“But?”
She looked at him. “I work mostly in sterling-silver wire. Bars of the stuff are too expensive.”
“Not anymore,” he said quietly, his hazel eyes on her face.
Crista smiled. “No. Not anymore. I keep forgetting that.”
“So.” Grant cleared his throat. “You have given some thought, then, to what you’ll do with your inheritance.”
Her smile tilted just fractionally. “Beyond spending it on boots, you mean?”
“Beyond spending it on your lover,” he said, and instantly regretted it.
He saw Crista’s eyes go flat, saw the slight but real smile disappear from her lips.
What had made him say something so stupid? Here they’d been having a conversation, a real one instead of their usual squabble…
But he was her guardian. It was his responsibility to keep her from doing foolish things. It wasn’t the fact that she had a lover that bothered him; it was simply that it irked him to think of her squandering her inheritance.
“Crista,” he said with a patient smile, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“Yes, you did.” She ripped the page off the notepad, balled it up, and jammed the pad into his midsection. “But that’s okay, Grant.” Her voice was frigid. “You’ve only got another—what?—twenty hours or so to criticize the way I live my life.”
“I’m not criticizing. I’m simply trying to help you make the right decisions—”
Grant clamped his lips together. Crista had snatched the airline’s glossy in-flight magazine from its pocket and now she was making a show of pretending to read it. She sure as hell wasn’t listening to a word he said—not that he gave a damn. What did it matter if they managed a peaceful conversation or not?
He frowned and bent over his computer. But after a little while, he shut it off, stuffed it back into his briefcase, and spent rest of the flight looking out the window at the clouds.
Simon’s house was on Ocean Boulevard, in the heart of Palm Beach.
Crista hadn’t been sure what to expect. She had always been away at school when Simon spent time down here. But she’d seen pictures of Miami Beach, with what looked like traffic jams and endless hotels, all crowded together beside the blue-green sea.
At first, as their taxi sped them away from the airport, she thought this was going to be more of the same.
“You folks visiting for the first time?” the cabbie said, glancing in his mirror.
Crista looked at Grant. He was too busy glowering to answer. She sighed and looked back at the mirror.
“It’s the first time for me,” she said.
“Yeah, well, too bad you picked this time of year. The weather’s not so hot, you know what I mean? But maybe you’ll be lucky. The weatherman’s not predicting anything much but some rain for the next day or so.”
Crista craned her neck at a cluster of pale pink buildings as they rounded a corner.
“It’s awfully crowded, isn’t it?”
The cabbie chuckled. “Not where you’re goin’, it ain’t.”
It wasn’t. Once they turned onto Ocean Boulevard, everything changed. They had entered a world that smelled of the sea, and the sand, and of luxury.
“That’s the Kennedy place,” the cabbie volunteered as they sped past a walled estate. “And that there is Mar-A-Lago. You know, the Trump joint?”
Crista had to smile. She had read about Mar-A-Lago. “Joint” seemed the wrong word for a Moorish mansion containing over a hundred rooms.
“And all the rest of these places?” she asked, leaning forward as she gazed out the window.
“Private getaways for the rich.” The cabbie jerked his head toward an open iron gate that bisected a stone wall off to their right. “Like this place. You sure this is the one you’re lookin’ for?”
Grant spoke for the first time. “Quite sure,” he said coldly, and the cabbie fell silent.
They drove up a long, straight driveway and stopped outside a massive, pink stucco house. Crista opened the car door and made her way slowly to the front door.
“My God,” she murmured, “this place is huge!”
“And it’s a mess.” Grant grimaced as he looked around him. “There’s the palm tree that came down. Hell, the window it took out looks like it’s the size of a football field—and from what I can see, that’s only half the damage.”
He pulled the keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and they stepped inside.
The tile floor was littered with glass and sand. Ahead, just visible in the sun-room, the downed palm lay like a fallen sentinel. It had taken a cabinet, a lamp, and half a sofa with it. Sunlight streamed into the room from the gaping hole in the ceiling. And beyond that, tilted on its side, a boat that seemed as big as the QE2 sat in solitary splendor on the verdant back lawn.
“Oh my,” Crista whispered.
“Oh hell,” Grant said, and reached for the telephone.
Hours later, Grant shook hands with the last of half a dozen contractors, assured him that he’d be in touch as soon as he cleared his estimate with the insurance company, and shut the front door with a sigh of relief.
It had been a long, miserable afternoon. All he wanted now, he thought as he headed for the kitchen, was a bottle of cold ale—but he’d settle for a tall glass of anything with lots and lots of ice, followed by a cool shower.
The fallen tree had somehow wiped out the airconditioning system, and he was hot and grimy from following more contractors through more cubbyholes and crawl spaces than he’d thought existed. He was irritable, too, tired of hearing one dire prediction after another of what would happen if he didn’t get someone to make a dozen repairs within the next two minutes.
But mostly, he was royally fed up.
