Guardian Groom

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Readers

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

When Charles Landon dies, the legacy he leaves behind has very different implications for each of his four children. For sophisticated GRANT LANDON it means that CRISTA ADAMS, his ward, is more than he’d bargained for! What all of the Landons find through Landon’s legacy, though, is the key that finally unlocks their hearts to love…

Dear Readers,

Welcome again to the exciting world of the Landons, and to the legacy that changes the lives of an entire family.

The idea for these books came to me when a friend and I met for lunch at a restaurant in New York. I overheard some women talking at the next table. They were discussing what makes a man exciting. “He has to be gorgeous,” said one. “And a rebel,” said another. “And not the least bit interested in being tamed,” said a third. The next thing I knew, Cade, Grant and Zach Landon sprang to life inside my head. They were certainly handsome, rebellious and untamable, and when I wondered what kind of women could possibly put up with them, their beautiful sister Kyra materialized and said, well, she’d always loved them, even if they were impossible!

This month, let me introduce you to Grant Landon in Guardian Groom. Grant’s a New York attorney. Master of any situation, he’s never at a loss…until he finds himself the unwilling guardian of Crista Adams, who has the face of an angel and the soul of a gypsy.

Settle back and enjoy four months of love, laughter and tears as you discover the full meaning of the Landon legacy.

With my warmest regards,

Sandra Marton

ALSO AVAILABLE IN HARLEQUIN PRESENTS

Landon’s Legacy

1808—AN INDECENT PROPOSAL

Guardian Groom

Sandra Marton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

IT WAS late on an unseasonably warm Friday afternoon in September, and all was right in Grant Landon’s world.

The deal The New York Times had called “impossible” was almost wrapped up, the weekend stretched ahead, and tonight a long-legged beauty whose face graced half the magazine covers in the city was dining with him at his Fifth Avenue apartment—which didn’t dim his growing interest in the blue-eyed blonde seated on the other side of his desk.

They had been dueling for the past several hours, each trying to gain the upper hand, but Grant knew better than to allow his attention to be diverted by something other than the intricacies of contract law. Now, with the deal concluded, he could see that she was all the diversion one man could handle.

Alicia Madigan was bright, sophisticated, and coolly elegant. A woman to his liking—and Grant knew just the way she’d like to be handled. A shadowy smile curved across his mouth at the thought, softening the hard, handsome lines of his face.

The Madigan woman noticed.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she said lightly. “I’ll begin to worry that I gave away too much.”

Grant laughed softly. “Come now, Miss Madigan. You know what they say about the fine art of negotiating. You give some, you get some.”

She smiled, sat back, and crossed her legs. Her demure suit skirt inched above her knees. Grant’s eyes narrowed. Was that a flash of black lace, or was it his imagination?

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Landon. We both know what the ‘fine art of negotiating’ really means. Her eyes met his. “Get as much as you can, while you can. Isn’t that right?”

Were they still discussing the intricacies of contract negotiations? Or had they moved on to an entirely different sort of negotiation?

“Perhaps.” Grant smiled. “But I’ve never taken pleasure in an arrangement that wasn’t mutually agreeable.”

Alicia Madigan gave a throaty laugh. “So I’ve heard.” Her long legs scissored again. There was no mistaking the flash of black lace this time. “You know,” she said softly, “I was as excited at the prospect as I was wary of the consequences of dealing with the famous Grant Landon.”

Grant’s smile tilted. “I have difficulty envisioning you as wary of anyone, Miss Madigan.”

“Alicia, please. Surely, we don’t have to be so formal now.” The tip of her pale pink tongue peeked from between her teeth and slicked across her bottom lip as she rose from her chair. “In fact, I was thinking we might have a drink together. Perhaps dinner. And then—well, who knows?”

Grant felt his body tighten as she came toward him. He looked her over slowly, his hazel eyes moving the length of her body in frank appraisal. Instinct told him that he could take her now, that she wanted to be taken now. All he had to do was go to her, put his hands under that seemingly demure skirt, shove it above her thighs…

“You’re very direct,” he said, his voice a little thick as he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

“I am.” She put her hand on his arm; he could feel the heat of her fingers through the soft wool of his jacket. “Does it offend you?”

“On the contrary. I find it admirable.” He lifted his hand to her cheek and stroked his forefinger across the prominent arch. “I’m a believer in honesty in relationships.”

“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 had one failing, it was that he was sometimes behind on his half of the rent payments, but struggling actors were not known for their wealth.

