by Helen Conrad
Did she still consider herself engaged to the man? Impossible.
She doesn’t love him, he told himself. She knows it. And so does he, by now. The feeling of satisfaction that truth brought dimmed as he followed the thought to its logical conclusion.
But what’s the difference, anyway? He stopped, staring at his own distorted reflection in the pane of his window. You’re not about to marry her, are you?
The answer was clear. It rang through the room, despite the loud tape he was playing. What right did he have to help destroy her romance with Jerry when he knew very well marriage was not in the cards for him.
He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. What could they possibly have to talk about any longer? There’d been time for a little yelling, a little persuading, and even a long good-bye. What the hell were they doing in there? Wasn’t Jerry ever going to leave? Maybe he needed a gentle push.
No. He let his breath out slowly and dropped painfully into his desk chair. No, he wasn’t going to run out there and look like a jealous fool. He’d stay here in the study and wait it out. Picking up a pencil, he began to tap it on the desktop. He’d wait Jerry out. Yes, that was what he would do.
Within seconds he was back up out of the chair, pacing again. Almost twenty minutes. Was the guy moving in or what?
One tune stopped, and in the pause before the next began, he heard laughter coming from the kitchen. He stood very still, frozen, staring at the wall. What if Jerry was talking her into coming back to him?
And why not? He slammed down his fist on the desktop. What the hell was she getting hanging around here, anyway?
What if Jerry was kissing her? Adrenaline pounded through Grant as he imagined Jerry’s mouth on those sweet, innocent lips.
He was out in the hall before he knew what he was doing. When he reached the doorway to the kitchen, he stopped and leaned against the door frame. Their backs were to him. Carrie’s head was much too close to Jerry’s. She reached out and touched his shoulder, her hand lingering. Grant felt his stomach contract. An unholy fury filled him. He wanted to kill Jerry.
“I think the telegram is the best idea yet,” she was saying. “It seems urgent, so she’ll pay attention, and yet you don’t have to be there to answer questions until she’s calmed down.”
“You’re right.” He grinned at her. “Say, speaking of telegrams, I just got one myself. I forgot to tell you.”
“So? What was it?”
He grinned at her happily. “I’ve been promoted. You are looking at the new regional director of Maxwell Enterprises. With a seat on the board.”
Before Carrie could utter a word of congratulation, Grant’s voice sliced between them like a well-aimed wedge.
“Hey, good for you, Jer,” he said sardonically as he strolled in to join them as though he’d just arrived. “Is this a reward for making another million for dear old dad?”
They both swung around to watch him enter, their eyes wide at the lightly veiled menace of his tone.
He sank into the third chair and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl the housekeeper had set in the center of the table. His gaze steady on Jerry, he took a huge, crunching bite out of it.
“That’s what you do, isn’t it?” he said, still prodding. “Steal your millions from widows and orphans to make your daddy proud?”
Jerry’s face hardened. “Make an accusation like that in writing, Carrington, and I’ll have you up in front of a judge on libel charges.”
Grant nodded complacently, chewing on his bite of apple and leaning back in the chair so that only two legs rested on the ground. “One of Destiny Bay’s finest, no doubt.” He raised an eyebrow. “Bought and paid for with Maxwell money.”
“Grant!” Carrie could hardly believe what was going on before her eyes. There was a taut cord in Grant that seemed stretched to the breaking point, and the way he was dealing with it stunned her.
Grant looked as though he were surprised to see her sitting there. “Oh. Sorry, Carrie. Am I tarnishing the bright image of your golden boy here?”
“I don’t do anything illegal,” Jerry said fiercely. “Maxwell Enterprises is as reputable as they come.” A sneer curled his lip. “Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. At least I don’t make my living by mindlessly powering a ton of steel and consorting with the dregs of society.”
“That’s me, all right,” Grant said coldly. “But I admit it. I don’t try to hide behind a fancy image and pretend that I’m better than everybody else.”
