“Just water. But I filled the ice-cube trays a while ago—they might have frozen by now.” She stepped past him and reached for the freezer door. “Let me check—”
“I can check for myself,” he said, catching his breath as her hip and shoulder brushed him with licks of flame.
“I don’t mind.” She laughed as she pulled out a tray and turned toward him. “Besides, it’s wonderful, getting a blast of cold from that freezer.” She gave an exaggerated shudder of delight. “I have to admit, I kept it open longer than I had to before, just so the cool air would do its job.”
Don’t look, Grant told himself, but it would have been easier not to have drawn breath. His gaze fell to her breasts.
Oh yes. Yes, the cool air had done its job this time, too. It had turned her nipples into buds, hard and visible under her shirt. He had only to reach out, to slide his hand over her…
Grant jammed his hands into his pockets and took a quick step back.
“Terrific,” he snapped. “I was out there, sweating my guts out, listening to a load of gibberish and trying to make sensible decisions while you were in here, playing silly games.”
“I was not playing games,” she said carefully. “I told you, I was cleaning things. And—”
“And evading responsibility. I should have expected as much. Hell, the next time there’s work to be done—”
The freezer door slammed shut with a bang. Crista spun toward him, her hands on her hips. The smile had faded from her lips and he told himself to stop, that she’d been working every bit as hard as he had and that he was making an ass of himself, but hell, it was safer doing that than—than…
He took a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said.
Her head tilted. “Okay? Is that supposed to be an apology?”
“It’s an admission that I’m too tired to quarrel. I need a cold ale and a hot shower and—”
“What you need,” she said, waving her finger under his nose, “is somebody to call you the arrogant, self-centered ass you really are!”
“Look, I’m not in the mood for this. I told you, I want a shower and a drink and then I want—”
“Do you hear yourself? You want this, you want that! That’s all you ever think of, Grant, what you want and what you think. Don’t you ever get tired of being so damned selfish?”
“Selfish? Me?” He laughed. “Let me clue you in, lady. I have a law practice back in New York, in case you’d forgotten. And here I am in Palm Beach, in your house, dealing with your damages and your contractors, and for what?”
“I’ll tell you for what!” Crista’s face lifted in defiance. “For the joy of ordering me around. For the pleasure of—of playing lord of the manor with a bunch of men you’re going to pay with my money to fix my house and you never even had the decency to turn to me and say, well, Crista, what do you think? Shall we ask Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones or Mr. Brown to patch that leak or—or fill that hole or—or fix the jousts—”
“Joists,” Grant said with a smirk, “not ‘jousts’.”
“I don’t care if it’s joists or jousts or something midway between!” She stamped her foot with rage. “Just who in hell do you think you are!”
“Look, maybe we’re both overreacting. I simply—”
“Simple? I’ll tell you what’s simple, Grant. It’s your ability to be so sure you know everything there is to know about me.”
“Crista, I know you’re upset—”
“I’m not upset. I’m angry.”
He could see that for himself. She was more than angry, she was enraged. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were dark. Everything about her sizzled with tension, and all at once he knew that that tension drew its strength not just from anger but from the same thing that was driving him, too.
“You’re always criticizing me for what you think I’ve done or blaming me for what you think I’m about to do.” Her mouth trembled. “Are you so perfect that you can afford to judge mc?”
Grant took his hands out of his pockets. “I’m far from perfect,” he said in a strained voice.
“Well, at least we agree on something!”
“If I were…hell, if I were…” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “If I were perfect,” he said, his voice harsh, “I wouldn’t do this!”
He bent his head to hers and kissed her, hard, and just that quickly, she melted.
“Grant,” she whispered, her voice soft and silky with desire. He groaned and took her lips again.
Lightning flashed at the window as rain began pelting the roof. And in the hot silence of that dusty room, time spun a slow web around them.
Her arms went around his neck, his went around her waist, and their mouths fused in passion. They moved from light into shadow, from the heat of the kitchen to the coolness of the long hallway, dancers caught up in the patterned steps of the oldest dance of all.
“Crista,” Grant said, his voice thick and urgent. His hands cupped her cheeks, swept aside the silken strands of night black hair as he tilted her face to his. “My beautiful Crista.”
He wanted to tell her more, to tell her that the feel of her body against his was almost more exciting than he could bear, that the smell of her skin was sweeter than any flower. He wanted to say her name again, over and over until it merged with the tinkling of the little silver bells that hung from her ears.
But most of all, he wanted to kiss her, to taste her and drink from her mouth, to savor the way she was kissing him back, her lips soft and warm under his, her tongue slipping against his with a delicacy that seemed unschooled.
His mouth clung to hers as he drew up her T-shirt and slid his hands over her back, her ribs. And when, at last, his hands cupped her breasts, she cried out his name and arched toward him.
“Grant,” she whispered.
Did he hear the question in her voice?
If he did, he answered by kissing her more deeply.
It was no answer at all, and she knew it, but she would not, could not, stop him. Not now. Not ever. Not even if this was wrong.
How could she hate this man and want him at the same time?
And yet she did. She did.
His kisses were hot and scalded her mouth with desire. And his hands, the touch of his hands, the rough sweep of his thumbs across her nipples…
It was exquisite torture.
The girls at the restaurant had joked about this. They’d compared men, laughed openly at what it felt like to touch and be touched.
B
ut she hadn’t laughed. She hadn’t known. She’d never dreamed a man’s kisses, a man’s touch, could do this.
Grant’s kisses. Grant’s touch.
She clung to him as he swung her into his arms and buried her face in his neck, inhaling his scent, tasting his skin with the tip of her tongue as he carried her up the stairs and into a bedroom.
Slowly, he laid her down on the silk coverlet and put his hand against her cheek.
“I want to make love to you, Crista.”
A tremor went through her. “Yes,” she whispered, and she covered his hand with hers and brought it to her lips.
Slowly, he stripped off the damp T-shirt that covered her, yet revealed so much. He looked at her breasts. They were high and perfect, the nipples dark pink against her creamy flesh.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, and he cupped her breasts in his palms, stroked her nipples, and watched as her eyes closed with pleasure.
He bent, kissed the sweet rosebud peaks, drew them into his mouth. She trembled in his arms, his name on her lips, and finally he drew back, took her hands, and laid them against his chest.
Her fingers closed on his shirt buttons and undid them slowly. She slid her hand under the fabric and laid it against his skin, against the heat and hardness of his chest.
“Grant?” she whispered.
He looked into her face and caught his breath. Her eyes were dark, not just with need but with questions. With so many questions…
Crista shrieked as a chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling and smashed into the nightstand beside the bed. A drenching cascade of water poured from the ceiling.
Grant cursed, rolled to his side, and yanked her to her feet. “Hell,” he muttered as he pulled off his shirt and draped it around Crista’s shoulders.
She was soaked. Her hair hung in black rivulets and water dripped from the tip of her nose—and he knew he had never seen a woman more beautiful, or more desirable.
And he had no right to want her.
He was her guardian, sworn to protect her interests—which he’d done by telling her lies and half-truths, all so he could take her away from her lover. Or from her lovers. For all he knew, Crista Adams had slept with half of Greenwich Village.