Guardian Groom

Cade had grinned. “What he really means,” he’d said, “is that they’ve decided to waste no time kissing ass.”

His kid brother had been right, Grant thought as he straightened up and turned his back to the lake. Crossing the terrace, he snatched up his towel again and made his way through the French doors that opened into the library.

It was cool inside, almost cold; the heavy red leather chairs, massive oak tables, and book-lined walls looked particularly ugly in the pale morning light. Everything was silent. The only hint of life was in the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee that drifted in the air.

Grant smiled tightly to himself as he made his way across the Aubusson carpet. If his father could see him now, the old man would frown and tell him that he was to use the back door in the future, when he came in all sweated up from something so stupid as running. And then his lip would curl with disdain at the sight of the sweatshirt and he’d launch into the speech he always made about fancy-pants schools, when what he really meant was that it enraged him that his eldest son had chosen to defy him.

A plump figure suddenly stepped out in front of him. Stella, who’d been the Landon housekeeper for as long as Grant could remember, gasped and pressed her hand to her ample bosom.

“My goodness, Mr. Grant, you did give me a start!”

“Good morning, Stella.” Grant smiled. “I was just on my way to the kitchen. That coffee smells wonderful.”

“Why didn’t you let me know you were up? I’d have been down sooner, made you a proper breakfast. You go in the dinin’ room and sit down while I make you somethin’ to tide you over until the others come down.”

Grant had a swift vision of the gargantuan breakfasts still laid out on the sideboard every morning, despite the fact that neither he, his brothers, nor Kyra ever put a dent in them.

“No,” he said quickly, “thank you very much, Stella, but I’m afraid I haven’t the time. I’ve an appointment in—” he frowned at his watch “—in less than an hour. But I will take a cup of coffee upstairs with me.” He smiled and looped his arm lightly over her shoulders. “Did I ever tell you that you make the best coffee in the entire world?”

Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Go on,” she said, but she smiled. “You just wait here, Mr. Grant, and I’ll get you some.”

“Don’t be silly.” Grant began walking slowly down the hall. “I know how to find the kitchen.”

“Yes, but it’s not right. Your father says—”

“My father’s not master of this house anymore.” He knew he’d spoken more sharply than he’d intended, and he softened the words with a quick smile. “Tell you what. I’ll walk you to the kitchen and we’ll get that cup of coffee together.”

How long would it take everybody to get used to the change? he wondered moments later as he set his mug of coffee on the nightstand in his old bedroom.

Charles Landon wasn’t master here anymore. The old man wasn’t master of anything, he thought as he stripped off his shorts and shirt. The grim proof of that lay in what had happened yesterday, after the formal reading of the will.

Nothing in it had been a surprise. Charles had left his private fortune to Kyra, along with the house and its enormous land holdings, and he had left Landon Enterprises, the vast, multimillion-dollar conglomerate he had built, to his three sons.

The sun, streaming through the windows, felt good on Grant’s naked body. He stretched his arms, flexing the muscles that bunched beneath his taut, tanned skin. Purposefully, he made his way into his private bathroom and turned the shower on to full.

The old man would have exploded if he’d seen what had happened once the reading of the will had ended. The lawyers had barely been out the door before Zach had spoken.

“Man, what a gift,” he’d said sarcastically. “Just what I’ve always wanted—a piece of Landon Enterprises.”

Cade had wasted no time. “I’ll pass,” he’d said. “You guys can keep my share.”

Grant had bared his teeth in what he’d hoped was a smile. “Hell,” he’d said, “don’t be so generous, pal!” He’d gone to the cherry-wood bar, uncapped a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon, poured generous shots into heavy Waterford tumblers and said what he’d always known in his heart. “I’d steal hubcaps for a living before I had anything to do with Landon Enterprises.”

Zach and Cade had both laughed, and Zach had raised his glass of bourbon high in the air.

“Okay,” he’d said, “it’s unanimous. The new directors of Landon Enterprises met and made their first, last, and only decision.”

“Yeah,” Grant had said, as the three tumblers clinked against each other. “By unanimous vote, the directors agreed to divest themselves of the company.”

