He was drinking coffee, trying to convince himself it was not the black sludge it seemed to be.
He’d made it himself after he’d finally given up all pretence at sleep and gone for his daily run around the Central Park reservoir at an hour when sensible people, including Mrs. Edison, were still in their beds.
The run had helped. The coffee, miserable though it was, had helped, too, and now, after a sleepless night of wondering whom he despised more, himself or the woman in his guest room, things were finally coming into the proper perspective.
Grimacing, he put down the cup, got to his feet, and strolled the length of the terrace, his hands tucked into the pockets of his running shorts, his eyes focused on the skyline.
Last night, he’d bolted from Crista’s room like a man escaping a bad dream, gone straight as an arrow for the bar in the library, and poured himself a shot of brandy that he’d tossed down as if it were water. The stuff had burned his throat, proving that even fifty-year-old booze could taste like rotgut if you drank it the wrong way.
But the brandy had done its job, clearing his head and bringing back at least a glimmer of common sense. By the time he’d climbed the stairs to his bedroom, he’d known that it was time to cut the pretense.
He’d have horsewhipped a man who took on the responsibility of being a woman’s guardian and then behaving as he had.
It was time to walk away from this mess and not look back.
He made his way to his chair, sank into it, and picked up his coffee cup. Walk away, he thought. Yeah, that was the ticket. If he didn’t—if he didn’t…
He took a mouthful of coffee and shuddered.
Look what had almost happened last night.
What in hell had come over him? He had never in his life wanted a woman who didn’t want him, never forced himself on one…
But he hadn’t forced himself on Crista. No matter how she pretended, he could see the desire burning in her eyes like a fire storm when he touched her.
Okay. Maybe that was her thing. Maybe she got turned on by that kind of sexual insanity.
But he wasn’t, dammit! He never lost himself, not in sex or anything else. Self-control was what he was all about. Even his father had recognized that.
“I know you hate my guts, boy.” That had been Charles’s favorite taunt for so many years. “Why don’t you just admit it?”
But Grant had never given him what he wanted, never broken down or responded. He knew a shrink would probably say that that steadfast refusal to react to his father’s provocation had been his own form of rebellion, but whatever the reason, it had served him well, first as a boy and then as a man.
And yet, he’d almost lost all that taut self-discipline last night—and for what? For a woman he didn’t even like, a woman any man could have.
It was crazy—and he was going to put a stop to the craziness right now. He was only waiting for the hands of the clock to reach a reasonable hour and then he’d call Sam Abraham, one of his law partners, and set things in motion.
Sam would make the perfect guardian. He was old enough to be wise, invariably pleasant, and he had a couple of grandchildren Crista’s age. If Sam agreed to assume her guardianship—and Grant was sure he would—the court would almost definitely agree, too.
It was just that he’d never walked away from anything in his life, and it galled him to admit defeat.
He sighed. Was it really only a little while since he and Cade and Zach had laughed over the easy job he’d been stuck with? It had all seemed so simple then, with their hands joined in that old Deadeye Defenders pledge.
Cade was having his own troubles down in Texas; he’d called days ago, sounding grim. And Zach had ended up stuck out in Hollywood longer than he’d expected, but he had to be having a ball. He had a suite in a cushy hotel where the starlets probably filled the swimming pool from one end to the other.
On impulse, Grant put down his coffee cup and reached for the phone. He dialed, then waited, and finally a voice mumbled something that might have been hello.
“Zach?”
“Yeah. Who the hell is this?”
Grant chuckled, sat back, and stretched out his legs. He felt better already.
“Is that any way to say hello to your big brother?”
Zach groaned into the phone. “Grant?”
“On the nose, buddy. How’re you doing?”
There was another groan, followed by a deep sigh. “Grant, you jerk, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Sure.” Grant glanced at his watch. “It’s two minutes after seven, and…” He blinked. “Damn!”
“Yeah,” Zach said wearily. “You got that right.”