Anyway, there were more important things than money. Crista’s smile dimmed. She knew that better than anyone. She’d spent her teen years in the lap of luxury, the ward of a coldhearted uncle she’d never known existed until her parents’ deaths. Simon had wasted no time in telling her how her mother had lured her father from the bosom of his family.

“And you,” he’d snapped, “are her very image, in looks and in temperament.”

He had spent the next years determinedly trying to remake that image through private schooling and cultural tours of Europe. Shortly before Crista’s twentieth birthday, the situation had become intolerable. She’d moved out, and Simon had washed his hands of her.

That had been months ago. Still, when she’d read of his death in the paper a few weeks before, she’d gone to his funeral. Simon would have laughed; he’d have called her sentimental, a vulgar emotion he’d abhorred. But he was all the family she had, and sometimes, in the darkest moments of the night, she thought about how alone she was…

“Hey.” She looked up. Danny was standing in the doorway, his hair damp from the shower. “Why the long face?”

Crista cleared her throat. “What long face?” she said briskly.

“Did you hear the one about the camel and the goat?”

She groaned. “Only a thousand times.”

“I’ve got a new version, guaranteed to make you smile.”

He was right; the joke did make her smile. In fact, she almost forgot the brief sense of despair that had engulfed her moments ago…

Almost. But not quite.

Grant stood on the terrace of his Fifth Avenue penthouse, sipping a glass of Dom Pérignon from a Baccarat flute, waiting for Kimberly to reappear.

“Such a glum expression,” she’d said in a little-girl voice, just before she’d traipsed off to the powder room. “Don’t worry, darling. When I come back, I’ll make you smile.”

He doubted that, Grant thought grimly. He was bored, he was tired of watching Kimberly watch herself in every reflective surface, and he was hungry. What had his housekeeper left in the kitchen? Canard a l’Orange? Whatever it was, it had to wait until Kimberly put in an appearance.

He shot another look through the open terrace doors into the elegant white-on-white living room. Where the devil was she? She’d said she needed to fix her face—although what you could fix on that face was beyond him. It was so perfect it was almost expressionless, something he’d never noticed before tonight.

“Hell,” Grant muttered, and put the champagne flute down none too gently on a glass-topped table.

What was wrong with him? The feeling of disquiet that had begun late this afternoon had grown so that now he felt edgy and irritable. A premonition, his sister, Kyra, would have said.

He frowned. Kyra? What did she have to do with anything? Why was he thinking of her when—

The telephone on the table beside him shrilled. He picked it up.

“Yes?” he said brusquely. It was Jane, his secretary.

A shape materialized at the far end of the living room. Kimberly was sauntering toward him, her hips swinging as if she were on a modeling runway. She was wearing a scarlet teddy, a sultry pout, and nothing else.

Grant’s breath caught, but not because of Kimberly. He turned away and pressed the phone more tightly to his ear.

“I see. Thank you, Jane. You did the right thing. I can make it. Would you phone my sister and tell her I’m on my way? And my brothers. You have Zach’s Boston number. Cade is in the Middle East. Ask Zach if—Fine. I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up the phone, cleared his throat, and turned to face Kimberly, who was breathing moistly against his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but something’s come up.”

She giggled and put her hand on him. The scent of her perfume, sweet and cloying, filled his nostrils.

“Not yet it hasn’t,” she purred. “But it will.”

Grant’s hand clamped hard around her wrist. “I have a plane to catch,” he said. “Take your time dressing. The doorman will put you in a taxi when you come down.”

“A plane?” Kimberly said, her voice filled with bewilderment. “But I thought we…” Her voice rose as he brushed past her. “Grant, what’s so important that…?”

He wondered what she would say if he told her what was so important, if he said, well, Kimberly, if you must know, my father—a man I feel less for than I would for a stranger—my father, Charles Landon, is dead.

But he only turned and strode through the perfect living room, up the curved staircase to his bedroom. By the time he came down again, carrying a leather weekend bag, he had forgotten Kimberly existed.

In the taxi to the airport he puzzled, briefly, over the sense of disquiet that had plagued him all day. He wasn’t about to give any credence to the idea of premonitions. Still…

Grant sighed wearily, sat back and closed his eyes.

In Greenwich Village, Crista paused with a forkful of pasta halfway to her lips.

“What’s the matter?” Danny asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Just—just a funny feeling…”

“A goose walked over your grave.” He grinned at the look on her face. “Listen, when you have a grandmother from the Old Country, you pick up all kinds of weird stuff.”

“A goose, huh?” Crista laughed, stabbed her fork into her spaghetti, and began to eat her dinner.

