by Jessica Bird
Her husband Ranulf had been equally difficult. With his continental opinions about what ladies should and shouldn't do, he'd proven to be a close second to her father when it came to issuing orders.
Her mother was no damn walk in the park, either.
Grace took a shallow breath as she heard the deep rumble of men's voices and then the sound of heavy footfalls.
It was high time she stopped being polite and started taking control of her life. As a result of her caving in last night, some poor guy had come from God only knew where just to waste his time. She didn't want this kind of help. And' she wasn't going to let Nick Farrell's aggressive concern, or her old friend's more muted variety, make her take on a bodyguard.
She grimaced. As for the man who'd come in hopes of getting hired, she'd be up-front and apologize, tell him that it was a mistake. She'd pay his expenses, of course. Yes, that was the right thing to do.
Grace lifted her head and stopped breathing. She had to blink her eyes, to make sure she wasn't dreaming.
"It's you," she whispered as she stared into the hard face of the man who had kissed her.
Her heart kicked into overdrive.
What was he doing here? Was he a—
But of course, he'd been protecting the ambassador. That was why he'd been at the ball. That was why he stood out from all the other men as someone harder, tougher, different.
Too bad it hadn't been Cuppie he'd been watching over.
She swallowed through a tight throat. He was exactly as she remembered him, larger than life, colder than ice. His face was drawn in bold lines, anchored by a square jaw and a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once. His haircut was short as a military man's, his penetrating eyes an intense blue. This time, he was wearing a black leather jacket and a pair of well-worn blue jeans, but he looked every bit as commanding as he had in the tuxedo.
As he stood in front of her, she remembered exactly how it had felt to be kissed by him, but she couldn't tell what he was thinking. He didn't show a lick of emotion. There was no shock or disbelief as he starred at her, not even curiosity. His opaque gaze betrayed nothing except for his intelligence and a quiet, brooding menace.
"You know each other?" Nick asked.
When the other man didn't offer an explanation, Grace murmured, "We met... sort of, at a party. Recently.”
Nick's eyebrow cocked as Grace stepped forward, offering her hand. She was nervous about getting close to John Smith, afraid that something of what had happened between them might show in her face.
"It's good to see you again."
As soon as he gripped her palm, she felt like she'd been hit by an electrical charge. The sensation ran through her fingers, up her arm, and pegged her in the chest. She pulled back abruptly.
Just as she had the first time she'd shaken his hand.
"Would you like us to stay with you?" Carter asked her. "While you talk?"
Grace shook her head and they left her alone. With him.
"Won't you sit down?" she asked.
A mocking light came into his eyes as he picked a chair opposite the sofa and lowered his body down in it. Even seated, he looked tall, she thought.
"You don't seem surprised to see me." Grace settled on the sofa, crossing her legs. His eyes followed the movement lingering on her calves, before returning to her face.
"I don't put myself in positions where I'm going to be surprised." His voice was deep and gravelly, totally confident.
He was all male, she thought, with the requisite pride, arrogance, and ego that came with an overload of testosterone. Of course, he did look tough as nails, so maybe that faith in himself was justified. She sure wouldn't want to get him angry. She'd done that once already and all it'd gotten her was a fantasy life she could do without.
"So let's talk about why I'm here." He crossed his arms over his chest. Impatience came off him in waves, threading through his low voice.
Grace's fingers went to her heavy engagement ring and she began twisting it around in circles. When those sharp; eyes of his flicked over the movement, she forced herself to sit still.
She should just tell him to go, as she'd planned to, as she would have if there was a stranger sitting in that chair.
He was a stranger, she reminded herself.
"I'm afraid you've wasted your time." When she paused, his eyebrow rose. "I mean, I don't think you can help me. Er—that I need help."
As she tripped over her words, she wondered where in the hell her head was. Probably down the same black hole her life had fallen into.
"I can reimburse you for your travel up here," she added quickly.
“I’m sure of that," he drawled, looking back down at her rings. There was a subtle disdain in his eyes, tightness to his mouth that suggested there were other places he'd rather be.
She bristled at his tone and the expression. She could tell he didn't think much of her. So why had he come? As a favor to Nick?
"And I apologize for any inconvenience."
"How polite of you."
Silence stretched between them.
"I just don't think I'm in sufficient danger to justify a bodyguard."
"That so."
"Yes. Nick insisted on calling you. It wasn't my idea."
"Oh really."
Grace glared at him. He sent her a bored look in return.
He could at least pretend to be interested, she thought.
She crossed her arms over her chest, realized she was mimicking his pose and put her hands back in her lap. She had an absurd urge to yell at him because he was getting under her skin with all his terse silence, making her feel foolish and frivolous.
She narrowed her eyes and gave in to a childish urge to talk at him. Just to prove she could.
