He laughed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
He was still laughing as she turned and strode back into the living room, but suddenly his laughter faded and died.
He had a vision of Crista walking slowly toward him across a windswept beach. She was wearing a wisp of a bathing suit and her body was sun-kissed and hot as she came into his waiting arms. And when she lifted her face to his, her eyes were dark and filled with need…
Grant jerked the forgotten coffee cup to his lips and drank down all that remained of the black, bitter dregs.
Not that it would do any good, he thought.
It was going to take more than caffeine to get him through the next twenty-four hours.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CRISTA answered the light knock at her door to find Grant’s housekeeper standing in the hall.
“Mr. Grant says to tell you your flight leaves in two hours, miss.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Edison.”
“He asks if you’d please be ready as soon as possible.”
Crista smiled. She doubted that Grant’s request had been made quite as politely.
“Of course.”
“And he suggests you take only luggage you can carry on board, miss. He says—”
“He says,” Grant’s voice interrupted brusquely as he came striding down the hall, “that he’s damned if he’s going to stand around killing time at a luggage carousel.”
Mrs. Edison’s eyes widened as he brushed past both women. A second later, he was back.
“Do us both a favor, will you? Try leaving those miserable silver bells behind. The sound of them’s beginning to drive me nuts!”
He vanished again. Seconds later, a door slammed farther down the hallway.
“Thank you, Mrs. Edison,” Crista said calmly.
The housekeeper swallowed. “That’s—that’s quite all right, miss.”
“You will take care of my cat for me, won’t you?”
“Of course.” The woman’s face softened. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss Crista. The one-eared fellow and I will get along just fine. You just go off to Florida and enjoy yourself.”
Crista nodded, shut the door, and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
Enjoy herself? On a trip she didn’t want to take, to a place she didn’t want to go, with a man she didn’t want to be with?
She laughed mirthlessly as she opened her canvas carryall bag and began tossing things into it.
Oh yes, she was going to have an absolutely wonderful time. A marvelous time. A…
She paused, the sound of the housekeeper’s voice echoing in her ears. How many “guests” of Grant’s had the woman said those words to? How many other women had stayed here, in this apartment, and then gone off with him for a weekend?
They had not stayed in these rooms, she was certain of that. The women who’d come here before would have shared Grant’s room and his bed.
But what did she care? What he did was none of her business, she reminded herself as she dumped her comb and brush into the carryall.
Any woman who could put up with Grant Landon was entitled to him. As for herself—she smiled grimly as she carefully took the silver-bell earrings from the dresser.
They annoyed him, did they? All the more reason to be sure to wear them, then.
It was the least she could do, considering that they were about to spend their last twenty-four hours together.
* * *
He was waiting for her in the entry foyer, and the sight of him was a surprise.
Crista had drawn her hair back into a French braid and tossed a denim jacket on over her jeans and cotton sweater, but other than that she was dressed as she had been during her confrontation with Grant on the terrace.
She’d expected him to disapprove of such casual attire, especially for a trip to posh Palm Beach, and that would be his problem, not hers.
But he was dressed very much as she was, in faded jeans that clung to his hips and legs more closely than she cared to notice, and he hadn’t bothered shaving off that faint, sexy stubble.
His gaze swept over her without any sign of approval or disapproval, although he frowned when he spotted the earrings.
“Ready?” he said briskly.
She nodded, at the same time trying to ignore the sudden tightness in her throat.
It would have been better if he’d worn a suit and tie, if he’d shaved, if he’d done something to make it look as if they were going off on a business trip instead of it looking as if—as if…
“Let’s get going, then. I want to get this damned trip done with as quickly as possible.”
Crista’s spine stiffened. “I couldn’t agree more,” she said, and swept past him into the elevator.
The first-class cabin was spacious and the seats wide. As soon as they’d reached cruising altitude, Grant slipped a portable computer from his briefcase and turned it on. Crista watched from the corner of her eye as his fingers began moving over the keyboard.
After a few moments, she sighed. Why hadn’t she thought of taking along her sketch pad? Sketching would not just have made the time pass more easily, it would have relaxed her.
There was a yellow pad peeping out of Grant’s briefcase. She waited a bit, frowned, then cleared her throat.
“Grant?”
“Yes?”
“Might I—could I use that notepad, please?”
He looked at her. “Why?”
Crista smiled tightly. “Because I want to use it.”
“For what? There are magazines in the pocket in front of you, if you’re bored.”
“If I’d wanted to read, I’d have brought a book,” she said testily. “May I borrow that pad or not?”
“I’ll tell you what, Crista. I’ll ring for the attendant. I’m sure she has a copy of
today’s paper.”
Crista turned away and folded her arms across her breasts.
“Forget about it,” she snapped.
“Dammit, must you always be difficult?”
“I’m not being ‘difficult’. Believe it or not, I’m perfectly capable of finding ways to keep myself occupied without your assistance.”
Grant glared at her and then he snatched the pad from his briefcase and dropped it in her lap.
“Take the damned pad. And a pen, too.” His smile was swift and chill. “You can probably keep yourself amused for hours, making up lists of your boyfriends.”
Crista looked at him. “Why, Grant,” she purred, “you must be a mind reader.”
Then she turned away sharply, tilted the pad at a comfortable angle, and set to work.
A long time later, she looked up, suddenly conscious of being watched.
It was Grant.
Lost in her drawing, she’d shifted toward the light coming in through the window so that she was almost leaning against him.
Crista flushed. “Sorry,” she said. She drew back and started to tear off the page she’d been using but Grant stopped her, his hand closing on hers.
“What was that you were drawing?”
“It was nothing.”
“It was a bird, wasn’t it? But one I couldn’t place.”
Her flush deepened. “It was a phoenix.”
“Ah. The mythological bird that’s reborn in flame.” He shifted in his seat so that he was looking at her. “I didn’t know you drew.”
“I don’t,” she said stiffly. “I design.”
“Design?”
“Yes.”
“What do you design?”
Her eyes met his. “Not boots,” she said without a blink.
Grant’s mouth quirked, and then, to her surprise, he laughed.
She sighed. “I design jewelry.”
His brows lifted. “Jewelry?” His gaze flew to her earrings. “You mean—”
“Yes. These are mine. I do earrings mostly, and some necklaces and bracelets.” She nodded toward the pad in her lap. “That would be the centerpiece of a necklace, but…”