Within minutes, they’d agreed to put Landon’s on the market and give the proceeds to charity. Then they’d raised their glasses again, this time in bittersweet celebration of finally admitting what they’d all always known.

Charles Landon’s sons had, over the years, ignored their father, argued with him, feared him and despised him—but they had never loved him.

Grant stepped from the shower, toweled himself dry, then strolled naked into the bedroom. And so it was all over. Within hours, he’d be in New York, Zach would be in Boston, and Cade would be in London. Kyra, of course, would remain here, where she belonged and where she was happy.

Hell, he couldn’t wait to get back to his own world, and his own life. There were the loose ends of that contract to tie up—and there were other loose ends, too. He smiled a little as he drew his shirt over his broad shoulders. He’d certainly been abrupt with Kimberly—Kimberly and that red teddy. But he’d been abrupt with women before, when the demands of the law had gotten in the way of his private life. A couple of dozen long-stemmed red roses, a box of Godiva chocolates…

Grant’s smile tilted. Kimberly would come around.

And then there was the Madigan woman and that tantalizing glimpse of black lace she’d flashed each time she’d crossed those long legs.

He grinned as he stepped into his trousers. What a dilemma, to have to choose between the two—or not to choose. There were lots of women in New York. Beautiful women. A man could spend his life sipping nectar from all those sweet flowers. Not that he didn’t believe in fidelity.

Grant looped his tie under his collar and knotted it. He was always faithful, he thought, smiling again—for as long as an affair lasted.

He looked into the mirror as he put on his jacket. The runner in shorts and sweatshirt was gone, replaced by a meticulously groomed man in a Savile Row suit, but then, that was who he was. The man who’d come into this bedroom with an unshaven face, grungy shorts, and a sweatshirt was just a leftover from a life he’d long ago put behind him.

Why he even kept his old running clothes was beyond him; they were so beat up that they should have been tossed out years ago.

With a grimace, Grant stuffed the shirt and shorts into a pocket of his weekend bag. This was not the time for philosophical musings. He had an appointment to keep—a breakfast meeting requested by Victor Bayliss, who’d been Charles’s number one yesman.

“You meet with the guy,” his brothers had said with unseemly haste. “It takes a lawyer to talk to a lawyer.”

Heartless bastards, Grant thought with a fond smile as he closed the bedroom door after him. Not that he minded. Bayliss undoubtedly wanted this meeting so he could cozy up to the new Landon management.

Grant could hardly wait to see the man’s face when he heard the news.

A couple of hours later, Grant threw open the massive front door to the Landon mansion, slammed it shut behind him, and strode down the hall to the dining room. They were all gathered there, just as he’d expected. Cade and Zach were horsing around as if they hadn’t a care in the world while a smiling Kyra looked on.

Hell, Grant thought angrily, why did he have to be the one to drop the bombshell?

“Dammit,” he snapped, “what’s going on here? We’re not kids anymore, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Cade and Zach swung toward him, their faces registering surprise.

“Grant?” Kyra said. “Are you okay?”

He dropped the manila folder filled with bad news on the table, walked to the sideboard, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I’m fine,” he said, but he knew, from the looks on their faces, that he wasn’t fooling anybody.

“So?” Cade asked after a minute. “What did Bayliss want to talk about?”

A muscle knotted in Grant’s jaw. “Trouble,” he said grimly. “That’s what he wanted to talk about.”

Zach frowned. “What kind of trouble?”

Grant picked up the file folder. There was no point in beating around the bush; this would have to be dealt with quickly.

“See for yourselves,” he said. He pulled papers from the folder and handed one stack to Cade, the other to Zach. Kyra looked at him, her brows raised, and he smiled reassuringly. There was nothing here to worry his little sister, thank goodness. After a moment, she turned toward the window.

Cade was the first to react.

“According to this report,” he said, looking at Grant, “this Dallas oil company Landon owns—Gordon’s, it’s called—is going to go under any minute.”

“What oil company?” Zach said, his expression puzzled. “I just read a profile on a Landon acquisition called Triad. It’s some kind of Hollywood production outfit—and it’s gonna sink like a stone.”

Grant nodded grimly. “You’re both right. Landon bought both firms to bail them out. Instead, we seem to have helped them get into worse condition.”

