But that had all changed. Seeing her this way, standing in the embrace of her half-naked lover, her eyes blazing with defiance, had erased any rational thought from his mind.
Dammit, the woman really did need someone to watch out for her! Everything that had happened today, from the way she’d behaved hours ago to finding her now, living in squalor with a man who was not just sleeping with her but was already asking her for money—all of it screamed the same undeniable message.
Crista Adams needed a firm, guiding hand—and that hand would have to be his.
His brothers had accepted their burdens without complaint. Well, it was time he did the same. No matter how he disliked it, he had a responsibility. And he would not—could not—shirk it.
Grant took a deep breath. “I came here to see, firsthand, what sort of living arrangements you had.”
“Well, you’ve seen. And now, if you don’t mind, Danny and I—”
“I find those arrangements unacceptable.”
She stared at him for a moment while her brain processed the sentence, and then her dark brows lifted.
“Am I supposed to burst into tears at that?”
Grant smiled tightly. “Get dressed, Crista.”
“I’ve no intentions of getting dressed. Danny and I planned a quiet evening at home, and—”
“Get dressed,” he repeated, “and pack your things.”
“What are you talking about?”
“For the next three months, you are my responsibility.”
“You mean, for the next three months, I’m stuck with you!”
“As you prefer.” Grant’s eyes met hers. “The point is, you are not going to spend those months here.”
“Don’t be crazy. You can’t just tell me where to—”
“I can,” he said, “and I am. Now, get moving.”
It was pure bluff, and he knew it—but would she? Grant stood expressionless, his eyes on Crista’s face. Finally, she gave a little sob of rage.
“You—you miserable rat! You—you…”
Her voice broke. Suddenly, she looked terribly lost and alone. Grant wanted to go to her, take her in his arms, and stroke the glossy black waves of hair back from her flushed face. It’s all right, he wanted to say, it’s all right, Crista. I won’t let anything hurt you.
“Crista?” Danny slid his arms around her. “This guy can’t really do this, can he?”
Grant’s spine stiffened. “Where did you get your law degree, pal?” he snapped, and then he completely abandoned whatever ethics he had left. “As her guardian, I can do whatever I damned well please. Now, go on, Crista. I’ll give you five minutes—and then I’ll carry you out of here in that robe!”
He saw the rage flicker in her eyes. She drew in her breath as if she were going to say something, but then she clamped her lips together, turned, and stalked down the corridor. A door slammed, and then there was silence.
Moments passed. Then, at last, the sound of swift, feminine footsteps came tapping down the hallway.
Grant’s teeth ground together. Crista was dressed exactly as she had been that morning, in that damnable little skirt and tight T-shirt. The boots had been fixed, he saw, and rose, just as he’d remembered them, almost to her thighs. She had a small suitcase in one hand—and a cardboard carrier in the other.
He frowned. “What,” he said with a nod toward the carrier, “is that?”
The answer came in the form of a long, mewing cry.
“A cat?” Grant said. Crista didn’t answer. “That’s out of the question. You cannot take a cat with you.”
Her eyes met his, blazing with defiance. “Try and stop me!”
She turned to Danny and kissed his cheek. Then, head high, she marched out the door. After a moment, Grant followed. Even an attorney with no ethics knew when it was time to retreat.
The cat, and that abominable outfit, could be dealt with later. All that mattered now was that he had taken Crista out of that rattrap…and out of her lover’s arms.
For the next three months, she would live with him, Grant thought, and even as he did, he despised himself for the sudden, quicksilver race of fire he felt shoot through his blood.
CHAPTER FIVE
CRISTA was not a stranger to luxury and money. It was what she’d been surrounded and suffocated by all the years she’d lived with her uncle.
Even so, Grant’s penthouse took her by surprise.
It was enormous, easily twice the size of Uncle Simon’s town house, and stunningly elegant. The sea of white that stretched before her might have come straight from the pages of a magazine.
But it was hard to imagine someone actually living here and putting their feet up while they read the Sunday papers.
Grant’s housekeeper greeted them without a blink, as if outlandishly dressed women clutching cardboard carriers that gave off terrifying hisses and moans were everyday events in her life.
“Mrs. Edison,” Grant said, “this is Miss Adams.” He took Crista by the arm and drew her forward. “Please show her to the guest suite and see to it she’s comfortable.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“You can put that in the laundry room,” he said, jerking his head toward the carrier. “And then—”
“My cat comes with me!”
The words burst from Crista’s lips. Grant gave her a patient smile.
“And so he has—against my better judgment. Now it’s time to let Mrs. Edison have him.”
Crista’s chin rose in defiance. “Sweetness stays with me.”
Sweetness? Grant’s gaze flew to the carrier box. The creature making those bloodcurdling sounds was named Sweetness? Hell, he thought wearily, why not? Everything else about this endless day was crazy; if his ward turned out to be a sexy hellion with an inheritance worth millions instead of a poor little waif, why couldn’t a cat that screamed like a banshee be named Sweetness?
