Guardian Groom. Sandra Marton

      “So I’ve heard.” She smiled. “It’s a trait I admire.”

      Grant smiled, too. “But I should warn you that I am old-fashioned about some things.”

      “You’re not going to tell me that it would be a conflict of interest for us to cultivate our friendship, are you?” Alicia Madigan said with a little laugh.

      Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, Grant reached out and cupped his hand lightly over her breast. He heard her catch her breath, the sound loud as a gunshot in the silence.

      “Actually,” he said, his tone almost conversational, “I was thinking about the concept of giving and taking.” She gave a choked moan of pleasure as his thumb swept lightly across her breast; he felt the swift hardening of her nipple beneath her suit jacket. “And you ought to know that I prefer to be the one who decides what to give.” His thumb moved again. “And what to take. Is that a problem?”

      “Oh no,” she said. He could see her fighting for control of herself. “No, that’s not a problem at all. You can—”

      His hand moved. Her fingers clamped tightly around his wrist as he stroked her; he could feel the sudden fierce tremor of excitement that swept through her body.

      The realization that he’d so quickly cut through her cool, assertive exterior was almost as pleasing as it was disappointing. What she promised now didn’t matter. Later, she would want something more, something he could not give.

      There had been women who’d accused him of having no heart, but it wasn’t true. He could take pleasure in a relationship—but love? Love was a word invented by greeting-card makers. It was not real. Any sensible man knew that, and Grant had always been a sensible man.

      Suddenly, he felt weary, far older than his thirty-two years, and tired of this game he had played so many times before. He stepped back, took Alicia Madigan gently by the shoulders, and smiled at her.

      “Give me your number,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

      “But…” Her blue eyes clouded. “I thought—”

      “Not tonight,” he said gently. “But soon. I promise.”

      There was a moment’s silence, and then a tight smile curled across her mouth.

      “I suppose I should be insulted—but I think I’d rather consider it a challenge.” She bent and picked up her briefcase. “My number’s in the book,” she said. Her voice was cool, and gave no hint of what had just happened. “Please have the contract changes in my office first thing Monday morning.”

      Grant nodded, smiled, and watched as she made the long walk to the door. Once it shut after her, he blew out his breath.

      “Hell,” he muttered, as his gaze swept across the clock on his desk. He was running late. By the time he shaved, showered, then dressed, his date would be here. Kimberly would not like having to cool her heels, he thought as he took off his jacket and laid it neatly over the back of his desk chair.

      But she’d wait.

      They always did.

      

      Crista Adams was running late, too, and she felt terrible about it—especially since she’d promised Danny she’d be on time tonight.

      She paused to catch her breath on the fifth-floor landing of the Greenwich Village tenement. At least she’d remembered to stop for a bottle of wine. As for being late—well, that hadn’t been her choice. Gus had asked her to stay an extra hour to fill in for one of the other girls and she’d ended up with a tableful of beer guzzlers who thought waitresses had been put on this planet for their amusement.

      Crista grimaced as she headed toward her apartment. It wasn’t worth thinking about. Getting hit on went with the territory down here, especially when Gus insisted that his waitresses wear short leather skirts, knee-high boots, and T-shirts that clung like a second skin. But the tips were good, you could work just about as many hours as you could handle and, slowly but steadily, she was beginning to save money toward the future.

      Some day, she thought as she dredged out her keys, she’d have enough to open a little shop where she could sell the silver jewelry she loved to create. Until then, this life wasn’t so bad. At least she was answerable to no one but herself. And if the loudmouths and wise guys got the wrong idea about her and tried to push the issue…Crista smiled as she unlocked the apartment door. Well, she had her own security system just inside.

      What fool would try any funny stuff, once he saw Danny?

      “It’s me,” she called as she stepped into the postage-stamp-size living room. A gray cat with a mangled ear came hurrying toward her, meowing plaintively. Crista smiled and bent to pat its head. “Hello, Sweetness,” she cooed. “Did you miss me?”

      The cat wove through her ankles as she walked to the kitchen where a pot simmered on the old-fashioned gas stove, a delicious aroma of garlic floating into the air. She put down the wine, scooped the mane of silky black hair away from her high-cheekboned face, and leaned down for a look.

      “Mmm,” she sighed.

      Danny’s sauce was always wonderful. Crista grinned as she shrugged off her jacket and tossed it across a chair. What more could a woman ask of the person who shared her apartment? Danny could cook, he loved animals, he didn’t mind the fact that she spent her spare time fashioning jewelry out of silver and beads—and he had more muscles than Sylvester Stallone.

      That was the first thing she’d noticed about him, the day he’d shown up in answer to her ad—the day she’d been determined to turn him away.

      “I want a female roommate,” she’d said firmly. “My ad specifically said—”

      “The ad says two bedrooms, doesn’t it, Ms. Adams?”

      “Yes, but—”

      The gray cat had chosen that moment to come strutting in.

      “Hey,” Danny had said, “you’ve got a cat.” He’d shot her a grin as he squatted down beside Sweetness. “I love cats.”

      Crista’s smile had been politely dismissive. “That’s very nice, Mr. Amato. But my ad distinctly said ‘Single female to share 2 bedroom Village walk-up—’”

      “Nice earrings. Never saw anything like ‘em before.”

      She’d touched one of the little clusters of silver bells hanging from her lobes and then she’d frowned.

      “Thank you. But—”

      “Listen, Ms. Adams. I know what you’re thinking.”

      Crista’s violet eyes had been cool. “I doubt it.”

      “You’re thinking,” he’d said pleasantly, “this guy moves in here, he’s gonna hit on me.”

      Crista hadn’t flinched. “And won’t you?”

      “Tell me the truth, Ms. Adams. Am I your type?”

      He wasn’t. Oh, he was handsome, but the fact was that Crista had yet to meet a man who was her typebut that was nobody’s business but her own.

      “No,” she’d said bluntly, “you’re not.”

      “And you’re not mine, Ms. Adams. You’re certainly a looker, but the vibes are all wrong—if you know what I mean.”

      Crista had hesitated. Every loony in New York seemed to have answered her ad. This guy, at least, wasn’t mumbling about trips back home to Mars. He’d already shown her his references—and, she’d suddenly realized, sharing an apartment with a man who looked like Mr. Muscle might turn out to be an unexpected bonus.

      To her surprise and his, Crista had agreed to a week’s trial—and she’d never regretted it, she thought as she filled a pot with water and set it on to boil. If Danny