Cade bristled. “What’s this ‘we’ stuff, big brother?”

“Are you forgetting, Cade?” Grant swung toward him. “It’s us, as of yesterday. Like it or not, we’re Landon Enterprises. And we will be, until we find a buyer.”

Neither Zach nor Cade needed to be force-fed reality. Grant saw the understanding dawn in both their faces.

If either Gordon Oil or Triad Productions went under, selling Landon would become a nightmare. The company would have a hole in its balance sheet large enough to sink a battleship. Only a fool would buy it then.

Grant’s jaw clenched. His hand went to his pocket, where a scrap of paper lay. The paper was yet another problem, one so ridiculous he couldn’t bring himself to mention it. Not now anyway; not until they’d figured a way out of this mess.

“Tell Bayliss to deal with this,” Cade said.

“Bayliss retired as of this morning. He said he was too old to face another Colorado winter.” Grant smiled tightly. “Seems we read him wrong. He’s going to spend the rest of his days in the Virgin Islands, sipping piña coladas.”

“Goodwin, then. Bayliss’s second in command. He can—”

“Goodwin’s got a dozen things on his plate already.”

“Then what—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” The brothers swung around. Kyra was glowering at them with a look on her face that said all three of them were fools. “What’s with you guys? Are you stupid, or what? A ten-year-old could figure this out!” She turned an angry glare on Zach. “You’re the financial whiz, aren’t you? Surely you could fly out to the coast, take a look at Triad’s books, and decide what can be done to help it.”

“Me? Don’t be silly. I’ve got people waiting for me in Boston. I can’t just—”

“And you,” she snapped at Cade. “You’re the genius who knows all about oil. And here’s this little company having a problem.” She slapped her hands onto her hips. “Would it be too much to hope that maybe you might be the one to check things out in Dallas?”

“It’s out of the question! I’ve business in London. I can’t—”

“She’s right,” Grant said brusquely. “You guys could get a handle on things faster than anybody else.”

There was a moment’s silence. Cade and Zach looked at each other, and then Zach threw up his arms in defeat.

“Two days,” he said, “and not a second more.”

Cade nodded. “Okay. Two days, and then…Wait just a minute.” He swung toward Grant. “What about you? Don’t tell me you’re the only one of us who gets to walk away from this mess?”

Grant’s hand clamped tightly around the paper in his pocket. Cade was flying to Texas to find out why an oil company was going under; Zach was heading for California to get a handle on a film outfit. And he—he was going back to New York to—to—

Jesus. It was ridiculous, but he was stuck with it. He took a deep breath.

“I’ve got my own mess to deal with. It seems some old pal of Father’s named him guardian of his twelve-year-old kid.”

“And?”

“And,” he said through his teeth, “until she turns twenty-one, I seem to have inherited her.”

He saw the smiles begin to curve across his brothers’ faces, saw even Kyra try, and fail, to maintain a neutral expression. But what choice was there? He was an attorney, he lived and practiced in New York. The girl lived there, too—it was no contest, he thought grimly. The child was his burden by default.

His brothers were looking at each other, their smiles rapidly becoming grins, and he glowered at them.

“You guys think this is funny? Listen, we can always swap jobs. I’ll take on Hollywood, or Dallas, and one of you can—”

“No,” Zach said quickly, “no, that’s okay, old buddy. I’ll deal with Hollywood, Cade’ll handle Dallas.” His lips twitched. “And I bet you’re going to make one hell of a terrific baby-sitter.”

Cade suppressed a snort of laughter. Grant swung toward him.

“This—this is not funny,” he choked, and then, suddenly, the grim look left his face and he burst out laughing. “Hell,” he said, “I can’t believe it, either.”

Laughing, the three men moved into a tight circle, clapped each other on the back, then joined right hands as they had when they were kids.

“To the Deadeye Defenders,” Cade said.

“To the Deadeyes,” Grant echoed, and they grinned happily at each other.

Cade stepped back. “Time to get started.”

Zach nodded. “Yeah. I’ll see you guys before I leave.”

They both hurried from the room. Grant was following after them when Kyra caught his sleeve. “Grant?”

He looked down at her and smiled. “Hey, princess, I almost forgot you were here!”

