do anything that sensible. Fool that I was, I let myself be drawn in.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have! You should have told Blackburn to find someone else to act as my guardian.”

  Grant’s teeth showed in a cold smile. “I did.”

  Crista blinked. “You did?”

  “Yes, dammit, I did. And Blackburn, that bastard, said he’d have himself named your guardian in my place.”

  “Well, why didn’t you let him?”

  Grant’s mouth hardened. “Because I knew what he really wanted was to get you into his bed.”

  “And you could hardly have permitted that,” she said with disdain.

  “What sort of man would I have been if I had?”

  “The sort who wanted to get me into his bed himself!”

  She heard the rasp of Grant’s indrawn breath, saw the sudden darkness fill his eyes. And she waited. Waited for him to explode with anger, to call her a liar…

  Waited for him to gather her into his arms and crush her lips beneath his…

  Crista’s heart began to pound, not with fear but with a spiraling exhilaration.

  “Grant,” she said unsteadily, “Grant—”

  She gasped as he let go of her and stepped back.

  �
�You’re right,” he said in a harsh whisper. “And it’s exactly the reason that tomorrow will be the last day we spend together.”

  He turned, and walked quickly from the room.

  * * *

  She fell asleep at last but she slept badly, slipping from one uneasy nightmare to another. Then, just before dawn, her eyes flew open.

  Something had awakened her. A sound…?

  She sat up, using both hands to lift her hair back from her face, and looked across the room. The puppy was still sleeping in his makeshift bed, her breathing deep and even.

  What had she heard, then?

  She swung her feet to the floor, pulled on the terrycloth robe, and walked to the window, where she stood in the moonlight, looking out on the scene below.

  The sea had calmed and become a black velvet canvas touched with sprays of white foam; the moon had waned and cast only a milky light on the deserted beach.

  Crista’s breath caught in her throat.

  Grant was walking slowly along the surf as it lapped the sand—a tall, solitary figure wearing nothing but a pair of denim cutoffs. Moonlight spilled over his broad shoulders and leanly muscled torso; it streaked his dark hair with silver.

  Tomorrow will be the last day we spend together…

  A terrible sadness filled her heart.

  “Grant,” she whispered.

  It was as if he’d heard her. He swung around and, before she could think or move, he lifted his head and looked at her. A thousand unspoken questions seemed to fly between them.

  She saw his lips move. She knew he must be saying her name; despite the distance that separated them, she seemed to feel the whisper of it on her skin.

  He took a step toward the house, his face still uplifted, his eyes fixed on her face, the tension in him almost palpable, and suddenly she gave a little cry, whirled around, and raced out of her room and down the stairs.

  He met her at the foot, and his arms went around her in fierce embrace as hers circled his neck. Before she could speak, his mouth was crushing hers as she had dreamed it would, as she had prayed it would, and she breathed his name against his lips.

  “Crista,” he whispered, “my sweet Crista.”