"I live in New York City and I work there, too. Have you ever heard of the Hall Foundation?" Before he could respond, she kept going, feeling like words were a way to burn off a little anxiety. A little frustration. Maybe of the sexual variety. She almost cringed. "My family started it in the late 1800s. We give grants to scholars, art historians, archaeologists, anyone who is seriously studying American history—"
He held his hand up to cut her off. There was a scar in the middle of his palm and she wondered how it got there. Hand-to-hand combat?
"I'll pass on the infomercial. Tell me something I don't know. You can leave out anything in the public domain."
Grace frowned at the curt words. "I live on Park Avenue—"
"I know."
"My office is at—"
A dark eyebrow arched. j
Grace shot him a level stare. "I hate musicals and Mexican food makes me gassy. I eat it anyway, though."
To her surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched.
So Mr. Tough Guy could lighten up after all, she thought with a flare of triumph.
"You didn't know either of those?" she challenged.
John Smith's eyes didn't waver from hers. “No.”
"Good. Let's see, I'm a fan of romance novels. Gaelen Foley writes these fabulous historicals—"
"I don't want to know what you read," he interrupted sardonically, "and I could care less about your intestinal tract. Why don't you get to the point."
Grace tightened her lips. Any chance of dismissing him in a polite, thoughtful way was fading fast. Her temper was starting to rear its thorny head and he seemed perfectly content to watch her boil while being the model of calm restraint.
Well, two could play at the cool, haughty routine. Thanks to her mother's arctic example, Grace was a master of the deep freeze.
She cleared her throat. "Tell you what, why don't you share what you've dug up about me? So I don't keep boring you."
Their eyes clashed as she waited for him to speak.
chapter
3
Sitting across from the countess, Smith could feel his temperature rising. As improbable as it seemed, the pristine woman perched on the sofa was managing to get under his skin again.
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She was so damn beautiful sitting on that fancy piece of furniture. She'd arranged herself with precision, her legs crossed at the knees, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. With her hair coiled up on her head, and wearing that expensive, modestly cut suit, she was every bit the lady. Poised, graceful, elegant.
The countess shifted, recrossing her long legs.
His eyes traced her delicate ankles and her shapely calves and he felt a stab of pure, unfettered lust. He wondered what she'd look like without all those expensive clothes on and decided she'd probably fall over in a heap if someone asked her to put on sweatpants.
When he'd gotten the call from Farrell, he'd been tempted to turn the invitation down. His instincts told him that taking the Countess von Sharone on as a client would be a complicated affair and not just because of their kiss. She was world-renowned. An icon, for Chrissakes. And someone who, most likely, was a diva of the highest order, capable of making actors or opera singers look meek and self-deprecating.
But he'd come anyway. He was curious to see her in person one last time, if for no other reason than to prove that she was just a woman. A woman prettier than most maybe, but she was first and foremost a living, breathing person who would one day get liver spots and gray hair, just like everyone else. Nothing special.
Trying to find something unattractive, he scanned her closely, but only ended up focusing on the color of her eyes. They were a very icy green now that she was upset with him.
Damn fine color, he thought. Like a Granny Smith apple.
"Cat got your tongue," she prompted.
He frowned, thinking she was trying to bait him. It wasn't going to work this time. "You can't honestly be offended that I investigated your background?"
"It’s more your attitude."
"I'm not here to charm you."
"What a relief. I hate pointing out the failures of others.” Smith felt an unexpected urge to smile. Her sense of humor was a surprise. So was the fact that she was fidgety. Her hands were busy braiding the fringe on a silk pillow.
"So are you going to talk to me or what?" she demanded sharply. Yup, there was definitely some diva in her. "I know where you live and work," he drawled. "I know you're very wealthy. And I know you're featured in that article on powerful women found with Cuppie Alston's body."
Grace's eyes widened as she paled. "How do you know that?"
"Quite a number of New York's finest are friends of mine."
"Oh." She hesitated and then brought a shaking hand up to her hair.
He was intrigued by the show of fear, considering she'd gone out of her way to tell him she didn't think she was in danger.
"So you want to tell me the truth?" he asked.
"About what?"
"How you're really feeling." He looked pointedly at her trembling hand.
She quickly tucked it into her lap.
"I—ah, I am a bit disoriented," she murmured. "I've never had any kind of a threat before."
"That's surprising,''
"Why?"
He sensed she asked the question just to get him to talk, as if she wanted to buy some time to get herself under control. He decided to indulge her.
"You lead a high profile life and have a schedule Amtrak would envy. You leave your penthouse every morning at the same time, go on a run, get into your office by eight o'clock. You work until seven, you go out, you're home by eleven. Weekends are the same as weekdays."
"You managed to find all that out in less than twenty-four hours?" Her expression was incredulous.
"Three questions. That's all it took. And my car was running at the curb while your doorman was talking." He glanced down at the rings on her finger. "
I also know that your husband hasn't been around for much of the past month. In spite of the death of your father."
Abruptly, she rose from the sofa and went over to the windows. Although her walk was smooth and calm, he wasn't fooled. She was winding the rings around her finger again.
