Right now, all he could hope was that none of the passersby tossing amused smiles in his direction was Horace Blackburn.
Grant shouldered open the lobby door and made for a marble planter that held a scrawny rubber tree trying to survive. With a grunt, he dumped his burden unceremoniously on the planter’s edge.
“No couch,” he said briskly as he knelt down before her. “But then, you can’t have everything in this life, can you?”
“Let me alone,” she snapped as he reached for her foot.
“I’m checking to see what you’ve done to yourself.”
“What I’ve done? You’ve got to be kidding! You ran me over, you called me a swindler, you—you kidnapped me—”
“I told you,” he said pleasantly as he grasped her ankle. “Sue me. But first you’re going to have to take this boot off.”
“Not on your life! Dammit, I didn’t ask you to—” The furious words ground to a halt. “What’s so funny?”
“You won’t need an ambulance or an orthopedist.” Grant looked up at her, his lips twitching. “What you will need is a shoe repair shop.”
Crista frowned as she leaned forward. “What?”
“It’s your heel. It broke when you—when we—collided. That’s why you had trouble keeping your balance.”
Crista shut her eyes as the man began to chuckle. But she couldn’t blame him. What a fool she’d made of herself, starting the minute they’d bumped into each other and going straight through to that performance she’d put on as he carried her inside this lobby.
She was in a terrible mood, angry at herself and the world, but he had no way of knowing that. He was just a stranger and she’d let it all out on him.
She took a deep breath. “Look,” she said, and opened her eyes…
The apology died on her lips. He was still holding her foot, but he wasn’t smiling any longer. Instead, he was taking a slow, steady inventory, that topaz gaze of his sweeping up the length of her inch by inch.
Crista knew, with awful certainty, what he was seeing. The T-shirt. The ridiculous leather skirt. The stupid boots…
Those incredible boots, Grant thought. They were the sexiest things he’d ever seen. And that skirt—it was leather, like the boots, and it barely came to midthigh. Above it, a wide belt cinched an impossibly slender waist and above that…
Oh yes. Above that, her breasts rose in exquisite fullness, rounded and high and encased in a pale pink cotton shirt that had been dampened by the rain. He could see the outline of her nipples so clearly defined that the need to reach out and touch them, to stroke them until they hardened in need, was almost overpowering.
“Well?” Her voice was low pitched, controlled, and very cold. “Have you had a good look, little boy?” She pulled her foot free of his hand and, with a lurch, got to her feet. “Then run home to Mama and I’ll be on my way.”
Grant rose, too. Her eyes had gone from violet to plum. She was angry at him again, which was laughable—almost as laughable as her pretended outrage when she’d thought he was coming on to her a few minutes ago.
Why would a woman dress this way unless that was exactly what she wanted from every man she met?
“Of course,” he said silkily. “I wouldn’t want to keep you. An appointment with your—ah—your attorney, isn’t that what you said?”
Crista drew her raincoat around her. “You go to hell,” she said. With as much dignity as she could manage, considering the broken boot heel, she turned and walked toward the door.
Damn him, she thought, trying not to tremble. And damn herself even more for letting him do that to her. It was a long time since she’d cared how men looked at her in this awful outfit.
But this man, the arrogant bastard, had more than wanted her. He had judged her. Not that she was surprised. Even soaked to the skin, he wore his money and his breeding like a badge of office. People who didn’t meet his hard-hearted standards, who didn’t measure up to some rigid set of rules of his own making, were beneath his contempt.
He didn’t even believe her story about having a meeting to attend. Well, for all she knew, she didn’t. She was so late now that…
Crista stopped as the directory on the wall caught her eye. Blackburn, Blackburn, and Katz were located in this building, on the twentieth floor.
She spun around. There were two elevators, and the doors of both were just shutting. The man might be in either one.
So what?
“Hey,” she yelled, “wait!”
