Sandra Marton - Guardian Groom

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?

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.