Guardian Groom Page 14

  That had brought a smile even to the thin lips of the haughty sommelier.

  Actually, she’d brought smiles to lots of lips last night. They’d dined at one of Palm Beach’s most prestigious restaurants. The season had not yet really begun but the candle-lit tables had been crowded with exquisite women dressed in their Chanels and Armanis, their hair sleeked back from their artfully made-up faces, their jewelry elegantly discreet.

  Crista had worn a halter-necked drift of bright coral silk she’d bought during an afternoon stroll along exclusive Worth Avenue. Her hair hung free over her tanned shoulders and cascades of tiny silver leaves swayed from her earlobes. Circlets of the leaves clung to her wrist, and her only makeup had been the blush put in her cheeks by an afternoon spent in Grant’s arms.

  The women in the place had cast her discreet looks, equal parts amusement and envy. But the men’s glances had been filled with admiration, and Grant had had all he could do to keep from leaping to his feet and shouting that Crista Adams, this untamed, magnificent wildflower blazing in a pallid sea of greenhouse blossoms, belonged to him…

  “Whatever you’re thinking about, I’d bet it has nothing to do with the tuna fish I asked for.”

  Grant looked up. Crista was smiling at him teasingly, and he smiled back.

  “Sorry, darling. I must have been daydreaming. Tuna, did you say?”

  “Please. I think we bought some, didn’t we?”

  Grant supposed they had. He’d wanted to hire a housekeeper for the week, but Crista had insisted that shopping and cooking and keeping the house clean would be fun. And, to his amazement, she’d been right. He’d never had the time or the desire to learn to cook—his law practice had taken all his energies—and he was no master chef now, he thought as he handed over the tuna, but this past week, he’d learned that grilling a steak on an outdoor grill could be fun.

  “Here,” Crista said, “you slice the tomatoes and tear up the lettuce. I’ll do the rest.”

  Not that Mrs. Edison was in danger of losing her job, he thought with a little smile. And yet, things would surely change once they got back to New York. Things would change in both their lives.

  Grant’s smile faded. The business about Danny, for instance. They hadn’t discussed that yet, but they would. He had to know more about that, had to know if Danny had really mattered to her, if anyone before him had mattered…

  “Grant?” He looked up. Crista was watching him, a hesitant smile on her lips. “Is everything all right?”

  He put down the tomato and the knife and took her in his arms.

  “It’s never been better.”

  It was true, he thought as he kissed her. For the first time in his life, he was truly, completely happy—and yet, deep inside him, he sensed a whisper of unease.

  That night, Crista announced that she’d named the dog Annie.

  “Short for Anonymous?”

  “Short for Orphan Annie,” she said as they strolled the beach, hand in hand. “I don’t think the poor baby ever had a real owner. Isn’t she a cute puppy?”

  Grant looked at the dog, trotting nose to the sand ahead of them. Either it was at some gawky adolescent stage, with feet and ears too big for its body and a muzzle that seemed all whiskers, or it was among the homeliest creatures he’d ever seen.

  “Cute’s the word, all right,” he said.

  “She needs a collar and a real leash, Grant, and—”

  “Crista,” he said gently, “it—she—can’t go back to New York with us. You know that, don’t you?”

  “But if I’m right, if she has no home—”

  “I’ll look in the phone directory and see if there’s a dog warden, and—”

  “The shelter in the Village would take her, Grant. They’d be able to find her a good home.”

  “Shelter?” Grant’s brows lifted. “What shelter?”

  “The Good Shepherd Shelter. They’re wonderful about finding homes for strays.”

  Grant sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to be difficult. But transporting an animal is—”

  “A cinch!” She swung toward him, her eyes wide. “I’ve read lots of articles about it. The airline has crates you can buy. It’s not a problem at all.”

  “But—” He looked at her, at the hope in her face, and he sighed. “You’re sure the shelter will accept her?” Crista nodded, and he drew her into his arms. “You’re corrupting me, woman,” he said sternly. “First I cancel all my appointments for the week, then I agree to play foster parent to a mangy mutt. What’s next?”

  She moved closer into his embrace. “I can’t imagine,” she whispered. “Suppose you tell me.”

  And, in soft, sexy words that made her blush, Grant did.

  They left Palm Beach in late afternoon, taking off into a bright, cloudless sky. They landed at Kennedy Airport three hours later in a cold, gray downpour.

  Grant took Crista’s elbow and started toward the terminal exit door, but she shook her head and hung back.

  “We can’t leave yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “We have to get Annie.” She smiled and looped her arm through his. “We have to wait until her kennel’s unloaded.”

  Grant frowned. “I’d forgotten.”

  “The sooner we get to the baggage area, the sooner we can collect her and leave.”

  It was half an hour before they finally climbed into Grant’s waiting Mercedes and an hour after that, thanks to the rain and the traffic, before they were in his private elevator.

  Grant felt his stomach knot as the car rose toward the penthouse floor. He had felt strangely tense all during the flight home. Now, that tension was growing and he knew the reason.

  He had left here determined to walk away from Crista Adams, and returned with her as his lover.

