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.