The week in Denver, and the funeral, had obviously put him off stride much more than he’d realized. And now, he was supposed to take on a responsibility that he surely didn’t want? To hell with that, he thought as he reached the reception desk.
Blackburn, Blackburn, and Katz were just going to have to find themselves a different baby-sitter for Crista Adams.
The receptionist smiled politely. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” Grant said. “My name is Landon, and I have an appointment with—”
“Excuse me.”
He swore under his breath as the woman from the elevator maneuvered into the space next to him.
“Do yourself a favor,” he said. “Don’t make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have.”
She didn’t even look at him. “I have an appointment,” she said to the receptionist.
Grant slapped his hand on the desk. “This is ridiculous! This woman hasn’t—”
“It was for nine o’clock,” she said, shooting Grant a look. “But I was detained.”
The receptionist smiled uncomfortably. “And you are Miss…?”
“Adams,” the woman said, drawing herself up. “Crista Adams.”
CHAPTER THREE
CRISTA sat in a straight-backed chair opposite Horace Blackburn’s desk, doing her best to carry on a conversation.
Yes, she was well. No, it had been no trouble finding his office. Yes, it was a long time since they’d seen each other.
And all the time, she kept reminding herself that she hadn’t come out in the pouring rain and broken the heel of her boot and made herself at least an hour late for work just for a round of polite chitchat.
She had come to show her uncle’s attorney that the life she’d left behind didn’t mean a damn to her—but how could she do that when all her energies were focused on the man standing a few feet away, the man whose eyes, she knew, had never left her…
The man who had done such an outstanding job of making her look and feel like a fool?
What was he doing here? Why was he part of this meeting with Blackburn?
Crista had asked for answers, but no one had offered any. She’d given her name to the receptionist, and the next thing she knew, all hell had broken loose.
The man beside her had turned so white she’d thought he was going to pass out.
“Who?” he’d said in a strangled voice. “Who?”
Crista had no idea why he’d looked so stunned or why he’d sounded like a demented owl, but his distress had been so wonderful to see that she’d taken a few seconds to enjoy it. Then she’d dredged up the tight-jawed boarding-school accent she’d intended to save for Horace Blackburn.
“I said, my name is Crista Adams—not that it’s any of your business.”
“Crista Adams,” he’d muttered. His color had come flooding back in an alarming rush of crimson and he’d given a short, terrible bark of laughter. “She’s Crista Adams,” he’d said to the receptionist, who sat gaping at them. “Can you believe that?”
“Yes, sir,” the woman had said, and she’d reached quickly for the telephone. “Why don’t I call Mr. Blackburn? He’s been expecting Miss Adams, and—”
“Yes.” And suddenly all the laughter was done with. The man had leaned over the reception desk, his eyes flat and cold. “Why don’t you do that? While you’re at it, tell him Grant Landon is here. And tell him that if he wants to live through the rest of the day, he’d better get his butt out here pronto!”
The receptionist had shot a look at the telephone, thought better of it, then gone flying down the hall. Seconds later, Blackburn had come hurrying toward them.
“My dear Miss Adams,” he’d purred. “And Mr. Landon. How nice to meet you, sir.”
“Cut the crap, Blackburn,” Grant Landon had snarled.
It had been wonderful, seeing it all—the arrogant bastard named Landon in a rage, Horace Blackburn in a panic—so wonderful that Crista had been willing to simply stand by and watch while Landon maneuvered the hapless attorney into the corner. After a few moments of a terse, inaudible conversation, Blackburn had led them both here, to his office.
By then, Crista had begun asking questions and demanding answers, but neither man had offered any.
Now, Landon stood lounging against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his feet crossed at the ankles. It was a casual, I-don’t-give-a-damn posturebut it wasn’t fooling Crista. The tension in him was almost palpable.
But why? Crista cast a cautious glance in his direction, her gaze flying over him, taking in the hard, handsome face with its blade of a nose, the firm mouth, the slightly cleft chin; her eyes drifted to the broad shoulders, lean body, and long legs.
Whoever and whatever this man was, she was certain he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Standing around while a prissy little sycophant like Horace Blackburn droned on and on, his nose twitching like a rodent’s, was surely not something Grant Landon did very often.
Then why was he doing it now? What did he have to do with Blackburn?
Better still, what did he have to do with her?
“…more comfortable, Miss Adams?”
Crista blinked and looked toward Blackburn, who was peering at her over the top of his reading glasses and smiling, if that was what you wanted to call that stiff baring of his yellow teeth. It was costing him plenty to be polite, and while that realization gave her pleasure, it also only added to the mystery.
Why should Horace Blackburn treat her with such deference? It just didn’t make sense, but then nothing that had happened for the past hour made sense.
“Miss Adams? I asked if you wouldn’t like to take your coat off. It must be wet and uncomfortable.”
Grant Landon made a noise, something halfway between a laugh and a cough. Crista’s face flamed but she didn’t so much as glance in his direction.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? All this rain…”
“Mr. Blackburn.” Crista cleared her throat. It was time to restore the balance of power. “Mr. Blackburn,” she said more firmly, “I want to know what’s going on here.”
“Of course, my dear. I know you must have questions and I’ll be happy to answer them—in good time. But first”
“I want them answered now,” Crista said even more firmly. “Why did you ask me to come here?” She jerked her head in Grant’s direction but her eyes remained locked on Blackburn’s face. “And why is that man in the room?”
“Miss Adams—”
“What a good idea, Horace.” Grant’s voice fairly purred with malice. Crista swung toward him. His lips were curved in what she suspected was meant to be a smile, but the effect was anything but pleasant. “Why not tell Miss Adams what she wants to know?” He unfolded his arms, examined the finger
nails of his right hand with great concentration, then offered Blackburn another smile. “I’m sure she’ll be especially pleased when you explain my presence. In fact, I can hardly wait to hear her cries of joy.”
Blackburn turned a furious shade of pink. “Mr. Landon, if you’d just bear with me—”
“No. No, Horace, I am not going to bear with you.” Grant moved toward the desk and Blackburn shrank back into his chair. “I’ve done that, and look where it got me!”
“I realize some errors were made, but—”
“What kind of man goes on vacation without telling his secretary that she’s to bring important matters to his attention immediately?”
“Mr. Landon. Grant, please—”
“If I’d been able to read the Adams file, at least today might not be quite the fiasco it’s becoming. But—”
Crista’s brow furrowed. “What Adams file? Is there a file about me? What’s he talking about, Mr. Blackburn?”
“Mr. Landon,” Blackburn said, “I have already apologized. If you would only—”
“But no. I could not get my hands on that damned file.” Grant straightened up, shot Blackburn an angry glare, and stalked across the room. “Your secretary guarded it with all the zeal of a rottweiler. And now, as a result, this damned situation has the tranquillity of a mine field! Dammit, man!” Grant jabbed his finger in Crista’s direction. “How in hell could you have permitted me to think that she was a twelve-year-old child?”
“Me?” Crista said, looking from one man to the other. “But—but that’s ridiculous. Why would you have thought about me at all?”
Grant bared his teeth in a feral smile. “An excellent question, Miss Adams. But I think I’d prefer leaving it for Mr. Blackburn to answer.”
“I want to know what’s going on here,” Crista said, rising from her chair. “Who are you talking about? Who thought I was a child?”
“Everyone,” Grant said tightly. “My father. And my father’s assistant.” He looked at her. “And, of course, me.”
Crista’s eyebrows lifted. “Really,” she said. Her violet eyes narrowed. “Well, that certainly makes our little interlude in the elevator all the more…interesting.”