That had brought a smile even to the thin lips of the haughty sommelier.
Actually, she’d brought smiles to lots of lips last night. They’d dined at one of Palm Beach’s most prestigious restaurants. The season had not yet really begun but the candle-lit tables had been crowded with exquisite women dressed in their Chanels and Armanis, their hair sleeked back from their artfully made-up faces, their jewelry elegantly discreet.
Crista had worn a halter-necked drift of bright coral silk she’d bought during an afternoon stroll along exclusive Worth Avenue. Her hair hung free over her tanned shoulders and cascades of tiny silver leaves swayed from her earlobes. Circlets of the leaves clung to her wrist, and her only makeup had been the blush put in her cheeks by an afternoon spent in Grant’s arms.
The women in the place had cast her discreet looks, equal parts amusement and envy. But the men’s glances had been filled with admiration, and Grant had had all he could do to keep from leaping to his feet and shouting that Crista Adams, this untamed, magnificent wildflower blazing in a pallid sea of greenhouse blossoms, belonged to him…
“Whatever you’re thinking about, I’d bet it has nothing to do with the tuna fish I asked for.”
Grant looked up. Crista was smiling at him teasingly, and he smiled back.
“Sorry, darling. I must have been daydreaming. Tuna, did you say?”
“Please. I think we bought some, didn’t we?”
Grant supposed they had. He’d wanted to hire a housekeeper for the week, but Crista had insisted that shopping and cooking and keeping the house clean would be fun. And, to his amazement, she’d been right. He’d never had the time or the desire to learn to cook—his law practice had taken all his energies—and he was no master chef now, he thought as he handed over the tuna, but this past week, he’d learned that grilling a steak on an outdoor grill could be fun.
“Here,” Crista said, “you slice the tomatoes and tear up the lettuce. I’ll do the rest.”
Not that Mrs. Edison was in danger of losing her job, he thought with a little smile. And yet, things would surely change once they got back to New York. Things would change in both their lives.
Grant’s smile faded. The business about Danny, for instance. They hadn’t discussed that yet, but they would. He had to know more about that, had to know if Danny had really mattered to her, if anyone before him had mattered…
“Grant?” He looked up. Crista was watching him, a hesitant smile on her lips. “Is everything all right?”
He put down the tomato and the knife and took her in his arms.
“It’s never been better.”
It was true, he thought as he kissed her. For the first time in his life, he was truly, completely happy—and yet, deep inside him, he sensed a whisper of unease.
That night, Crista announced that she’d named the dog Annie.
“Short for Anonymous?”
“Short for Orphan Annie,” she said as they strolled the beach, hand in hand. “I don’t think the poor baby ever had a real owner. Isn’t she a cute puppy?”
Grant looked at the dog, trotting nose to the sand ahead of them. Either it was at some gawky adolescent stage, with feet and ears too big for its body and a muzzle that seemed all whiskers, or it was among the homeliest creatures he’d ever seen.
“Cute’s the word, all right,” he said.
“She needs a collar and a real leash, Grant, and—”
“Crista,” he said gently, “it—she—can’t go back to New York with us. You know that, don’t you?”
“But if I’m right, if she has no home—”
“I’ll look in the phone directory and see if there’s a dog warden, and—”
“The shelter in the Village would take her, Grant. They’d be able to find her a good home.”
“Shelter?” Grant’s brows lifted. “What shelter?”
“The Good Shepherd Shelter. They’re wonderful about finding homes for strays.”
Grant sighed. “Look, I don’t mean to be difficult. But transporting an animal is—”
“A cinch!” She swung toward him, her eyes wide. “I’ve read lots of articles about it. The airline has crates you can buy. It’s not a problem at all.”
“But—” He looked at her, at the hope in her face, and he sighed. “You’re sure the shelter will accept her?” Crista nodded, and he drew her into his arms. “You’re corrupting me, woman,” he said sternly. “First I cancel all my appointments for the week, then I agree to play foster parent to a mangy mutt. What’s next?”
She moved closer into his embrace. “I can’t imagine,” she whispered. “Suppose you tell me.”