Kyra gave a short, sharp laugh. “Isn’t that the truth!”

“Well, what is it, sweetheart?”

“I wonder…” She hesitated. “I was wondering how you feel about this place. Is it important to you?”

At first, the question puzzled him, but then he understood. Kyra was worried that her brothers might feel cheated because their father had left the mansion solely to her. Grant put his arm around her shoulders.

“This house will always be important to me,” he said, “with you living in it.”

“I don’t mean that.” Her tone was impatient. “This isn’t about me, Grant, it’s about you. And Cade. And Zach. I need to know if you care about the house, and the grounds, and—”

“I’m certain they feel as I do,” Grant said in a kindly voice. “This place makes you happy, and your happiness is all that matters to us.”

Kyra wrenched free of his arm. “Dammit,” she said, her face flushed, “sometimes you all remind me of Father!”

Grant drew back. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means—it means none of you listens. You hear what you want to hear, what you think you ought to hear, what—” Kyra blinked. “Sorry. I must be tired. It’s been a long week.” She smiled, reached up, and laid her hand against his chest. “I bet you’ll be a fine guardian for this girl.”

He frowned. “I’ll do my duty, of course.”

“But if she needs a friend…”

Grant laughed. “I am not about to be a ‘friend’ to this child. I will pay her bills, see to it that her future is secure—those are the responsibilities of a guardian.”

Kyra sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” She stood on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I’m sorry I jumped on you a few minutes ago, Grant. I love you. I love all my brothers—and I always will.”

Grant hugged her. “And we love you, princess.” He kissed her forehead, then made his way past her. When he reached his room, he closed the door and let out a long sigh.

Kyra was sweet and wonderful, and he’d have willingly given his life for her—but did she really think he’d play big brother to—what was her name? Crista, that was it. Crista Adams.

One of his law partners had a daughter Crista’s age; from what Grant had seen, the poor guy was adrift in a sea of orthodontia, acne, and adolescent angst.

But he wouldn’t face any of those problems. As Crista Adams’s guardian, he’d simply be responsible for approving her expenses and signing the checks to meet them. Now that he thought about it—although he’d be damned if he’d ever admit as much to Cade and Zach—he was getting off easy.

Crista Adams’s guardian, hmm? He zipped shut his weekend case, picked it up, and walked out of the room.

What could be simpler?

CHAPTER TWO

GRANT generally liked Mondays. They put a clean start to the week ahead, but somehow this one already had the feel of disaster.

Why wouldn’t it? he thought, glaring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he shaved. He was about to meet the child who had become his unwanted responsibility, like it or not.

What had seemed a minor inconvenience last week in Denver was looking more and more like a catastrophe waiting to happen. A little judicious checking of guardianship laws suggested that he’d have to do more than sign checks. He might have to offer advice. Even guidance.

Grant’s mouth thinned as he rinsed off his razor. What he knew about children could fit in a pea pod with room left over. And he didn’t know a damned thing about Crista Adams.

He had phoned Simon Adams’s attorney right away but Horace Blackburn was out of the country, his holiday guarded with almost religious fervor by an iron-willed secretary who’d agreed to set up this meeting on her boss’s first day back only after Grant’s growing exasperation had become evident.

But she’d steadfastly refused to release the Adams file so that he could, at least, familiarize himself with the simple details of his ward’s life.

Grant splashed some cologne on his face and strode from the bathroom. Was the child living in her uncle’s house with a governess or was she away at boarding school? Was she a snot-nosed brat or a wellbehaved young lady? Had she been traumatized by the loss of her uncle?

Did she expect her new guardian to take her uncle’s place?

Jaw set, Grant undid the towel knotted at his hips and tossed it aside. The child would simply have to realize that her entire situation had changed, and if she couldn’t cope with that change, she’d be in for a rough ride.

At eight-thirty, just as he was about to leave, the telephone rang. It was his driver, calling to tell him that his car had a flat.

“No problem,” Grant said. “I can grab a taxi.”

But it had started to rain. Finding a cab was impossible at rush hour on a rainy Monday. With a muttered curse, Grant gave it up and sprinted for the nearest subway station.