There was something going on with the husband, he thought.
When she stayed silent, he said, "So now that I've shown you mine, you want to show me yours "
There was a protracted pause. She reached up to the window and rested one hand on the glass. Her fingernails were trimmed neatly but not polished. It was another surprise but it made sense. She didn't overdo it with the makeup either.
When she finally turned to face him, her face was arranged carefully into an expression of tranquility. It was a lovely lie, he thought as his gaze drifted down to the graceful line of her neck. Her slender hand came up and fussed with her collar, as if she felt his eyes on her skin.
There was an elegance in the way she moved, he thought, a smoothness. He was surprised by how attractive he found it
When she spoke next, her voice was marked by a brusque urgency and he knew then she was going to tell him every thing. Or most of everything.
"I noticed about three weeks ago that I was being followed. It was right after my father's death. I was walking into the Hall Building after dark and I thought I saw some one behind me. When I came out an hour later, there was a figure across the street. Waiting for me."
Her words came out fast and edgy, as if spilled, and he thought she probably kept a lot to herself most of the time Preserving that beautiful image, no doubt.
"Was it a man or a woman?"
"I couldn't see clearly. But I assumed it was a man."
"And how do you know the person was waiting for you?"
"Because when I got in my car, he left. To be honest, it could have just been a paparazzo. They're hungry for candids of me looking mournful."
"But you don't really believe it was a photographer, do you?"
"He didn't take any pictures. And then a couple of days later, I know for sure I was trailed. I was going out to Newport by car with my father's ashes. My driver noticed it first. A white sedan behind us, all the way into Connecticut."
The countess's hands were busy with her watch, playing with the catch, releasing and closing, releasing and closing, a small noise marking each movement. He suspected she was screaming inside that fine skin of hers.
"Again, I told myself it had to be the press, that someone must have leaked that we were going to lay him to rest. There were photographers at the cemetery and I did see a white sedan just outside the gates."
"You still felt threatened, though."
She nodded, reluctantly. "And it hasn't stopped, I'll be coming out of a restaurant and I'll see someone step back, out of the light. I leave work and, I swear, I'll see a figure across the street. Yesterday morning, I came out of my building and I thought I saw him on the corner."
The countess paused and looked out at the lake. Her brows drew tightly together, knotting the skin of her forehead. She was searching for answers, he could tell. He'd seen the same questing look before in people who felt their lives were slipping out of their control.
From out of nowhere, Smith felt like he should say something. He wasn't much for offering sympathy, even to women who were in danger. Emotions were just not his bag. He was into saving lives, not nurturing, but there was something about her that struck him as unique and worthy. She wasn't a hysterical woman manufacturing fear to get attention. She was scared, truly afraid, yet her chin was up and she was trying so damn hard to be strong.
He was fascinated by the show of will, especially considering how nervous she was.
She took a deep breath and turned toward him. "The police called the morning after Cuppie's body was found. They questioned me pretty extensively."
Smith thought back to that night, to the party. He remembered the tortured expression on Alfred Alston's face as the ambassador had arrived and been seated next to an empty chair. Alston's wife had never showed up because her plans for the evening had been intercepted by tragedy. Instead of enjoying the dinner and engaging in light and witty; banter with an international dignitary, the woman had been struggling against her killer and then blee
ding to death by herself, surrounded by lovely works of art and expensive-antiques, none of which could save her.
According to the police, the murderer's identity was a mystery, the motive, unclear. The only real piece of evidence; had been the newspaper article found with the body. It didn't take a genius to know the killer might get busy again soon.
"What does your husband have to say about all this?" Smith asked.
Her face tightened and she remained quiet, as if trying to form an answer.
"Countess, where is your husband?”
She stiffened. "In Europe."
“When is he coming back? "
There was a pause. "Why is that relevant?'"
"The man's married to you. In fact, I'm surprised he's not here today. Most husbands don't take it well when their wives might be on the short list of a murderer."
"He's a busy man. I don't want to bother him." Her gaze skipped away.
Smith's eyes narrowed. "And why don't the police know that you're being followed? You didn't want to bother them, either?"
She began twisting the rings again. "How did you know—"
"My buddies down at the precinct were pretty forthcoming as to what they knew about you. They didn't mention you were being trailed," he explained coolly. “Why keep it to yourself?"
She shrugged. "As far as I’m concerned, the less I tell the police, the better. Leaks happen and I’m tired of being on the front page after weeks of nonstop coverage. The last thing 1 need right now is some expose about either my paranoia or my connection with the murder."
"So you'd rather be dead than in the newspapers?"
She wrapped her arms around herself. "That's a harsh thing to say."
Smith brushed a hand over his hair impatiently. He was surprised at how frustrated he was with her. “Sorry."
"Thank you." The countess cleared her throat. "As I said before, I’m not sure I need you ... your services." We have our own security force at the Hall Building and with a phone call I can get someone round-the-clock. Anyway, I’m sure this will just blow over."