“Grant? I wanted to talk to you about—”
“We’ll talk tonight,” he said as he walked quickly toward the foyer with Crista hurrying after him. “Oh hell. I’ve got to go out tonight.”
“Tonight? It’s our first night back.”
“It’s a charity ball at the Waldorf. We won’t have to stay all evening.”
“But I hate things like that. Can’t you just send in a contribution and stay home?”
“My firm’s bought a table, Crista. It’s only right I make an appearance.”
“But—”
“Dammit, I can’t stand here and argue.” Grant stepped into the elevator car. “Buy yourself a gown at Saks,” he said as the doors slid shut. “I’ll see you at six.”
Crista stood staring at the closed car doors. After a moment, she swallowed hard and turned away.
Had Palm Beach been magic—or a mistake?
In the elevator, Grant leaned back against the wall, the frozen smile slipping from his face as he wondered the very same thing.
Filled with contrition, Grant came home at five instead of six. All day long, he’d heard his own stuffy voice echoing in his head. What in hell was the matter with him? A stupid charity ball was nowhere near as important as Crista, and he’d canceled his last meeting of the day so he could get home early and tell her that in person—but he needn’t have bothered.
The apartment was empty except for the cat and dog meowing and barking in the guest suite.
At 5:15, he scoured the rooms to see if he’d overlooked a note.
At 5:30, he picked up the service phone and asked the doorman if he’d seen Miss Adams go out.
At 5:45, he went through a mental list of the things that could happen to a woman on the streets of the city.
At 6:00, he told himself it was too soon to call the police.
And at 6:15, the elevator doors opened and Crista came flying into the foyer.
“Grant,” she said with a little laugh, “you’re home!”
He looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, her hair in disarray, and an awful coldness seized his heart.
“Indeed.” He folded his arms against his chest. “That’s certainly more than can be said of you.”
“Oh, I know. And I’m sorry, but—”
“Where were you?”
“Downtown. The time just got away from me, and—”
“I thought you were going to spend the day shopping.”
“You were the one who said that, not me.” She frowned and took a step toward him. “Grant? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.” He glared at her. “It’s after six, we have to be out of here in an hour, and you—you look as if you spent the day in bed!”
He wanted to call the words back as soon as he’d said them—and yet, he was glad he had. What did he know about her? Only what she’d chosen to tell him—but Blackburn had told him other things.
“You know,” Crista said, her lips trembling, “I’ve played this scene before.”
“Come on, Crista, don’t avoid the issue. I want to know where you were.”
“My uncle used to leave for his office in the mornings after giving me my instructions for the day, too. Sometimes, he’d even tell me to go to Saks, just as you did.” She lifted her chin and forced a smile to her lips. “It was a polite way of telling me to buy myself something ladylike.”
“I never said—”
“And, at night, he’d give me the third degree, the same as you. Well, I’ll make it easy for you, Grant. I’ll tell you exactly where I was.” Her eyes blazed with defiance. “I was in the Village.”
“With Danny,” he said, his hands knotting at his sides.
“Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what I think, dammit! That’s why I’m asking you!”
“No. You’re not asking me. You’re accusing me.”
Grant stared at her. He wanted to storm across the floor, take her in his arms, kiss her, shake her, something, anything, until she told him that she didn’t give a damn for Danny or for any other man, that she only wanted—only wanted—
He took a step back and jammed his hands into his pockets.
“If we’re going to be out of here by seven,” he said coldly, “we’d better get started.”
Crista looked at him for a long moment, and then she let out her breath.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go and take my shower.”
Twenty-four hours ago—a lifetime ago—he’d have smiled and said he’d take that shower with her.
Now, he only clamped his lips together and turned away.
The ballroom at the Waldorf was thick with famous faces and famous names. Under other circumstances, all the air-kissing as well-groomed cheek met well-groomed cheek would have made Crista smile.
Tonight, it only made her feel like an anthropologist watching some strange tribal ritual.
Grant was not doing any kissing. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just sitting at her side as silent and cold as a tomb.
They were at a table for ten, five men in dark dinner suits, four women in the pale beige that was the designer color of the season—and Crista.
They were all dying to know who she was, she could tell. Grant had introduced her, of course, but after that, he’d lapsed into his stony silence. Now, everybody at the table was trying hard to pretend nothing was wrong when, in reality, they all knew that something certainly was.
Crista felt uncomfortable and—for the first time in her life—painfully conspicuous. She’d planned to do as Grant had asked, go to Saks and buy their simplest, quietest, most elegant Givenchy or Chanel, if that was what it would take to make Grant smile at her again as he had in Palm Beach.
But there hadn’t been time. She had spent the day going in what had seemed like a million different directions, from a guilty stop at the soup kitchen to help prepare lunch to a meeting at the animal shelter, where she’d arranged for Annie to be taken in even though parting with the dog would break her heart. While she was there, one of the attendants had fallen ill and she’d ended up cleaning out kennels. Last but most importantly, she’d stopped off at her apartment to tell Danny that he could stop worrying about her, that she was happy and in love…
Which was why she’d ended up not cool and proper in a designer original but looking like a neon sign in the gown she’d bought in Palm Beach, and—
“Do you want to dance?”
> Crista looked up. Grant was leaning toward her, smiling politely although his eyes were still cold and angry.
She nodded. Anything was better than sitting here and pretending to give a damn about Muffy’s latest trip to the Côte d’Azur.
She went into his arms as soon as they reached the dance floor. He held her stiffly, but gradually the music softened and so did Grant’s embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Crista felt tears spring into her eyes. “Oh, Grant, I’m sorry, too.”
“I had no right to accuse you of…”
Grant’s apology stumbled to a halt. It was like being out with her in Palm Beach. People were staring.
“It was my fault,” she whispered. “I should have been home on time.”
He cleared his throat. “No. I had no right to—”
Hell! People were staring, but men were gaping. There was a man at a nearby table whose eyes were almost bulging out of his head. Grant stiffened. He wanted to smash his fist into the bastard’s face, to smash something…
“I got caught up in doing too many things today,” Crista said. “And I hadn’t planned for that to happen.” Her hand curled lightly against his chest. “I’d meant to do as you’d asked, buy myself something elegant and expensive that would make me fit in with these people, but—”
“But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it,” he said coldly. “It was much more important for you to make every man in the place go home tonight and dream of having you in his bed.”
The crack of her hand against his cheek echoed through the ballroom like a clap of thunder.
Couples around them came to a stop and drew back, their eyes shining with anticipation, but the show was over.
Crista was already flying out the door. And Grant—Grant was going in the opposite direction, heading straight for the bar.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE intercom on Grant’s desk buzzed. He frowned and ignored it but when it buzzed a second time, his frown became a scowl.
“Jane,” he said as he punched the speaker button, “I told you I was not to be disturbed until Miss Madigan—Who?” Grant leaned back in his chair and began to smile. “Well, of course. Send him in.”