Remember now?
Grant was up, staring at her, on edge, looking for any danger.
“It’s nothing,” she told him. “Just a surprising picture.”
Grant stood up and walked over to her.
“Let me see.”
“No,” she said, hurriedly trying to delete the text. He grabbed her around the waist and plucked the phone out of her hand and glanced at it.
“Who is that from?” He sounded angry.
“No one,” she said.
“Then why is he sending you pictures likethat?”
“Because he’s crazy.”
“Is it Jean Claude?”
“What? No.”
“Is it Fernando?” Grant snarled, still pinning her to him.
“No.”
“Well, it’s not mine, so who else are you hooking up with?”
“No one!” she shouted, pushing him away.
Taking a deep breath, trying not to cry, she told him, “You should go. I have some work to finish.”
Chapter 30
Grant
Grant stomped out of the house. After giving a curt goodbye to the maid, he jogged back to his father’s estate.
“We could have sent a car for you,” Stefan said mildly when Grant returned, and Gus jumped all over him in greeting.
“No need,” Grant said.
He and Kate had stayed up late to help clean then finished up in the morning. Grant slept in a spare bedroom. He somehow resisted the urge to visit Kate in the night. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her that story about the stripper. Was it too tasteless? Maybe she was hinting that she wanted someone like one of the Davenport sons. The other two were single, right? What if they up and decided to marry Kate? He would have to kill them, he decided, especially if it was one of them that sent her that awful picture.
Why did it feel as though nothing in his life worked out?
He still had that letter in his room, waiting for him. He tried to ignore it while showering. He shouldn’t become involved with his mother. Things weren’t all bad. Kate wasn’t happy about the picture. That was all. He needed to find out who had sent it.
When he got downstairs, Stefan directed him to the terrace for lunch. His father and his uncle Jack were outside, already eating.
“Grant!” His father seemed happy.
Grant looked at the glass in Walter’s hand—he’d been drinking. His father poured him a generous glass of whatever amber cocktail he was having.
Grant took a swig and coughed when it burned his throat. Jack chuckled. Grant wondered if his uncle was starting to warm up to him.
“I thought you would be used to drinking swill from the Marines,” he said jokingly.