“Oh, man, I’m sorry! I forgot about the time difference. What is it out there—4:00 a.m.?”
“Uh-huh.” Zach’s voice was stronger now; Grant could imagine him sitting up against the pillows, rubbing his eyes. “And I only got to bed a couple of hours ago.”
Grant smiled. “Party time, huh?”
There was a moment’s pause. “Not exactly.”
“Hey, pal, if you’re doing business until the wee small hours—”
“Grant? Why are you calling?”
Zach sounded abrupt, but who could blame him? It was four in the morning. Four in the morning? Grant shook his head. He was really in bad shape! How could he have made such a dumb mistake?
“I swear to God, Grant, if this is some gag you and Cade cooked up…”
“No. No, it’s not a gag. It’s…” Grant took a breath. “I suppose it sounds crazy, but I was sitting here, thinking about—about things, and—and—”
And, all of a sudden, he knew exactly why he’d phoned.
“Zach? You remember once we were talking about how to score in the market?”
“You called me at this hour for stock market advice?”
Grant laughed a little. “No, no. It’s just—you said—you once said something that stayed with me, that only the true believers and the certifiably insane didn’t know when it was time to cut their losses and get out.”
“So?” Zach chuckled. “My clients pay a lot of money for that kind of advice.”
“It’s good advice, isn’t it?” Grant switched the phone to his other ear and leaned forward. “I mean, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t think a man was admitting defeat if—if he put it to use?”
There was a silence before Zach spoke. “Listen, Grant, what’s going on? Have you run into financial trouble?”
“No. Hell, no. It’s just—you remember this deal I walked into, this guardianship?”
“The twelve year old kid. Sure.”
“The thing is, she’s not twelve.”
“Younger?”
“Older. Lots older. And…” Grant hesitated. “She’s not a girl at all, Zach. She’s a woman, and—”
“And,” Zach said, his voice suddenly harsh, “she’s doing a number on your head.”
Grant gave a little laugh. “That’s the simple way of putting it.”
“Cherchez la femme!”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I know what you said. Look for the woman. But what’s
that got to do with—”
“Wherever there’s trouble, there’s a dame. You can count on it.” Zach blew out his breath. “Listen, man, do yourself a favor. Hand the babe off to somebody else.”
“Yeah. I thought of that. But dammit, I signed on for this and—”
“Well, sign off! Remember? Cut your losses.” Zach gave a choked laugh. “It’s such good advice I might just take it myself.”
Grant frowned. “Are you talking about that production company?”
“Yeah,” Zach said, his voice flat, “of course. What else would I be talking about? Listen, brother mine, I’ve got a breakfast meeting with a bunch of West Coast sharks. If I’m gonna be my usual brilliant self, I need at least a couple of hours of shut-eye.”
Grant smiled. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Zach cleared his throat. “And Grant? I’m serious about cutting your losses. Do it—while you still can.”
“Thanks for the advice. You stay well, you hear?”
“Yeah. You, too.”
Grant hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. When they were kids, his brothers had often turned to him for advice, but it was such a long time since he’d had to ask anyone for an opinion that he’d almost forgotten how to do it.
Talking with Zach had made him feel better. In fact, he’d phone Sam Abraham right now and—
The phone rang as he reached for it, and he grinned.
“Listen, Zach,” he said, “you don’t have to worry. I’m going to do what you said and—”
But it wasn’t Zach calling, it was Horace Blackburn—and by the time Grant hung up the telephone, he knew that his brother’s advice had come one day too late.
* * *
Crista had spent a sleepless night, too, but it had, at last, resulted in something positive.
Somewhere between darkness and dawn, she had finally come to the only conclusion possible.
She had to leave Grant and this place, and she could not let anything he said or did stop her.
There was no point in beating herself over the head for what had happened last night, or trying to figure out the reasons. It had happened, that was all, and it made no sense to keep playing the ugly scene over in her mind, telling herself that she should have slapped Grant’s face or shouted for the housekeeper when neither thought had ever occurred to her.