Jerry’s face was red with anger. He clutched the edge of the table as though it were Grant’s throat.
“Are you sure about that, Carrington? Just what are you pretending to Carrie that’s made her want to stay here with scum like you?”
“Aha.” Grant brought the chair back to rest on all fours with a decided thump and leaned forward on the table, his blue eyes as cold as tempered steel. “Now we’re getting down to it, aren’t we, Jer?” He dropped the apple core onto the table with a deliberate motion.
“Let’s lay our cards out, Jer, old boy. What we got here is a classic case.” He pointed at Carrie with a snap of his long hand. “We’ve got one good-looking woman.” He leaned aggressively toward Jerry. “You want her. And I want her. Isn’t that right?”
Jerry blinked rapidly, not sure where this was going. Direct confrontation on a primal level just wasn’t his style. “I . . . well, you might say . . .”
But it was Grant’s, and he knew how to play the game. Narrowing his eyes he managed to convey a sense of danger that seemed to pulse through the air. “So what are we going to do about this?” His gaze slid insolently to Carrie’s furious face and back again to Jerry.
“I mean, we could flip a coin. We could arm-wrestle.” Negligently he began to roll up his sleeve, as if preparing to do just that, meanwhile giving Jerry a close-up view of what kind of firepower he would be up against. “We could even fight a duel, if you want to get romantic about it.”
Carrie’s jaw had dropped when he’d started with this ridiculous business. Finally she was getting back the power of speech.
“Stop it, Grant,” she ordered, eyes flashing fire. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What do you say, Jer?” he was saying silkily, ignoring her completely. “We’ve got to do something. We can’t let things hang like this. We need closure. No?”
Carrie’s anger spilled out. “I think you’re both being utterly ridiculous,” she cried, pushing back her chair. “And you . . .” She glared at Grant. “I think you’re crazy. Who do you think you are to—?”
Grant’s icy gaze froze her out. “It doesn’t matter what you think. This is between me and your golden boy. Isn’t that right, Jer?”
Sweat was breaking out on Jerry’s forehead. Swallowing hard, he rose from his chair. “I agree with Carrie,” he said a little shrilly. “You’re crazy, Carrington. And I’m getting out of here.”
“Jerry . . .” She couldn’t let him go like this, hounded out by Grant’s absurd playacting. She rose to follow him to the door.
Jerry was in a hurry. Glancing back at where Grant sat, he shook his head.
“If you’re smart,” he told Carrie nervously, “you’ll come with me. But whatever you do, just remember . . .” He jabbed a finger toward Grant. “He’s your problem, not mine.” And he was out the door.
“Jerry!” She watched him get into his car and roar away. Closing the door slowly, she turned and walked back into the kitchen, stopping just inside the doorway. Grant met her gaze, his face defiant. For a long moment neither of them spoke.
“That,” she said at last, her voice shaking, “was the most humiliating scene I’ve ever lived through.”
CHAPTER EIGHT:
The Advanced Workout
Grant’s face could have been carved from stone. “Why didn’t you go with him?” he asked coldly.
She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. “Did you want me to?”
His eye
s looked dark, haunted, and he lowered his head, muttering. “I don’t know. You can do what you want.”
“I see. In other words, you don’t really care where I go or what I do.”
“It’s your life,” he grated out. “And I’ve never made you any promises.”
Her heart was in her throat. Was this it, then? Was this where he told her that all her fears were justified, that he didn’t really want her around? She stood very still, not saying a word. Finally he looked up again, staring at her stricken face for a long moment. Then he turned away and swore viciously.
“All right,” he muttered, hitting his hand against the table again. “I acted like a jerk. I admit it.”
A flash of relief burst in her, but she wasn’t about to let him off that easily.
Her eyes flashed. “Well, you didn’t exactly handle the situation with a whole lot of savoir faire.”
He shrugged, looking down again. “I’m sorry, I had no right to talk about you that way.”