  The realization hit home with almost physical force. He was bringing her back to stay, not because he felt responsible for her but because he felt—he felt—

  What did he feel? The knot inside him tightened and made it hard to breathe. He turned to Crista, needing to take her in his arms, to kiss her…

  But it was too late. The doors slid open and she gave a little cry, dropped to her knees, and opened her arms to a hurtling gray shape.

  “Hello, Sweetness,” she said happily. “I missed you, too.”

  Grant watched the woman and the cat, his face expressionless. Then he reached down for his overnight bag and hers and strode briskly toward the staircase.

  * * *

  The next day did not begin well. The rain had stopped, but the sky was overcast. And Grant awoke to an empty bed.

  Showered, shaved, and dressed, he made his way downstairs.

  Crista was in the living room. She was seated on one of the white leather sofas, wearing a hot pink sweater over purple leggings. Her hair was loose and lay in soft disarray over her shoulders, and the silver-bell earrings dangled from her earlobes.

  Back in Palm Beach, she’d worn this same outfit and looked heart-stoppingly beautiful. She still looked beautiful—but as out of place against the pristine white elegance of the room as the beaten-up cat beside her or the happily grinning dog at her feet.

  Grant could feel that knot forming in his belly again.

  “Grant!” Crista leaped to her feet and came toward him. “Good morning! I didn’t hear—”

  “I thought we agreed the cat would be confined to the guest room.”

  “I know we did, but that was before—”

  “The change in our relationship hasn’t changed my feelings about cats, Crista.”

  Her face whitened. “I meant before Annie came along. I’ll have to keep them locked up together until the shelter takes her, and I wanted to give them the chance to get to know each other. If you think I was trying to presume on what’s happened between us—”

  “Damn!” He covered the distance that separated them in two long strides and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that—well, I’m running late and…” He laughed, h
oping she’d laugh, too, but she didn’t. “I guess mornings aren’t my best time. Which reminds me—where were you when I woke up?”

  He felt the tension begin to go out of her. “Did you miss me?”

  “You’re darned right, I missed you. Where’d you go?”

  Crista gave him a slow, mysterious smile. “Well, I knew you’d given Mrs. Edison the week off and that she isn’t due back until tomorrow, so I made you breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” He looked past her to the terrace, where the table had been set. “That was sweet, darling, but—”

  “You know those pecan waffles I made in Palm Beach, the ones you liked so much?” She took his hand and began to tug him toward the door. “I couldn’t find any pecans, but I did find chocolate chips, and—”

  “Chocolate chips? In waffles?”

  She laughed. “Come on, Grant. You didn’t think you’d like garlic either, remember?” Her fingers laced through his. “There’s fresh orange juice, too, and coffee, and—”

  “I never eat breakfast.”

  “Sure you do. You ate it every day in—”

  “That was different,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. “Palm Beach was a different world, Crista—” He stopped, hating himself when he saw the hurt in her violet eyes. “What I mean is that Mrs. Edison’s been cooking for me for years. We wouldn’t want to upset her, would we?”

  “No. Of course not, but—”

  “Damn!” Grant frowned at his watch. “I’ve a meeting at nine.”

  “Grant? I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “We’ll talk tonight,” he said as he walked quickly toward the foyer with Crista hurrying after him. “Oh hell. I’ve got to go out tonight.”

  “Tonight? It’s our first night back.”

  “It’s a charity ball at the Waldorf. We won’t have to stay all evening.”

  “But I hate things like that. Can’t you just send in a contribution and stay home?”

  “My firm’s bought a table, Crista. It’s only right I make an appearance.”

  “But—”

  “Dammit, I can’t stand here and argue.” Grant stepped into the elevator car. “Buy yourself a gown at Saks,” he said as the doors slid shut. “I’ll see you at six.”

  Crista stood staring at the closed car doors. After a moment, she swallowed hard and turned away.

  Had Palm Beach been magic—or a mistake?

  In the elevator, Grant leaned back against the wall, the frozen smile slipping from his face as he wondered the very same thing.

  Filled with contrition, Grant came home at five instead of six. All day long, he’d heard his own stuffy voice echoing in his head. What in hell was the matter with him? A stupid charity ball was nowhere near as important as Crista, and he’d canceled his last meeting of the day so he could get home early and tell her that in person—but he needn’t have bothered.

  The apartment was empty except for the cat and dog meowing and barking in the guest suite.

  At 5:15, he scoured the rooms to see if he’d overlooked a note.

  At 5:30, he picked up the service phone and asked the doorman if he’d seen Miss Adams go out.

  At 5:45, he went through a mental list of the things that could happen to a woman on the streets of the city.

  At 6:00, he told himself it was too soon to call the police.

  And at 6:15, the elevator doors opened and Crista came flying into the foyer.

  “Grant,” she said with a little laugh, “you’re home!”

  He looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her hair in disarray, and an awful coldness seized his heart.

  “Indeed.” He folded his arms against his chest. “That’s certainly more than can be said of you.”

  “Oh, I know. And I’m sorry, but—”

  “Where were you?”

  “Downtown. The time just got away from me, and—”

  “I thought you were going to spend the day shopping.”