God in heaven, who would believe any of this? Cade and Zach were out in the real world, dealing with real problems, and he—he was debating feline rights with a woman whose attitude made the cat’s hissing sound like murmurs of love.
Enough was enough. This was his home, and he was her guardian, and that was the end of it.
“I am not going to argue with you, Crista,” he said with a brisk certitude as he reached for the carrier. “Now, hand that thing over!”
“No!”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Edison will fix it a sleeping place for the night, and then, in the morning, I’ll arrange for it to be sent to—”
“It’s not an ‘it’, it’s a ‘he’. And you’re not sending him anywhere.”
“Stop being a little fool!” Grant could feel his temper rising. “This is no place for a cat.”
“This is no place for a human being, either,” Crista snapped, tossing her head so that her hair flew back from her flushed cheeks. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Stop this nonsense!” Grant snatched the pet carrier from her hand. “The animal will be perfectly comfortable in a kennel.”
“He won’t. Try putting yourself in his place. How would you feel if you were suddenly uprooted, taken from your home and—and set down in a—a strange place without anyone to—to care for you or—or…”
To her absolute dismay, Crista felt the swift, humiliating sting of tears start in her eyes. She blinked furiously, praying Grant hadn’t noticed that momentary sign of weakness, and took a steadying breath.
“You’re right,” she said coolly. “Now that I think about it, he would be better off in a kennel. That way I won’t have to worry about his shedding or leaving footprints in this—this interior decorator’s showplace!” Her chin rose. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to my room.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Grant nodded. “Mrs. Edison, see Miss Adams to her rooms, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” The housekeeper cleared her throat and nodded toward the cat carrier Grant was clutching in his hand. “Ah, shall I take c
are of that first, or—”
“No.” Grant cleared his throat, too. “No, it can wait,” he said. “I’ll just take the thing to the laundry room and you can deal with it later.” He looked at Crista. “Good night.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and followed Mrs. Edison across the foyer to the curving white staircase, her head high, her shoulders square. Grant watched her until she’d vanished; then, still holding the cardboard carrier, he made his way to the laundry room, switched on the light, shut the door, and put the box on the tiled floor.
The humming and hissing noises had stopped, but he had no idea why. It might be a good idea to check before Mrs. Edison opened the box. He bent, undid the closure, and waited. After a second or two, a gray head pushed its way cautiously into the light.
It was a cat, all right, with a healed but mangled ear, and all the noise had clearly been nothing but a bluff, for he could see that it was trembling.
Grant shook his head, bent again, and lifted the cat gingerly in his hands.
All that fuss for this?
The cat looked at him, its huge yellow eyes unblinking, and then it gave a delicate little shudder.
Grant’s jaw tightened. “Hell,” he said again, and then he wrenched open the door.
Mrs. Edison was coming down the steps as he started up.
“There you are, sir. I’ve settled the young lady in as best I could and…” Her voice trailed away as she saw the cat. “Oh, the sweet little…”
Her eyes flew to Grant’s, and he frowned.
“The damned thing will probably destroy the laundry room, left to its own devices,” he growled.
“Yes, sir.”
“Find a box somewhere and line it with an old towel. And I suppose you’d better fill a saucer with milk.”
“With tuna fish, sir. Milk’s not really…” Mrs. Edison looked at Grant, swallowed, and nodded her head. “Of course, Mr. Grant. I’ll take care of everything.”
Still glowering, he strode down the hall and pounded his fist against the door to the guest suite. It swung open immediately.
“Mrs. Edison? I wonder if you could just remember to give my cat a dish of—”
Crista stared in disbelief. She had expected the housekeeper to be standing there, but it was Grant instead. His face was dark as a thundercloud—and he was holding Sweetness by the scruff of his neck.
“Here,” he said, thrusting the cat at her. “Take the damned thing and be done with it!”
Crista snatched the cat into her arms. She buried her face in its fur. When she looked up, her eyes were shining.
“You mean—” she swallowed “—you mean, I can have him with me tonight?”
“I mean,” Grant said coldly, “that you can keep him. Just make sure he stays in your rooms.”
She nodded.
“I’m not doing this for you,” Grant said brusquely. “I’m doing it because I can’t afford any more disruptions in my life. I know you may find this difficult to believe, Crista, but I have a law practice to attend to. You are not my only legal responsibility, and—”
“Grant?”
Her voice was soft, yet it cut through him sharply enough to cause a curious pain in his chest. She was wearing those silver earrings again, the ones with the little bells; they were swaying ever so slightly, their soft, tinkling sound almost like a sigh.
“I—I want to thank you. For understanding about the cat, I mean.” She swallowed; his gaze flew to the long, tender column of her throat, then returned to her face. There was a hint of dampness on her cheeks and a faint tremor in her lips.
Was she going to cry?
“He means a great deal to me. I—I found him, you see, in the street. He’d been hurt, and…”
Her voice droned on, as soft as the cat’s fur had been under his hand. Grant jammed his hands into his pockets; it was ridiculous, but he wanted to reach out, take her in his arms, and tell her everything would be fine…
He felt his heart harden.