“That’s right. You had no right at all.” She marched in and sat down tensely beside him. “At least it was enlightening.”
He glanced at her sideways. Her face was rigid with indignation. He wanted to take her up in his arms and comfort her, but a stiff sense of reserve held him back. “What do you mean?”
Her fury spilled over again. “I mean you, Grant Carrington. All you care about is winning. You’ve told me that often enough, but I guess I had to see it for myself. Every time you see a contest, you’ve got to mark up another victory, don’t you? And if you can’t find a contest, you’ll make one up.”
He didn’t deny it. Taking an orange from the fruit bowl, he began to roll it back and forth across the table, his dark head bent, his face averted.
She wanted to shake him. “So that’s all I am to you, a prize in some stupid competition between you and Jerry?” She waved her arms around as her mind fully explored that thought. “Did you cook this up the day we first met? Did you decide to take me away from Jerry, just to prove you could?”
His head jerked up. “No, Carrie. That’s not what I wanted. I don’t give a damn about Jerry.”
There were tears stinging in her eyes, but she wasn’t going to let him see them. Jumping up, she began to pace through the kitchen.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she muttered, “I must be crazy to stay.”
He watched her for a moment, then said softly, “You should have gone with Jerry. He’s what you want out of life, isn’t he?”
She spun and stared at him. What did she have to do to show him how she felt? Groping blindly for the doorway, she started for her room, but he’d leapt up from his chair and caught hold of her before she’d made it halfway across the living room.
Crushing her in his arms, he kissed her face again and again, roughly, hungrily, and then he groaned, pressing her close. “Oh, hell, Carrie, what am I going to do with you?”
She clung tightly to his embrace, rubbing her face against his chest, hiding her tears. She was in love with a madman. There was nothing anyone could do.
The blackness of the night closed in on her like a smothering cloak. She couldn’t sleep. She could barely breathe.
She loved Grant Carrington. Now that she’d really admitted it to herself, everything fell into place. He was a tortured man, tortured by his injuries and by other things she couldn’t fathom. She wanted to help him pull through the obstacles, and yet she knew he would reject any help she offered.
He kept her here, yet he kept her at arm’s length.
Why? Why?
She wanted so badly to be close. There was an aching void in her, and she knew of only one cure. She no longer believed he didn’t want her. Regardless of what she’d charged, the scene with Jerry had been another piece of evidence. The way he’d kissed her when Jerry left was another. He was attracted to her. He had to be. And yet he didn’t want to make love.
Certainly she wanted him to make love to her. But even more, she wanted him to love her. Didn’t he know that holding her was enough, if that was all she could have? And how was she ever going to convince him of it when he shunted aside any discussions?
She was going crazy with these endless speculations. She had to know the truth, know exactly what he wanted and how far they could go. There was only one way to find out. She would have to take matters into her own hands.
Throwing back the covers, she slipped out of the bed and walked softly across the floor, not bothering to put a robe over her silky nightgown. She didn’t turn on any lights, and there was little moonlight, but she felt her way where she couldn’t see anything, creeping up the stairs, sliding her hand along the wall when she reached the landing.
The door to Grant’s room was ajar, and she pushed it open. It didn’t make a sound. She stood in the doorway for a long, long moment, wondering if she was totally insane. Wondering if she could go through with this rash plan. Wondering if she could live without him one second longer.
She could hear the ancient rhythm of the surf pounding on the shore, but she could also hear Grant’s even breathing. As she listened, they seemed to blend with the beating of her own heart, each another manifestation of the pulse of nature. A breeze ruffled the curtains at the window, and she shivered. She could smell orange blossoms from the garden below. Walking more softly than a whisper, she went to Grant’s bed and slipped under the covers beside him.
The first thing she felt was a wave of warmth from his large body. He smelled musky, male, and entirely erotic. She put a hand on his chest, and suddenly he’d captured her wrist.
“Carrie?” he whispered, as though he didn’t quite believe what his senses were telling him.