The doors jerked, stopped, then slid open. Crista hurried into the car. There were two occupants. A middle-aged woman with a briefcase—and him.
Crista shot him a cold look, then turned and folded her arms across her breasts. The elevator climbed slowly. At the third floor, the doors opened. The woman with the briefcase stepped out, and the doors closed again.
Crista counted silently as the car moved upward again. At the sixth floor, it stopped. She turned and glared at the man, who was leaning back against the wall, his feet crossed at the ankles.
“Sorry,” he said with a contemptuous smile. “I’m not getting out yet—but feel free to choose any floor you like.”
Crista’s jaw tightened. “Don’t I wish I could!”
“Following me is pointless. I don’t know what you want, but—”
“Don’t flatter yourself, mister! I have as much right to be here as you do. I have—”
“An appointment. Sure.”
Crista heard the disdain in his words. She told herself it didn’t matter, that the opinion of this stranger meant less than nothing to her—but she was already swinging toward him.
“Has anybody ever told you what an absolutely vile human being you are?”
His eyes narrowed. “Listen, lady. You’ve pushed your luck about as far as it goes. If I were you—”
“You are the most—the most arrogant, insolent, coldhearted, unfeeling son of a bitch—”
She cried out as he grabbed her and drew her to him. Her hand flew toward the control panel but he slammed his fist against it first.
The car shuddered to a halt.
“Hell,” he growled, “I’ve taken just about enough from you!”
Deep inside, Grant could hear a cold, rational voice warning him that he was going over the edge—but he wasn’t listening. No woman who looked like this should blame a man for looking at her, for wanting her—for needing to silence her in the most primitive way.
Grant gave up the battle and plunged into a time when men fought saber-toothed tigers.
He pulled her into his arms, ignoring the beat of her fists against his chest, his mouth dropping to hers in a kiss that demanded not just repentance but submission.
Crista offered neither. When he lifted his head, she spat a name into his face that the voice inside him assured him he more than deserved.
Let her go, Grant told himself. Dammit, man, let her go.
But the darkness reached for him again.
His hands fisted in her hair and his mouth descended toward hers. Again, he kissed her, branding her with his anger. Again, she fought back.
Grant went still. What in hell was he doing? He was not a man who took without giving. He was not a man who wanted without being wanted in return. And, God, that was what he needed from this woman. He needed her to want him, to part her lips for his kiss, to reach out to hold him and turn to fire in his arms.
Slowly, he bent his head, brushed his mouth against hers in soft, gentle strokes. His hands shifted, his fingers threading into the spill of her hair so that her head was tilted back and she was captive to his kiss. He kissed her again and again, each kiss tender and sweet, until he felt the tension and the fear leaving her body, until he felt it being replaced by something else.
She made a little sound, one the tiny bells of her earrings seemed to echo. Grant felt her body soften, felt the sudden heat of her, and he whispered words of reassurance against her mouth.
Crista swayed forward. Her lips parted; sh
e whimpered as his mouth slanted over hers, hungry now, and demanding. Slowly, she rose toward him, she lifted herself to him…
The car lurched to life and Grant and Crista fell away from each other. In the silence, Grant could hear nothing but the rasp of his own breathing, the dull droning of the elevator’s motor, and then the sound of the car stopping and the doors opening.
He swallowed, his eyes on her face. “Listen,” he said thickly, “listen—”
“You louse,” she hissed, and she slapped him so hard across the face that his head rocked back.
When she lifted her hand a second time, he caught hold of her wrist.
“Don’t,” he said very softly. After a long moment, he let go of her, turned, and stepped from the car.
He moved down the corridor like an automaton, his eyes locked on the ornate door ahead that bore the name Blackburn, Blackburn, and Katz.
What in hell had just happened to him? He’d behaved like a Neanderthal. Jesus, he’d acted like a man who’d lost his mind.
At the door, he paused, took a breath, and wiped his hand across his mouth. Then he took another breath and pushed the door open.