on the table, then tromped back across the foyer, past the Jackson Pollock dominating the east wall, underneath the opera-house-size crystal chandelier suspended from the twenty-foot ceiling, over the Persian rug larger than her first apartment.
Money, money, money…
Grant stood aside to let her enter the office, gesturing for her to sit. Anywhere, apparently. At least a half dozen chairs begged for the privilege, mostly contemporary leather numbers in rich browns and tans, a tweedy club chair or two for variety. Funny, she would have expected lots of chrome and glass, assorted shades of black.
An open stainless steel casket, maybe, discretely placed in a far corner.
Mia briefly shut her eyes, picturing nuns the world over sighing in dismay. However, the only alternative to the grossly inappropriate flashes of black humor that overtook her whenever she was majorly stressed was grief-induced catatonia. And anyway, she could have sworn the casket comment had been in Justine’s voice, accompanied by a burst of laughter and a lifted glass of Chablis.
Shoving aside an image of Justine as Mia last remembered her—runway beautiful and pulsing with energy, her eyes sparkling with mischief as they tromped down Madison Avenue arm-in-arm on a spur-of-the-moment shopping spree—Mia flopped down in one of the leather chairs. Still, the image, and the truth, lurked at the edges of her consciousness, waiting to pounce.
Ten minutes, she thought, her jeans rough against her palms as she scraped them over her thighs. I can hang on for ten more minutes—
“Were you able to eat before you came up?” Grant asked quietly, his brows slightly dipped. Mia shook her head. “Would you like something, then? A sandwich, at least—”
“No, I’m good.” Except she then realized her mouth felt like she’d been French-kissing a blow-dryer. “I could use some water, though.”
With a curt nod, Grant crossed to the small bar on the other side of the room, his loose-fitting black sweater (fine-gauge, she was guessing cashmere) and matching cords doing nothing to disguise the six-foot-plus package of solid, pulsing testosterone underneath. On paper, the man looked good. Okay, in person he looked good—all head-turning gorgeous with his dark hair and those eerie gray eyes, tall and fit and broad of shoulder, the way leading men used to look before somebody decided, for some inexplicable reason, that potent masculinity was overrated.
Add smart—investment whiz of the straw-in-to-gold variety—and insanely rich, and… Well. Mia supposed she could see the attraction. If one were into men whose beverage of choice was Type O Positive.
She shut her eyes again. Go straight to hell, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars….
“Here you go.”
Jumping slightly, Mia opened her eyes again to see an über-masculine hand proffering a heavy, deeply etched glass and a parchment-colored cocktail napkin. “Thanks,” she muttered, gulping down half the glass as Grant—still standing, still watching her—took a measured sip of his own drink. Something ambery and undoubtedly potent. And even more undoubtedly expensive.
“Are you all right?” he asked, startling her enough to make her hand jerk, sloshing water over the edge of the glass.
“I’m fine,” she said, dabbing at her front with the napkin. She tried a smile, then thought, Why? “Although, to be frank, I don’t think it’s really hit yet.”
Grant lifted his drink to his lips, then, inexplicably, relieved her of the damp, crumpled napkin before striding back to the bar to dispose of it. “I assume you and Justine were still close?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” She waited out the twinge of hurt, of uncertainty. “It’s been a strange couple of years,” she said, fingering the glass’s rim. “Lots of changes for both of us. So we didn’t see each other as often as we used to. Before, you know, she married you. Especially once I left the firm.”
Another image blossomed in her mind’s eye, Justine hooting with unladylike laughter in the middle of the sidewalk, making strangers—in Manhattan!—smile. Deep inside, grief stirred and stretched. Not yet! Mia thought, swallowing it down. “But I’d never had a friend like Jus.” After a moment’s contemplation of her drink, she took a sip, then said, “Although I suppose that was due as much to timing and circumstance as anything. You know,” she continued at Grant’s speculative look, “both being the new kids at the firm at the same time, not to mention new to the city, neither of us having a sister…”
Her hand shook when she lifted the glass again. “But I always knew I could count on her. Trust her. And I can’t believe…” Her eyes filled. “I can’t believe she’s g-gone,” she whispered.
And the floodgates gave way.
Chapter Two
Grant’s stomach clenched as Mia’s hand slammed over her mouth, although not quickly enough to stifle either her moan or the torrent of tears that followed. Clearly horrified at breaking down in front of him, she struggled to her feet and stumbled to the other side of the room, although whether to get away from him or in some vain attempt to escape her own grief, he couldn’t say.
Her meltdown came as no surprise, although her having held it together as long, and as well, as she had, did. Apparently, Mia Vaccaro was made of sterner stuff than he’d given her credit for, based on the few times he’d been in her company after he married Justine…a thought which in turn provoked the faintest whiff of memory, a brief impression, an obvious misapprehension. Rebuffing it—as well as his usual antipathy to waterworks—he snatched a box of tissues off an end table and carried them over to her.
“You’ll make yourself ill,” he said, softly, behind her quaking back. She jumped slightly, then turned, snatching three tissues in quick succession from the box and glaring at him through swollen eyelids.
“So s-sorry,” Mia lobbed at him between sobs. “I d-don’t know any other w-way to cry! If it b-bothers you—” she swatted in his direction with the tissues “—go away!”
So he did. Only to return a moment later with her forsaken glass of water.
“I’m n-not finished yet,” she said, honking loudly into the tissues.
“I’m not rushing you. Come on, sit back down,” he said, and she actually let him lead her back to the chair to finish her cry. In short order the sobs turned to sniffles, the sniffles to shudders, and the shudders to a small, trembly, “Sorry.”
“Feel better?” he asked, picking up his drink from a small side table.
Mia blew her nose, tucked her arms against her midsection, then nodded.
He took a sip. “Now. Aren’t you glad that didn’t happen somewhere in the middle of I-95?” When she glared at him, he added, with extreme patience, “So sue me for guessing you were ready to blow.”
After a moment, Mia sucked in a breath and sat up straighter, scrubbing her palm over first one cheek, then another. “Point to you,” she said, then shivered. “God, I must look like hell.”
She did, actually. Justine’s tears had always been delicately executed, just enough to trickle down a flawlessly made-up cheek, to spike her eyelashes. No red-splotched cheeks or raccoon eyes, ever. “Now that you mention it, you might want to avoid mirrors for the