Oh, but she was good at this, at making a man see her as he wished she were. But why wouldn’t she be? She’d had lots and lots of practice.
“…and you won’t have to worry,” she said. “I promise. I’ll see to it he stays in my room and doesn’t—”
“Make sure that you do. If I so much as glimpse him where he shouldn’t be, all the pleading in the world won’t help you. The cat will be out of here so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
He turned sharply and walked away. No, Crista thought, as she stared after him, no, he didn’t walk. He marched.
Her lips tightened. She bumped the door with her hip, slamming it shut, then leaned back against it.
How stupid could she have been? For just a moment, she’d almost thought he might be human.
But he wasn’t, and she would not make the same mistake again.
“Three months, Sweetness,” she whispered. The cat purred and tapped a gentle paw against Crista’s chin. “That’s right, little one. So long as we have each other, we can certainly manage to get through twelve weeks.”
And that was all it was. Twelve short weeks.
Then why did it seem like a lifetime?
* * *
By morning, she had figured out the way to make the time pass instead of drag.
She had a life, and she would go on living it. Oh, she’d give up her job, though it was tempting to keep Gus’s leather outfit, wear it as often as she could manage just to see Grant’s mouth narrow with distaste, but only a masochist would want to go on tending tables at the restaurant when she didn’t have to.
As for the rest—her volunteer work at the community center and animal shelter, her sketching and her jewelry design—Crista’s mouth firmed. She wasn’t about to give up any of it. Not for a million Grant Landons!
She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of ribbed black tights, a black turtlenecked sweater, and black ballet flats. She draped a necklace of her own making around her neck—a long length of brightly colored trade beads interspersed with silver squash blossoms—put on the silver-bell earrings, and brushed out her hair.
It was almost nine according to her watch. Grant would certainly be gone by now.
Crista plucked the hated leather skirt, boots, and T-shirt from the chair where she’d left them the night before and stuffed them into a canvas carryall bag. Then she patted Sweetness, stepped out into the corridor, and closed the door carefully after her.
The apartment was silent, the dense white carpet muffling her footsteps as she made her way down the steps.
Mrs. Edison was cleaning the living room, although what dust would dare settle in such sterile surroundings was beyond Crista to imagine.
“Oh, my,” she said with a little laugh, “you startled me, Miss Adams. Did you want something? You had only to ring, and I—”
“I’m going out for a while, Mrs. Edison. If you want something, I’d be glad to pick it up for you.”
The housekeeper stared at her. “Me?”
“Something from the market, perhaps. Milk, or bread…whatever.”
“No. No, thank you very much. But, ah, Mr. Landon didn’t—he didn’t mention that you’d bethat you—”
Crista’s smile faded. “I don’t have to clear my comings and goings with anyone, Mrs. Edison.”
“Well, no. I suppose not. But if he should phone and ask after you…”
“Just tell him I’m out.”
“Yes, but—”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Edison.”
It was sunny out, and warm, and Crista’s sense of well-being grew with every step she took. Even the subway ride down to the Village was exhilarating.
Freedom, she thought with a little smile, was a wonderful thing!
Gus’s Tavern was quiet at that hour. Crista made her way straight to his office and knocked on the door.
“Come,” Gus barked.
He looked up from his racing form as she stepped inside and listened with disinterest as she began explaining that sh
e was quitting.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair and scratching his chest. “So?”
“I just wanted to thank you, for taking me on in the first place, and—”
“Hey, don’t bother with the bull, girl. You’re quitting. That means I ain’t gonna give you no references.” He chuckled at his own joke, then frowned as she piled the skirt, boots, and pink shirt on his desk. “What’s that for?”
“For the next girl who needs them.” Crista smiled slightly. “Give the stuff to her and wish her luck for me.”
Out on the street again, she found it was all she could do to keep from flinging out her arms and whirling in a circle. Danny had tried making her see how terrific it was, inheriting all this money, but she’d been so angry at Grant that she hadn’t really been listening.
Now, for the first time, reality was sinking in. She was done with surly customers, greasy food, and the stink of stale beer. And if that meant putting up with Grant Landon for a couple of months, well, so what? She had put up with worse when she’d lived with Uncle Simon.
Try as he might, Grant would not manage to spoil her happiness!
She strolled the streets in contentment, glad to be back where she’d spent not just the past six months of her life but her childhood. Her parents had had little money—dancers and painters were rarely rich—but her life had been full and happy.
And it would be again, she thought with determination, once her time in purgatory had ended.
She stopped off at both the animal shelter and the community center to pledge more volunteer hours, and then, since it was such a lovely afternoon, she bought herself lunch from a vending cart and sat munching her hot dog and sipping her Coke on a bench near the Washington Arch, listening as a long-haired young man with a battered guitar sang mournfully of love won and lost.
Finally, as the afternoon wore to a close, she paid a visit to her apartment. Danny was out, but it was still good to be back in the familiar, shabby rooms. Crista stuffed her sketch pad and some unfinished jewelry into her canvas bag, hesitated over her tools and a small reel of silver wire, then tucked them in, too.
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