“Hush,” she whispered back. “Please don’t send me away, Grant. I want to stay.”
“Oh, God, Carrie . . .”
He half turned from her, but her hand stayed on his chest, and she wove her fingers in the curly hair. “I know you don’t want to make love to me, Grant,” she whispered. “But let me stay with you. Please.”
She held her breath, afraid that he would reject her, but he lay very still, and she moved her hand, lovingly tracing the flat male nipples, then exploring the muscles that bound one another in tight ropes of strength, the triangle of hair that led to his navel. Her hand cupped his hard stomach, and she could feel a shudder pulse through him.
“Oh, Grant,” she whispered, her face pressed to his shoulder. “You feel so good.”
His groan came from deep within, startling her with its intensity. Some compulsion drew her hand lower.
“No, Carrie . . .” He reached to stop her, but she flattened her hand, spreading the fingers wide, and he groaned again, giving up his attempt at intervention. Acting purely on instinct, she went on, and suddenly she whispered, “Oh, Grant!”
His mouth smothered out her words. She felt her nightgown slipping up to reveal her naked body, his hands slightly rough as they grazed over her. But his mouth, his hot, exciting mouth, was all she could concentrate on. His tongue seemed alive in her, searching and coaxing and tempting and blending her with him in a way she suddenly knew she’d always longed for.
Hot waves of sensation quivered through her, and she was caught in a sea of mindless movement, caught and swirling with no will of her own, turning, spinning, reaching for more of him, always more of him, her hands urging him on.
There was no doubt in her mind any longer. He was attracted to her; he found her desirable. There was no use in pretending any more.
When his mouth finally left hers, she whimpered her loss, but he slid down her body, burying his face between her ample breasts, taking first one, then the other nipple into the heat of his mouth and drawing each as hard as they’d ever been, tantalizing and teasing until she cried out with need for him.
“Not yet,” he whispered sternly when she begged for fulfillment. “Not nearly yet.”
He pushed back the covers so that he could see all of her, his long, hard fingers exploring. He tugged at her ni
pples, rubbing exquisite sensation with his magic touch, then traced a circle around her navel with his tongue. She arched her hips, moaning for him, and he used his expertise to arouse her to a plane above desire, somewhere just short of frenzy.
Suddenly he rose above her, his breathing ragged.
She stared up at him, frowning. “Is this all right, Grant?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You said I wasn’t your type—“
“I lied,” he said harshly. “I was trying to protect you from me, Carrie. But it’s too late now. I’m not a saint.”
No saint could have done what he did next, taking her to a dimension she’d never dreamed existed. She clung to him, panting out her need, hardly able to stand it any longer, and he kept her there, building her desire in a spiral that sent her soaring when he finally plunged inside her and the final release came.
“Stay with me, Carrie,” he said, groaning into her ear. “Now!”
“Oh, God,” she cried out, digging her nails into his flesh in unconscious ecstasy. “Oh, oh, Grant!”
And then it was over, and she was holding on to him as though she would be caught up in the current of some awesome force and swept away forever if she didn’t have him to cling to.
“My God,” she breathed when she’d caught her breath again.
“Amen,” he murmured, lying still beside her.
She sneaked a look at him. “Are you sorry I came up here?” she asked shyly.
His laugh shook the bed.
She smiled into her pillow. “May I stay?”
His arms curled around her, and he pulled her close against him. “I don’t think I’ll ever let you go again,” he murmured.
She sighed, happiness curling through her. Surely he must know now that she loved him. And if he didn’t, she would just have to show him again.
Her eyes drooped and she was asleep in seconds.
Grant watched her in the dark. He smoothed back her hair and listened to her even breathing. Had it really been as good—as special—as he’d thought, or was it just that it had been so long, that he’d waited for her for so long? He didn’t know for sure. And for the moment he didn’t care. She was his—if only for a little while. And that was the way he wanted it.