  “You were the one who said that, not me.” She frowned and took a step toward him. “Grant? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.” He glared at her. “It’s after six, we have to be out of here in an hour, and you—you look as if you spent the day in bed!”

  He wanted to call the words back as soon as he’d said them—and yet, he was glad he had. What did he know about her? Only what she’d chosen to tell him—but Blackburn had told him other things.

  “You know,” Crista said, her lips trembling, “I’ve played this scene before.”

  “Come on, Crista, don’t avoid the issue. I want to know where you were.”

  “My uncle used to leave for his office in the mornings after giving me my instructions for the day, too. Sometimes, he’d even tell me to go to Saks, just as you did.” She lifted her chin and forced a smile to her lips. “It was a polite way of telling me to buy myself something ladylike.”

  “I never said—”

  “And, at night, he’d give me the third degree, the same as you. Well, I’ll make it easy for you, Grant. I’ll tell you exactly where I was.” Her eyes blazed with defiance. “I was in the Village.”

  “With Danny,” he said, his hands knotting at his sides.

  “Is that what you think?”

  “I don’t know what I think, dammit! That’s why I’m asking you!”

  “No. You’re not asking me. You’re accusing me.”

  Grant stared at her. He wanted to storm across the floor, take her in his arms, kiss her, shake her, something, anything, until she told him that she didn’t give a damn for Danny or for any other man, that she only wanted—only wanted—

  He took a step back and jammed his hands into his pockets.

  “If we’re going to be out of here by seven,” he said coldly, “we’d better get started.”

  Crista looked at him for a long moment, and then she let out her breath.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll go and take my shower.”

  Twenty-four hours ago—a lifetime ago—he’d have smiled and said he’d take that shower with her.

  Now, he only clamped his lips together and turned away.

  The ballroom at the Waldorf was thick with famous faces and famous names. Under other circumstances, all the air-kissing as well-groomed cheek met well-groomed cheek would have made Crista smile.

  Tonight, it only made her feel like an anthropologist watching some strange tribal ritual.

  Grant was not doing any kissing. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just sitting at her side as silent and cold as a tomb.

  They were at a table for ten, five men in dark dinner suits, four women in the pale beige that was the designer color of the season—and Crista.

  They were all dying to know who she was, she could tell. Grant had introduced her, of course, but after that, he’d lapsed into his stony silence. Now, everybody at the table was trying hard to pretend nothing was wrong when, in reality, they all knew that something certainly was.

  Crista felt uncomfortable and—for the first time in her life—painfully conspicuous. She’d planned to do as Grant had asked, go to Saks and buy their simplest, quietest, most elegant Givenchy or Chanel, if that was what it would take to make Grant smile at her again as he had in Palm Beach.

  But there hadn’t been time. She had spent the day going in what had seemed like a million different directions, from a guilty stop at the soup kitchen to help prepare lunch to a meeting at the animal shelter, where she’d arranged for Annie to be taken in even though parting with the dog would break her heart. While she was there, one of the attendants had fallen ill and she’d ended up cleaning out kennels. Last but most importantly, she’d stopped off at her apartment to tell Danny that he could stop worrying about her, that she was happy and in love…

  Which was why she’d ended up not cool and proper in a designer original but looking like a neon sign in the gown she’d bought in Palm Beach, and—

  “Do you want to dance?”

>   Crista looked up. Grant was leaning toward her, smiling politely although his eyes were still cold and angry.

  She nodded. Anything was better than sitting here and pretending to give a damn about Muffy’s latest trip to the Côte d’Azur.

  She went into his arms as soon as they reached the dance floor. He held her stiffly, but gradually the music softened and so did Grant’s embrace.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Crista felt tears spring into her eyes. “Oh, Grant, I’m sorry, too.”

  “I had no right to accuse you of…”

  Grant’s apology stumbled to a halt. It was like being out with her in Palm Beach. People were staring.

  “It was my fault,” she whispered. “I should have been home on time.”

  He cleared his throat. “No. I had no right to—”

  Hell! People were staring, but men were gaping. There was a man at a nearby table whose eyes were almost bulging out of his head. Grant stiffened. He wanted to smash his fist into the bastard’s face, to smash something…

  “I got caught up in doing too many things today,” Crista said. “And I hadn’t planned for that to happen.” Her hand curled lightly against his chest. “I’d meant to do as you’d asked, buy myself something elegant and expensive that would make me fit in with these people, but—”

  “But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it,” he said coldly. “It was much more important for you to make every man in the place go home tonight and dream of having you in his bed.”

  The crack of her hand against his cheek echoed through the ballroom like a clap of thunder.

  Couples around them came to a stop and drew back, their eyes shining with anticipation, but the show was over.

  Crista was already flying out the door. And Grant—Grant was going in the opposite direction, heading straight for the bar.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE intercom on Grant’s desk buzzed. He frowned and ignored it but when it buzzed a second time, his frown became a scowl.

  “Jane,” he said as he punched the speaker button, “I told you I was not to be disturbed until Miss Madigan—Who?” Grant leaned back in his chair and began to smile. “Well, of course. Send him in.”