Crista had been at his side when the first contractor arrived, but somewhere between the roofer’s musings and the electrician’s dire warnings, she’d murmured something about the sun and the sand and vanished, leaving him to listen to the unending inventory of Things That Needed Fixing, which was a hell of an attitude to take when you considered that this was her house, not his. He would advise her on what to do, of course, but that didn’t mean she didn’t need to learn to bear responsibility.
Not that he was particularly surprised. Crista would always take the easy way out. She wouldn’t think twice about leaving him to deal with the nitty-gritty while she explored the private beach behind the house and basked in the sun.
Grant frowned, turned a corner—and came to a dead stop.
Crista wasn’t on the beach. She was in the kitchen instead, elbows deep in soapsuds at an enormous stainless-steel sink, wearing a cotton T-shirt damp with sweat and a pair of denim shorts.
He made a sound, something between a groan of despair and a whisper of surprise, and she whirled around, her eyes as wide and startled as a doe’s.
“Grant!” She gave a laugh and lifted her arm, swiping her hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand. The T-shirt rose, exposing a band of ivory flesh at her waist. “I didn’t hear you coming. Are the contractors gone?”
He swallowed dryly. “Yes.”
“And? Is it as bad as it looks?”
“No. I mean, the house isn’t about to fall down around our ears and the guy who owns the boat will remove it and pay for the damage to the seawall…” Grant cleared his throat. “What are you doing in here, Crista?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’ve been trying to clean up. Didn’t you notice that I’d swept most of the sand and glass out of the front room and the sun-room?”
He hadn’t, but now that she mentioned it, nothing had crunched under his feet the past few times he’d walked through the place.
“I must have emptied a ton of sand out of here.” She reached across the sink and shut off the water. “Now I’m doing what I can to salvage these little figures.”
“Figures?” Grant echoed stupidly. “What figures?”
“These.�
��
She plucked a tiny Dresden shepherdess from the sink and held it out, but the only figure he could seem to concentrate on was Crista’s.
The damp T-shirt clung to her breasts, revealing their every detail. The shorts were ragged cutoffs. He’d seen skimpier ones on runners in Central Park, but all he could think about was that under them her legs were every bit as long as the boots had made them seem and her thighs were as golden and as rounded as he had dreamed.
In the distance, thunder rumbled across the ocean.
“There was a case filled with little porcelain statues near that broken window. I don’t usually like fussy things like these but…” She gave a shrug and smiled at him. “They looked kind of dejected, lying toppled over, half-buried in a pile of sand. I thought I’d give them a bath—the ones that weren’t broken anyway.”
“I-I see.”
“Lord, it’s hot in here!”
He could see that for himself. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright; her French braid had come undone and strands of what looked like ebony silk curled lightly against her cheeks. As he watched, she lifted her hands to her hair and scooped it back behind her ears. The simple action made the tiny silver bells in her lobes tinkle softly—and made her breasts rise sweetly beneath her shirt.
Grant felt a pain wicked as a knife thrust twist inside his belly. He turned and yanked open the refrigerator door.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything cold to drink in this place,” he growled.
“Just water. But I filled the ice-cube trays a while ago—they might have frozen by now.” She stepped past him and reached for the freezer door. “Let me check—”
“I can check for myself,” he said, catching his breath as her hip and shoulder brushed him with licks of flame.
“I don’t mind.” She laughed as she pulled out a tray and turned toward him. “Besides, it’s wonderful, getting a blast of cold from that freezer.” She gave an exaggerated shudder of delight. “I have to admit, I kept it open longer than I had to before, just so the cool air would do its job.”
Don’t look, Grant told himself, but it would have been easier not to have drawn breath. His gaze fell to her breasts.
Oh yes. Yes, the cool air had done its job this time, too. It had turned her nipples into buds, hard and visible under her shirt. He had only to reach out, to slide his hand over her…
Grant jammed his hands into his pockets and took a quick step back.
“Terrific,” he snapped. “I was out there, sweating my guts out, listening to a load of gibberish and trying to make sensible decisions while you were in here, playing silly games.”
“I was not playing games,” she said carefully. “I told you, I was cleaning things. And—”
“And evading responsibility. I should have expected as much. Hell, the next time there’s work to be done—”
The freezer door slammed shut with a bang. Crista spun toward him, her hands on her hips. The smile had faded from her lips and he told himself to stop, that she’d been working every bit as hard as he had and that he was making an ass of himself, but hell, it was safer doing that than—than…
He took a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said.
Her head tilted. “Okay? Is that supposed to be an apology?”
“It’s an admission that I’m too tired to quarrel. I need a cold ale and a hot shower and—”
“What you need,” she said, waving her finger under his nose, “is somebody to call you the arrogant, self-centered ass you really are!”
“Look, I’m not in the mood for this. I told you, I want a shower and a drink and then I want—”
“Do you hear yourself? You want this, you want that! That’s all you ever think of, Grant, what you want and what you think. Don’t you ever get tired of being so damned selfish?”
“Selfish? Me?” He laughed. “Let me clue you in, lady. I have a law practice back in New York, in case you’d forgotten. And here I am in Palm Beach, in your house, dealing with your damages and your contractors, and for what?”
