It was a great combination, he thought bitterly. He had no ethics, she had no morals—and yet, he wanted her anyway, wanted her so badly that he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
“Grant?” Crista hesitated. “The ceiling… Shouldn’t we—shouldn’t we do something about it?”
He took a deep breath and forced his lips into a smile.
“Of course. I’ll go up there and see what I can do.”
He turned away, wondering which was louder, the rain drumming against the roof or the painful, thudding beat of his own heart.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS still raining, and the wind roaring through the palm trees sounded like a freight train.
It was an awful night, Crista thought as she stared out her bedroom window, and she’d have given anything to be back in New York.
But they were trapped here. Grant had appointments in the morning and the storm had grounded all the planes…
What was there to worry about anyway?
She had faced the truth, and now she was free.
She sighed and let the curtains fall back into place. It wasn’t original, but now she knew just how wise a thought it was.
This afternoon had been the end of whatever craziness had seized her the morning she’d stepped onto a curb and into Grant Landon’s arms.
And she had the storm to thank for that.
What would have happened if the roof hadn’t sprung a leak and a torrent of cold water hadn’t come plummeting down on her head?
Crista’s cheeks pinkened. She’d have ended up in bed with Grant, that’s what would have happened. And heaven only knew how many lifetimes she’d have spent regretting it.
She shivered as she pulled a heavy cotton sweater down over her head. The temperature had dropped considerably since the afternoon; the house felt damp and chilled.
It would be a pleasure to get back to New York tomorrow, she thought as she tied the laces on her sneakers. Just a few hours from now, her life would be back on track, and Grant—Grant would be a question to be locked away, one she would never have to answer.
A shudder went through her again, and she frowned. What was wrong with her tonight? She couldn’t seem to stop shaking.
A cup of coffee would help. And something to eat. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t had a mouthful of food the entire day.
Crista slipped open her door. She looked down the hall toward Grant’s room. His door was firmly shut. She took a breath and made her way quietly down the stairs.
The kitchen was gloomy and old-fashioned, with dark wood cabinets, a noisy refrigerator, and an ancient gas stove. But there were still boxes and tins of food in the pantry, and that was all that mattered.
She turned on the lights and began putting together what she could for a makeshift meal. Olives and crackers. A box of angel-hair pasta and an unopened tin of olive oil. Tiny jars of dried garlic and porcini mushrooms.
And coffee. Definitely coffee.
A veritable feast, she thought, smiling.
Humming softly, she set to work.
Grant stood at his bedroom window, staring out at the storm and wondering what it was that fate had against him.
The weatherman—and the cabdriver—had predicted rain, but this stuff had as much relation to rain as the eruption of Krakatoa had to a campfire.
“Damn,” he muttered, and dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
The storm was far offshore. That was what the radio kept saying, but for an offshore storm it was doing a great job of beating the hell out of this coastline—and an ever better job of trapping him here.
He’d tried everything to get a flight out, but not even a charter outfit would take off in this. So here he was, stuck in a house that looked like an overstuffed museum with a woman he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off, and just for general effect, the wind was howling in the eaves like a banshee.
And he was hungry. Hell, he was starving! When had he eaten last? All he could remember was that pot of acid he’d brewed in place of breakfast and an airline lunch that he wouldn’t have eaten under the best of circumstances…
And, heaven knew, nothing about this endless day had taken place under the best of circumstances.
Grant shuddered. It was like a refrigerator in here. Coffee, he thought as he pulled on a cable-knit sweater, that was what he needed. And a sandwich. There had to be something edible in that kitchen.
Halfway to the door, he hesitated. Did he really want to run the risk of bumping into Crista tonight?
“Stupid,” he said under his breath, and he turned the knob and stepped briskly into the hall.
She was only a woman.
What on earth was there to be afraid of?
* * *
He heard her before he saw her. She was obviously in the kitchen and she was singing, softly and sweetly and vaguely off-key.
“…dah dee dah, and dah dee once again, it’s been a dah, dah time…”
Grant paused in the arched doorway. She was standing at the stove, her hair loose and streaming down her back, stirring something with a big wooden spoon and swaying gently to the music as she built to a big finish.
“…a lonnng, lonnng tiiime!”
She swung around as he clapped his hands together. Surprise, and then embarrassment, flashed across her face.
“Must you do that?” she said.
He grinned. “I was only acknowledging a truly superior performance. It’s not often you hear an old song sung so—creatively.”
“You know what I mean. You shouldn’t sneak up on people that way.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Crista, but the only thing I was sneaking up on was my stomach. I got tired of listening to it growl.”
She smiled a little. “Mine’s been complaining, too.”
He frowned as he came into the room. “What’s that smell?”
“What’s that smell?” She laughed. “It’s garlic, of course.”
“Garlic?”
“My God, don’t tell me you’ve never heard of garlic!”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. I’m just surprised it smells so good.”
She stared at him blankly. “You don’t like garlic?”
Grant laughed. “Come on, Crista. You make it sound un-American. I promise, I like apple pie as much as the next guy.”
“Well, anybody who loves apple pie should love this.”
Grant peered over her shoulder. “This” was a mélange of golden and tan bits, saut6ing in a skillet.
“What is it?”
“Sauce for the pasta in that colander. It’s garlic and mushrooms and onion all browned together in olive oil.”
He looked at her. “And it’s good?”
“Good? It’s delicious.” She dipped the spoon into the pan and held it up to him. “Take a taste.”
“I don’t know…”
“Oh, come on. Be brave. Try a little.”
He leaned forward and took a hesitant taste. Then he cocked his head, leaned forward again, and licked what remained from the spoon.
“Well?”
His eyes twinkled. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” She shook her head. “Delicious, is what you mean.”
“It’s okay.”
“Come on, Grant. Just because it doesn’t look like sushi—”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I hate sushi.”
“Well, whatever’s trendy, then.”
Grant leaned back against the sink. “I think I’ve just been insulted,” he said, his lips twitching.
Crista laughed. “Look, you’re—what? Twenty-eight? Thirty?”
“Thirty-two,” he said, still smiling.
“And you’re a bachelor. And a New Yorker. And you’re rich. That means—”
“That I eat raw fish?”
“It means you eat lots of nutritionally sound, incredibly expensive, basically tasteless things my mother wouldn’t have let into her kitchen.”
Grant laughed. “Don?
??t tell me. Your mother was really Julia Child in disguise.”
Crista reached past him for the pepper mill. A faint scent of violets drifted from her hair to his nostrils and he fought back the desire to reach out and touch his finger to the dark locks.
“My mother was half-Mexican.” She glanced up at him with a sudden challenge in her eyes. “Did you know that?”
“No. But I suppose I should have guessed.”
“Why?” Her chin tilted, more than matching the glint in her eyes.
Grant smiled. “The color of your hair for one thing. And your temper. They’re both—”
“What?”
“Hey.” Grant held up his hands in surrender. “What happened here? You were telling me that your mother was the Hispanic version of a master chef, and then, wham, you’ve got that look in your eye—”