And, in soft, sexy words that made her blush, Grant did.
They left Palm Beach in late afternoon, taking off into a bright, cloudless sky. They landed at Kennedy Airport three hours later in a cold, gray downpour.
Grant took Crista’s elbow and started toward the terminal exit door, but she shook her head and hung back.
“We can’t leave yet.”
“Why not?”
“We have to get Annie.” She smiled and looped her arm through his. “We have to wait until her kennel’s unloaded.”
Grant frowned. “I’d forgotten.”
“The sooner we get to the baggage area, the sooner we can collect her and leave.”
It was half an hour before they finally climbed into Grant’s waiting Mercedes and an hour after that, thanks to the rain and the traffic, before they were in his private elevator.
Grant felt his stomach knot as the car rose toward the penthouse floor. He had felt strangely tense all during the flight home. Now, that tension was growing and he knew the reason.
He had left here determined to walk away from Crista Adams, and returned with her as his lover.
The realization hit home with almost physical force. He was bringing her back to stay, not because he felt responsible for her but because he felt—he felt—
What did he feel? The knot inside him tightened and made it hard to breathe. He turned to Crista, needing to take her in his arms, to kiss her…
But it was too late. The doors slid open and she gave a little cry, dropped to her knees, and opened her arms to a hurtling gray shape.
“Hello, Sweetness,” she said happily. “I missed you, too.”
Grant watched the woman and the cat, his face expressionless. Then he reached down for his overnight bag and hers and strode briskly toward the staircase.
* * *
The next day did not begin well. The rain had stopped, but the sky was overcast. And Grant awoke to an empty bed.
Showered, shaved, and dressed, he made his way downstairs.
Crista was in the living room. She was seated on one of the white leather sofas, wearing a hot pink sweater over purple leggings. Her hair was loose and lay in soft disarray over her shoulders, and the silver-bell earrings dangled from her earlobes.
Back in Palm Beach, she’d worn this same outfit and looked heart-stoppingly beautiful. She still looked beautiful—but as out of place against the pristine white elegance of the room as the beaten-up cat beside her or the happily grinning dog at her feet.
Grant could feel that knot forming in his belly again.
“Grant!” Crista leaped to her feet and came toward him. “Good morning! I didn’t hear—”
“I thought we agreed the cat would be confined to the guest room.”
“I know we did, but that was before—”
“The change in our relationship hasn’t changed my feelings about cats, Crista.”
Her face whitened. “I meant before Annie came along. I’ll have to keep them locked up together until the shelter takes her, and I wanted to give them the chance to get to know each other. If you think I was trying to presume on what’s happened between us—”
“Damn!” He covered the distance that separated them in two long strides and took her in his arms. “I’m sorry, darling. It’s just that—well, I’m running late and…” He laughed, h
oping she’d laugh, too, but she didn’t. “I guess mornings aren’t my best time. Which reminds me—where were you when I woke up?”
He felt the tension begin to go out of her. “Did you miss me?”
“You’re darned right, I missed you. Where’d you go?”
Crista gave him a slow, mysterious smile. “Well, I knew you’d given Mrs. Edison the week off and that she isn’t due back until tomorrow, so I made you breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” He looked past her to the terrace, where the table had been set. “That was sweet, darling, but—”
“You know those pecan waffles I made in Palm Beach, the ones you liked so much?” She took his hand and began to tug him toward the door. “I couldn’t find any pecans, but I did find chocolate chips, and—”
“Chocolate chips? In waffles?”
She laughed. “Come on, Grant. You didn’t think you’d like garlic either, remember?” Her fingers laced through his. “There’s fresh orange juice, too, and coffee, and—”
“I never eat breakfast.”
“Sure you do. You ate it every day in—”
“That was different,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. “Palm Beach was a different world, Crista—” He stopped, hating himself when he saw the hurt in her violet eyes. “What I mean is that Mrs. Edison’s been cooking for me for years. We wouldn’t want to upset her, would we?”
“No. Of course not, but—”
“Damn!” Grant frowned at his watch. “I’ve a meeting at nine.”