“I’ll tell you for what!” Crista’s face lifted in defiance. “For the joy of ordering me around. For the pleasure of—of playing lord of the manor with a bunch of men you’re going to pay with my money to fix my house and you never even had the decency to turn to me and say, well, Crista, what do you think? Shall we ask Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown to patch that leak or—or fill that hole or—or fix the jousts—”
“Joists,” Grant said with a smirk, “not ‘jousts’.”
“I don’t care if it’s joists or jousts or something midway between!” She stamped her foot with rage. “Just who in hell do you think you are!”
“Look, maybe we’re both overreacting. I simply—”
“Simple? I’ll tell you what’s simple, Grant. It’s your ability to be so sure you know everything there is to know about me.”
“Crista, I know you’re upset—”
“I’m not upset. I’m angry.”
He could see that for himself. She was more than angry, she was enraged. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were dark. Everything about her sizzled with tension, and all at once he knew that that tension drew its strength not just from anger but from the same thing that was driving him, too.
“You’re always criticizing me for what you think I’ve done or blaming me for what you think I’m about to do.” Her mouth trembled. “Are you so perfect that you can afford to judge mc?”
Grant took his hands out of his pockets. “I’m far from perfect,” he said in a strained voice.
“Well, at least we agree on something!”
“If I were…hell, if I were…” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “If I were perfect,” he said, his voice harsh, “I wouldn’t do this!”
He bent his head to hers and kissed her, hard, and just that quickly, she melted.
“Grant,” she whispered, her voice soft and silky with desire. He groaned and took her lips again.
Lightning flashed at the window as rain began pelting the roof. And in the hot silence of that dusty room, time spun a slow web around them.
Her arms went around his neck, his went around her waist, and their mouths fused in passion. They moved from light into shadow, from the heat of the kitchen to the coolness of the long hallway, dancers caught up in the patterned steps of the oldest dance of all.
“Crista,” Grant said, his voice thick and urgent. His hands cupped her cheeks, swept aside the silken strands of night black hair as he tilted her face to his. “My beautiful Crista.”
He wanted to tell her more, to tell her that the feel of her body against his was almost more exciting than he could bear, that the smell of her skin was sweeter than any flower. He wanted to say her name again, over and over until it merged with the tinkling of the little silver bells that hung from her ears.
But most of all, he wanted to kiss her, to taste her and drink from her mouth, to savor the way she was kissing him back, her lips soft and warm under his, her tongue slipping against his with a delicacy that seemed unschooled.
His mouth clung to hers as he drew up her T-shirt and slid his hands over her back, her ribs. And when, at last, his hands cupped her breasts, she cried out his name and arched toward him.
“Grant,” she whispered.
Did he hear the question in her voice?
If he did, he answered by kissing her more deeply.
It was no answer at all, and she knew it, but she would not, could not, stop him. Not now. Not ever. Not even if this was wrong.
How could she hate this man and want him at the same time?
And yet she did. She did.
His kisses were hot and scalded her mouth with desire. And his hands, the touch of his hands, the rough sweep of his thumbs across her nipples…
It was exquisite torture.
The girls at the restaurant had joked about this. They’d compared men, laughed openly at what it felt like to touch and be touched.
B
ut she hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t known. She’d never dreamed a man’s kisses, a man’s touch, could do this.
Grant’s kisses. Grant’s touch.
She clung to him as he swung her into his arms and buried her face in his neck, inhaling his scent, tasting his skin with the tip of her tongue as he carried her up the stairs and into a bedroom.
Slowly, he laid her down on the silk coverlet and put his hand against her cheek.
“I want to make love to you, Crista.”
A tremor went through her. “Yes,” she whispered, and she covered his hand with hers and brought it to her lips.
Slowly, he stripped off the damp T-shirt that covered her, yet revealed so much. He looked at her breasts. They were high and perfect, the nipples dark pink against her creamy flesh.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, and he cupped her breasts in his palms, stroked her nipples, and watched as her eyes closed with pleasure.
He bent, kissed the sweet rosebud peaks, drew them into his mouth. She trembled in his arms, his name on her lips, and finally he drew back, took her hands, and laid them against his chest.
Her fingers closed on his shirt buttons and undid them slowly. She slid her hand under the fabric and laid it against his skin, against the heat and hardness of his chest.
“Grant?” she whispered.
He looked into her face and caught his breath. Her eyes were dark, not just with need but with questions. With so many questions…
Crista shrieked as a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling and smashed into the nightstand beside the bed. A drenching cascade of water poured from the ceiling.
Grant cursed, rolled to his side, and yanked her to her feet. “Hell,” he muttered as he pulled off his shirt and draped it around Crista’s shoulders.
She was soaked. Her hair hung in black rivulets and water dripped from the tip of her nose—and he knew he had never seen a woman more beautiful, or more desirable.
And he had no right to want her.
He was her guardian, sworn to protect her interests—which he’d done by telling her lies and half-truths, all so he could take her away from her lover. Or from her lovers. For all he knew, Crista Adams had slept with half of Greenwich Village.
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