Guardian Groom. Sandra Marton

the doors opened. The woman with the briefcase stepped out, and the doors closed again.

      Crista counted silently as the car moved upward again. At the sixth floor, it stopped. She turned and glared at the man, who was leaning back against the wall, his feet crossed at the ankles.

      “Sorry,” he said with a contemptuous smile. “I’m not getting out yet—but feel free to choose any floor you like.”

      Crista’s jaw tightened. “Don’t I wish I could!”

      “Following me is pointless. I don’t know what you want, but—”

      “Don’t flatter yourself, mister! I have as much right to be here as you do. I have—”

      “An appointment. Sure.”

      Crista heard the disdain in his words. She told herself it didn’t matter, that the opinion of this stranger meant less than nothing to her—but she was already swinging toward him.

      “Has anybody ever told you what an absolutely vile human being you are?”

      His eyes narrowed. “Listen, lady. You’ve pushed your luck about as far as it goes. If I were you—”

      “You are the most—the most arrogant, insolent, coldhearted, unfeeling son of a bitch—”

      She cried out as he grabbed her and drew her to him. Her hand flew toward the control panel but he slammed his fist against it first.

      The car shuddered to a halt.

      “Hell,” he growled, “I’ve taken just about enough from you!”

      Deep inside, Grant could hear a cold, rational voice warning him that he was going over the edge—but he wasn’t listening. No woman who looked like this should blame a man for looking at her, for wanting her—for needing to silence her in the most primitive way.

      Grant gave up the battle and plunged into a time when men fought saber-toothed tigers.

      He pulled her into his arms, ignoring the beat of her fists against his chest, his mouth dropping to hers in a kiss that demanded not just repentance but submission.

      Crista offered neither. When he lifted his head, she spat a name into his face that the voice inside him assured him he more than deserved.

      Let her go, Grant told himself. Dammit, man, let her go.

      But the darkness reached for him again.

      His hands fisted in her hair and his mouth descended toward hers. Again, he kissed her, branding her with his anger. Again, she fought back.

      Grant went still. What in hell was he doing? He was not a man who took without giving. He was not a man who wanted without being wanted in return. And, God, that was what he needed from this woman. He needed her to want him, to part her lips for his kiss, to reach out to hold him and turn to fire in his arms.

      Slowly, he bent his head, brushed his mouth against hers in soft, gentle strokes. His hands shifted, his fingers threading into the spill of her hair so that her head was tilted back and she was captive to his kiss. He kissed her again and again, each kiss tender and sweet, until he felt the tension and the fear leaving her body, until he felt it being replaced by something else.

      She made a little sound, one the tiny bells of her earrings seemed to echo. Grant felt her body soften, felt the sudden heat of her, and he whispered words of reassurance against her mouth.

      Crista swayed forward. Her lips parted; she whimpered as his mouth slanted over hers, hungry now, and demanding. Slowly, she rose toward him, she lifted herself to him…

      The car lurched to life and Grant and Crista fell away from each other. In the silence, Grant could hear nothing but the rasp of his own breathing, the dull droning of the elevator’s motor, and then the sound of the car stopping and the doors opening.