“Your father must have been furious.”
He smiled tightly. “He said if I chose my own school and my own future, I could pay for it on my own, too.”
“What did you do?”
Grant folded the towel neatly and hung it away. “I won a track scholarship to college, worked my tail off summers as a logger in northern Maine to pay for law school, and generally made it clear what my old man could do with his money.”
“Ah,” Crista said softly. “A self-made man.”
He laughed. “Something like that.”
“I’ll bet your mother was proud of you, though.”
His smile vanished. “My mother—”
He broke off in the middle of the sentence. My mother died before she should have, he’d almost said. She never knew what I did or didn’t do with my life. And what would have made him say something like that, especially to this woman? As it was, he’d told Crista Adams more about himself in five minutes than he’d ever told anyone in a lifetime.
Well, that was what you got for being trapped in a mausoleum of a house with the rain beating down and the wind howling like something out of a bad horror film…
But it wasn’t doing that anymore, he suddenly realized.
“It stopped,” he said.
Crista blinked.
“What stopped?”
“The storm.” He went to the back door and opened it wide. “Will you look at that? The moon is up.” He turned to her and smiled. “Would you like to take a walk?”
It was such a simple question. Why was she so reluctant to answer? It was only a walk—a walk with Grant, along that dark, private beach, with the moon an ivory globe against the inky sky…
“Crista?”
He held out his hand, and she took it.
It was cool outside, and the air had the sharp, clean tang of the sea. Waves rolled heavily against the shore, the final, determined reminders of the storm.
Crista shivered slightly as they strolled along, and Grant put his arm around her shoulders.
“Cold?” he said.
She shook her head. “Only a little.” She sighed. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”
Grant stopped walking and turned her gently toward him.
“Not as beautiful as you,” he said softly.
The words were out before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that; he’d only meant to take Crista for a walk along the beach. But all at once, he knew he needed more than that from her tonight.
Crista looked up at him. Was this the same man who’d spent the past few days barking out orders? It was as if he’d turned into someone else between the afternoon and the evening, a man whose smile was making her heart constrict within her chest.
It was a wonderful realization, but a terrifying one, too.
“Grant? Maybe we should—maybe—”
“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”
Crista laughed. “Are we talking about my broken heel?”
“What if I were to put out my hand and say, ‘Hello there, Miss Adams, my name is Grant Landon.’?”
“If you did—if you did, I’d say I thought it was time I cleared up some misconceptions.”
“Misconceptions?”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “Such as—such as—Gus.”
Grant’s smile tilted just a little. “I haven’t asked you for any explanations, Crista.”
“That’s good,” she said. Her smile was a little wooden. “Because I don’t have to give you any.”
“That’s behind you anyway. Gus, and Danny, and—”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Grant. Gus was—”
“Wrong for you. I know. But—”
“Dammit,” she snapped, shrugging free of his hands, “why in heaven’s name did I think you’d changed? You’re still a pompous jerk! Gus was my boss. My boss, do you understand? He owns the tavern where I waited tables. And—”
“You wore that rather interesting outfit to wait tables?”
“Yes! It’s what gets you tips!”
“Let me get this straight. Am I supposed to be impressed because you got good tips?”
Crista glared at him. “No. No, you’re not. I don’t want to impress you. I don’t even want to talk to you. I made the mistake of thinking you could be understanding, but—but you aren’t even human! I promise, I won’t forget it again.”
Grant reached out his hand but she jerked away and started up the beach, away from the house.
“Crista! Come back here!”
She didn’t turn around. Why had he ever thought he could carry on a conversation with this woman? And, dammit, why did he keep letting her work him into an obvious rage? No one had ever been able to do that, not until Crista Adams had come walking into his life.
“Crista!” His voice rose. “Crista—you’re acting like a fool!”
She kept on walking, and he growled something sharp under his breath and started after her.
“Crista!”
What was she doing now? She’d come to a sudden stop, about a hundred feet away, and she was staring out to sea where waves as high as houses were building and crashing.
Grant frowned. There was something else out there—a tangle of storm-tossed debris and in its midst—in its midst…
A dog. A stupid, pathetic, doomed-to-death dog.
Grant’s gaze swung quickly to Crista. “No,” he said, and he began to run. “Crista, no!”
But he was too late. She was already racing across the sand, her hair flying out behind her, her feet sending up sprays of water as she hit the surf, and with his heart in his throat and her name on his lips, Grant pounded after her.
CHAPTER NINE
GRANT had been a runner almost his entire life.
He had run for the scholarship that freed him from his father’s domination and for the glory of his school, but he had never run as hard or as fast as he ran now, with fear churning his blood and a desperate prayer on his lips, his eyes fixed not on some lofty prize but on something painfully real.
On Crista.
He could see her clearly in the moonlight. She was swimming strongly toward the dog, her strokes propelling her swiftly through the water.
But just beyond her, a wave was building, up and up until it looked like a wall of foam.
“Crista!” he shouted—but it was useless. She would never hear him, not with that wave roaring like a freight train as it came toward her. And even if she did, he knew she would never listen.
“Please,” he whispered, “please, God…”
The surf churned around his ankles as he flung himself into the sea. The water was shockingly cold; he could feel it surge around him, and he kicked hard and struck out toward Crista, his powerful arms cleaving the night-black water just as the wave broke over her. Its waning edge caught him and tumbled him under. He broke the surface, gasping, straining to see.
There! There she was, ahead in the foaming water, a dark, struggling shape in her arms.
“Crista!”
She turned at the sound of his voice, though it seemed impossible she could hear him. Grant drew air into his lungs, buried his face in the water, and drove toward her.
Later, he would not remember how he got to her. He would only remember reaching for her, hanging on to her with a strength he hadn’t known he possessed, telling her to let go of the dog, demanding she let go of it, and finally giving up any hope that she would.
“Hang on,” he yelled, and together they struck out for shore.
When his feet finally touched bottom, he lurched forward, propelling her along with him. They fell forward, their faces in the sand.
Grant sat up, coughed out a mouthful of salt water, and clasped Crista’s shoulders.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded while she struggled for air. Her face was a pale oval in the moonlight; her hair trailed down her shoulders like the ebony tendrils of some undersea flower.
“Yes,” s
he gasped, “I’m okay.”
The dog, still tightly clasped to her breast, shivered and gave a shrill yip. Crista hugged it closer and buried her face in its neck.
“Thank you,” she said with a shaky smile.
Grant could feel every muscle in his body tighten. Did she have any idea how close she’d come to death? He had almost lost her. God, he’d almost—
A fiery mix of fear and rage surged through him, fueled by an unreasonably more volatile emotion.
“Damn you, Crista,” he said through his teeth, and he yanked her to her feet, his hands coiled tightly around her arms. “What kind of a stunt was that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You could have drowned out there!”
“But I didn’t,” she said, her smile dimming. “I’m a strong swimmer, and—”
“What you are is a self-centered, shortsighted fool! Don’t you ever think before you act?”