CHAPTER ONE

THE sun was coming up fast over the Rocky Mountains, but the highest peaks were still shrouded in mist and the wind blowing across Emerald Lake was chill. Grant, who’d worked up a sweat during his five-mile run, shivered a little as he entered the aspen grove that led to the Landon mansion.

Gravel crunched under his Nikes, the sound a gritty counterpoint to the rasp of his own breath. He’d run this distance every morning for almost as long as he could remember, but it was a long time since he’d done his running at this altitude. His hard muscles ached, his heart was pounding, his lungs were working hard…

And he was loving every minute of it.

How could he have forgotten how peaceful it was here? Except for a pair of startled mule deer, Grant had the lake and the slopes all to himself. No cars, no trucks, no people, nothing but the deer, the sky, and the mountains.

Damn, but this was one hell of a beautiful spot.

Grant’s mouth twisted in a grimace. Except for the mansion rising just ahead, it was perfect.

The house was monstrous in size and in pretension. It should have been made of fieldstone and glass, with soaring, clean lines. Instead, it was massive, built of concrete and brick, and as out of place as it was opulent. The mansion didn’t harmonize with its setting, it competed with it—and lost, Grant thought as he slowed to a walk. Hell, it was no contest.

His lips twisted again. “Be it ever so humble,” he muttered as he trotted up the steps to the flagstone terrace, “there’s no place like home.”

He smiled bitterly as he snatched his towel from the lounge chair. If there was one thing this place had never been, it was a home. He’d hated the house when he was a boy and he hated it still.

It was a damned good thing he was leaving today. A week in this place was about all he could manage and still remain sane.

Grant wiped his face with the towel. He hadn’t shaved since yesterday and the stubble of his dark beard rasped across the soft cotton. Tossing the towel aside, he reached for the Columbia Law School sweatshirt that lay on the chair, and yanked it down over his head. With a sigh, he raked his hair back from his forehead, turned and walked slowly across the terrace, and stood looking out at Emerald Lake, glittering like the jewel it had been named for under the first rays of the sun.

What a hell of a week this had been! He’d ended up having to install a private phone line, just so he could keep in touch with his New York office. The mansion’s own lines, all eight of them, had been jammed with incoming calls and faxes from newspapers and wire services and what seemed like every moneyman, politico, and bigwig industrialist from coast to coast.

“It’s a goddamned circus,” Zach had muttered one morning, after the three Landon brothers had spent a frantic hour fielding calls.

“Yeah,” Cade had said with a thin-lipped smile, “and the old man would have loved it.”

Grant shook his head as he leaned his arms on the stone wall that surrounded the terrace. Cade was right. The old man certainly would have loved it—the fuss, the media attention, the brouhaha the day of the funeral, when vans from the TV stations, the limos, and the mourners’ cars had caused a massive traffic jam on the roads leading to the cemetery where Charles had been laid to rest—oh yeah, he’d have loved that most of all.

Grant had hated every minute of it. Hell, he’d almost come to blows with a scum-sucking, freelance photographer who’d tried to slip inside the mausoleum to snag a shot of the old man’s mahogany casket as it came to rest beside Ellen Landon’s. Zach and Cade had damned near had to pull him off the guy.

Grant blew out his breath. That had been the only time he’d felt anything. First, rage at the intrusiveness of the photographer, and then a fierce stab of pain at the sight of his mother’s casket, which was ridiculous. Not that Grant hadn’t loved her—he had, of course. But Ellen had died years ago, when he was just a boy; his memories of her were dimmed by the passage of time, and besides, he was not the sort of man given to sentimentalizing the past.

His overreaction—obviously the result of exhaustion—must have shown in his face, because Kyra had slipped her hand in his and leaned into his shoulder.

“Hey,” she’d whispered, “are you okay?”

Grant, feeling foolish, had nodded and squeezed her hand in reassurance.

“I’m fine,” he’d whispered back. “What about you, Sis? How are you bearing up?”

Kyra had looked up. Her face was pale but, to his surprise, her eyes were clear and cool.

“Don’t worry about me,” she’d said. “I’m fine.”

Afterward, the crowd of mourners had gathered at the mansion to offer condolences to Grant, Cade, Zach, and Kyra.

“It must be a comfort to you,” old Judge Harris had said, his jowls quivering with solemnity, “to see how many of Denver’s finest citizens have come to pay their last respects to your dear father.”

“What he means,” Zach had murmured as soon as the judge was out of earshot, “is that Denver’s finest citizens have come to size up the new Landon regime.”