It was hard, imagining she could ever find a place to work in the pristine whiteness of Grant’s penthouse, but perhaps just having her things with her would make her feel better.
It was late as she made her way toward the front door of Grant’s apartment building, and her footsteps quickened. It had been a lovely day, and the last thing she wanted to do was spoil it with a confrontation…
“Miss Adams?”
She looked up. The doorman—a different one from those she’d seen before—was looking at her questioningly.
“Yes?”
He smiled politely. “I’m glad to see you, miss.”
Crista’s answering smile was puzzled. “That’s very kind of you, but—”
“If you’d just come with me, please?”
As if she had a choice, Crista thought, her smile dimming as he escorted her to the penthouse elevator. She’d forgotten you needed your own key. Well, Grant would simply have to—
She had a quick glimpse of the doorman reaching for the intercom as the doors slid shut, and suddenly she knew what to expect when they opened again.
Grant. Grant, you bastard!
He was waiting for her, his face hard, his mouth tight and thin.
“Where in hell have you been?”
Crista thought of half a dozen answers and discarded them all in favor of a cool smile.
“Good evening to you, too,” she said, and started past him.
She hadn’t gotten two feet when Grant’s hand closed on her shoulder.
“I asked you a question,” he said, spinning her toward him.
“You didn’t ask me a question. You started an inquisition.” She jerked away from him, her head high. “And you can just play that tune to yourself, Torquemada.”
He caught her again at the door to her room. “How dare you disappear? I did not give you permission to—”
“Dare? Permission?” She swung around and glared at him, feeling the lovely day falling away from her with the speed of sound. “You didn’t give me permission?”
“You heard me! As long as I’m in charge—”
“You’re not in charge of anything—except my money. If you think you can—”
She gasped as he shoved her inside the room. The door slammed shut after him.
“Where were you all day?”
“It’s none of your business!”
“Were you in the Village?”
“What if I was? I don’t have to—”
“Greenwich Village,” he said with disdain. “Hell, I might have known.”
His eyes raked over her, from head to toe and back again. She was dressed all in black, the bulkiness of her sweater only emphasizing the long, curved line of her legs; she was draped with silver and beads, those damned silver-bell earrings of hers tinkling softly and swaying against the ebony silk of her hair…
Grant’s gut clenched. She looked wild and untamed, and suddenly he ached to haul her into his arms and—and…
He took a step back and jammed his hands into his pockets.
“What kind of outfit is that? Dammit to hell, don’t you own a decent dress?”
Crista slung down her canvas bag and slapped her hands on her hips.
“Tell the truth,” she said with a cold smile. “You were hoping for another chance to drool over my leather boots!”
“Me? Drool over those boots? You’ve got to be joking.”
“Well, then, it won’t bother you to know that they’re gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?”
She hesitated. Now was the time to tell him, to say, well, the boots, the whole ridiculous outfit, was never anything I’d ever really wear in the first place. It was all just something I wore, like a uniform…
“Well?” Grant’s scowl deepened. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”
“I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but I hated those boots. And that skirt. I only wore it because Gus—”
“Gus?” he said, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, Gus. He—”
“Who the hell is Gus?”
“I’m trying to tell you, dammit! Gus has this—this thing about girls wearing boots, and short skirts, and…”
She saw the look that came over his face. Damn you, Grant Landon, she thought, damn you for leaping to conclusions, for judging me, and damn me for ever thinking of trying to tell you the truth.
“…and I figured, it doesn’t matter what he likes now,” Crista said, her eyes cool. “So I decided to give him the whole outfit for his next girl.”
“For—his—next—girl,” Grant repeated through his teeth.
“Yes. Why not? I don’t need the stuff anymore. Someone else might as well have it.”
His hands fell hard on her shoulders. “How many men are there in your life? Do you know, or don’t you bother keeping count?”
“My life, and the men in it, are none of your concern.”
“What you do is very much my concern, and don’t you forget it.” His face darkened. “The trouble is, I’m the one who keeps forgetting. Hell, you’d think I’d know by now that you and morality are complete strangers.”
Crista wrenched away from him. “Just listen to you, preaching morality! After yesterday, in that elevator…” Her voice trembled with anger. “I didn’t notice you worrying about anybody’s morals then!”
He’d set himself up for that, and he knew it. But she was as guilty as he was. Hell, she was guiltier.
“Well? What’s the matter, Grant? Did I finally get through to you?”
“Listen, lady, I never pretended I was a candidate for sainthood.” He thrust his face toward her, his eyes cold as glass. “You were advertising what you have and I was in the mood to try it.”
“You bastard! You were acting like a—like a gorilla! You were—you were all over me—”
“Yes.” His hands slid to her waist. “I was. And you loved every minute of it.”
“Liar!”
He pulled her hard against him, reveling in the feel of her soft breasts against his chest and her rounded hips against his pelvis. “I could have pulled up your skirt and taken you against that wall.”
Crista slammed her fists against his chest. “Never!”
He laughed as his hands slid into her hair, easing beneath the black, silky strands, tilting her face to his.
“Never?”
“You’re damned right, never!”
She cried out as he bent to her and claimed her mouth in a kiss that was hot with anger.
“Stop lying to yourself, Crista. You wanted the same thing I did.”
“It’s not true! I didn’t. I don’t—”
“Yes. You do.” The anger was fading from his voice and something else was replacing it. She could see it in his eyes, feel it echoing to the beat of her heart. She shuddered when she saw his eyes darken, and his arms began to tighten around her. “Crista,” he whispered. “Crista—kiss me the way you did yesterday.”
She couldn’t hide it, the torrent of desire that was sweeping over her. He saw it, felt it as she swayed unsteadily in his arms, and he bent his head quickly, his breath whispering over her lips in the barest hint of a kiss.
Her hands lifted toward him, then fell away.
“No,” she said, but his mouth was at her throat, seeking out the pulse point where her blood leaped with the reality of her need. “Grant,” she said, “Grant, listen—”
“I am,” he said. She moaned as he cupped her breast. “I’m listening to every word you say. And I know that you want this as much as I do.”
She shook her head. “No. No, it’s—it’s insane.”
It was. It was the worst kind of insanity—but oh, she ached for him. For the feel of his hands, the heat of his kiss, the strength of his enfolding arms.
With a cry of surrender, Crista threw her arms around Grant’s neck and drew his head down to hers.
The kiss was fire, a flame that threatened to consume them both. Grant’s thumb move
d across her breast, urging the nipple to sweet, swollen fullness.
“Tell me what you want,” he said thickly. “Tell me, Crista.”
He watched her eyes turn to smoke as he waited for her answer. Her lips were parted, softly swollen from his kisses. Her skin was flushed with desire.
Dammit! Grant’s breath caught. What was he waiting for? What did he want her to say? That she wanted him more than she’d wanted Danny? Or Gus? Or any of the other faceless men who had possessed her?
With an anguished groan, he thrust Crista from him, wrenched open the door, and welcomed the return of his sanity.
CHAPTER SIX
GRANT sat on the terrace early the next morning. The sun was beating down on his shoulders and, thanks to the tropical disturbances far to the south in the Caribbean, the air felt oppressively thick.