The platform was crowded and he paced its length with growing irritation. When a train finally came shrieking into the station, the crowd surged forward as if it were the last train anyone would ever see. Grant set his jaw and shouldered his way inside.

By the time he emerged on Wall Street, his mood had gone from bad to grim. Finding that he had at least another three blocks to go in the rain without an umbrella did not improve it.

“Dammit,” he snarled to no one in particular. He turned up the collar of his jacket, ducked his head against the rain, and hurried down the street.

Crista was walking as fast as she could toward the building that housed Blackburn, Blackburn, and Katz but it wasn’t easy when the ridiculously high heels on her boots kept slipping on the slick pavement.

She sighed, thinking how much better she’d feel if she were wearing her own clothes to this meeting. But the meeting was at nine, and she had to be back in the Village to start work by eleven. There wasn’t any choice, except to wear this silly getup under her raincoat.

The letter from her uncle’s attorney had arrived by registered mail on Saturday.

Dear Miss Adams,

Your presence is required at this office Monday morning promptly at nine regarding the provisions of your late uncle’s will.

It was signed by Horace Blackburn, LL.B., J.D.

Crista had frowned. What was this about provisions in Uncle Simon’s will? There wouldn’t be anything in the will that concerned her. Simon had made that clear when she’d moved out of his home.

“You will not get one penny from me, young woman,” he’d said shrilly, wagging a bony finger in her direction. “I’m going to cut you off without a cent!”

“I never wanted anything from you, Uncle,” she’d responded—nothing he’d wanted to give her, at any rate.

So what could the estimable Horace Blackburn, LL.B., J.D., be talking about? Did some kind of legal mumbo jumbo require him to inform her that Simon had written her out of his will?

Well, she’d thought as she dialed Blackburn’s office, he could just tell her that over the phone.

A recorded voice had informed her that the offices were closed until Monday morning at nine.

Crista had grimaced. She’d just have to wait until then to make the call…

Maybe it was impulsiveness. Maybe it was stubborn pride and the determination not to be intimidated by anyone, traits that had always infuriated her uncle. But sometime between Saturday afternoon and Sunday evening, she’d changed her mind.

Crista had decided to keep the appointment.

She’d met Horace Blackburn once when Simon had consulted him about transferring her from one boarding school to another. A prissy man with the same icy bearing as his client, Blackburn’s disapproval of her had been written all over his face.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to smile sweetly at him and tell him where to get off after he’d read the words he undoubtedly hoped would bring tears to her eyes?

The more she’d thought about it, the more she’d looked forward to the chance.

But reality wasn’t measuring up to the fantasy, Crista thought glumly as she turned down Canal Street. Things had gone wrong from the minute she’d awakened this morning. She’d slept through the first jangling call of her alarm clock, and then the gray cat had managed to get himself stuck behind the refrigerator. By the time she’d finally dashed from the apartment, Crista had been running late.

The bus had pulled out just as she’d reached the stop, and neither frantic shouting or jumping up and down had slowed it down or brought it back. So she’d caught the crosstown instead, intending to transfer to a downtown bus at Broadway, but somehow she’d miscalculated.

Now she was walking the last four long blocks in the rain, wondering why on earth she’d ever thought a face-to-face confrontation with Horace Blackburn would be a good idea.

She hunched deeper into the collar of her raincoat. The wind was picking up now, driving the rain before it. Her hair would be as tangled as a bird’s nest by the time she reached Blackburn’s office, and whatever rain-defeating abilities her thin coat once had were long gone. She didn’t even want to think about what the dampness seeping through it might be doing to her already snug T-shirt.

Crista sighed as she stepped off the curb. She’d have been better off sticking to Plan A, she thought as she hurried across the intersection. She could have phoned Blackburn this morning and told him, in her best lockjawed, boarding-school accent, that she didn’t give a fig for whatever it was he had to tell her, that he could either make his little speech over the phone or he could—

“Look out!”

The warning came too late. Crista’s head came up just as the man barreled into her. Her right foot, already up on the curb, slid out from under her. She gave an outraged cry, windmilled her arms in a desperate attempt to keep her boots from bidding a fast farewell to the pavement, and went stumbling backward into the street just as a truck, horn blaring, came racing into the intersection.