by Jessica Bird
“My father inspired loyalty. A lot of the employees have been here for decades." Grace stuck her head into a conference room and waved at people in a meeting. They waved back.
"They're responding to you."
She glanced at him in surprise as they came up to Kat's desk. The young woman slowly put down her pen, eyes widening.
"Good morning, Kat," Grace said.
"Good morning."
The girl had yet to look Grace's way.
Grace smothered a smile and introduced them. "He's going to be with me for the next couple of weeks, doing some consulting work. Any calls yet?"
Kat cleared her throat and shuffled some papers. She looked up at Smith again and finally glanced over to her boss. "Ah—yes. Yes, I left them on your desk. Oh, and his lordship, the count, called. He said that he tried to reach you at home but had been unable to get through. He'd like you to call him and said you knew where he was."
"We'll be in my office for the morning."
"The count said it was urgent."
"Then I hope he's holding his breath," she muttered softly.
"What?"
"Nothing, Kat. Thanks."
When the doors were shut and they were alone, Grace put her purse down on the desk and planted herself in her father's chair.
She cleared her throat awkwardly. "So, ah ... what will you do all day? I don't want you to be bored."
"I'm not a guest, remember?" Smith settled himself at the conference table. "I’m working. Just like you are. I'll need a set of plans for this building and your schedule for the next month."
Grace opened her mouth to speak but the intercom buzzed.
"Lou Lamont is here to see you."
"Does he look like he's going to want more Earl Grey?" Grace asked.
Kat laughed softly and whispered. "No. He doesn't seem to be in the mood to stay long."
"Make a note, will you? He's getting a tea cozy for Christmas from us. Also, can you print out my schedule for the next four weeks and get security to bring up a set of floor plans?"
"Floor plans? For the executive suite? "
"The whole building."
"Ah, okay."
Grace was just getting to her feet when Lamont burst into the room.
One look at Smith and he pulled up short.
"Who are you?" The man's tone was imperious.
Smith rose from his chair slowly and Lamont tilted his head up with surprise.
In a calm voice, Grace introduced them and fed Lamont the OD line.
“No offense," he said to Smith, in a voice meant to be subtly offensive, "but you look like a bouncer."
Smith's smile didn't reach his eyes as he sat back down without responding. He looked utterly unconcerned with the man and Lamont bristled.
He looked over at Grace. "What do we need an OD consultant for?"
"The Foundation has been through a big change and we need help."
Disgust clipped the man's words short. "This is ridiculous. You tell me we can't use Fredrique, who could really make a difference, only to bring on some new age, touchy-feely—"
"Do you think Mr. Smith looks like a touchy-feely kind of guy?"
Lamont's eyes flickered across the room at the other man and then shot back to Grace. "And just what do you hope to accomplish?"
"We need to have a unified team."
"Unified—" He shook his head. "Your father and I ran this place for years. The Foundation doesn't need a team, it needs a strong leader at the top."
"You and I see things differently." Before he could argue further, she cut him off. "What I'd really like is to stop fighting with you."
"I haven't been fighting. You're just defensive."
"So those conversations you've been having with board members behind my back are somehow supportive? You must show me what I'm missing." Grace smiled calmly while Lamont tried to construct a response. "But enough about this. Shouldn't you be in Virginia?"
Lamont shoved his hands into his pockets and began to rattle his change. "That's the problem. I spoke with Herbert Finn the third this morning. They've changed their mind. We aren't going to be auctioning off the collection at the Gala."
Grace covered her disappointment quickly.
Every year, the Hall Foundation Gala offered an important piece of Americana for auction. The seller agreed to take half the money and got a hefty tax write-off. In return, the Foundation got a generous donation and the evening was injected with the kind of sizzle that made people scramble to buy tickets to the event. At the auction, inevitably the bidding was fast, furious, and, in a genteel fashion, vicious. In the past, they'd sold a handwritten draft of Martin Luther King's "dream" speech, a pristine set of Union battle plans for Gettysburg, and Betsy Ross's first flag.
Losing the Finn Collection of letters was a real blow.
Grace sank slowly into her father's chair. "That's a shame."
"I think they pulled it because they're waiting to see whether the Gala will still be a draw this year. This is exactly what I'd feared and another reason we need Fredrique."
Lamont's voice was unusually restrained and Grace realized he was legitimately disappointed. But she refused to broach the subject of the party planner again.
"It's not going to be a problem."
"Where are you going to find something on a par with twelve perfectly preserved letters penned by Benjamin Franklin to Thomas Jefferson? That kind of thing doesn't just land in your lap. And let me remind you, it was your father who got us the Finn Collection in the first place, not you."
She smiled around gritted teeth. "I'll find something else."
"But while you diddle around with your OD consultant," he countered doggedly, "the Gala is getting closer by the day."
"Yes, so it is."
Lamont seemed ready to argue but then abruptly marched to the door. "Have it your way."
After the man had left, Grace shuffled a few papers on her desk impatiently. Unable to sit still, she burst up from the chair and went over to the bank of windows. She put her hands on her hips and stared down at the skyscraper across the street.
She was marching over to the bathroom, when Smith spoke up. "Go on. Say it."
She cleared her throat. "Say what?”
"What you're thinking."
"I'm not thinking anything.” In fact, she was filled with riotous emotions that she didn't want to let out in front of him. It seemed somehow weak, given his self-control. She forced herself to go to her desk and sit down.
"Liar."
"What the hell do you want from me?" she demanded, glaring at him. The calm curiosity in his face really ticked her off.
"Why is it so important for you to be in control?” he asked.
"This coming from you?" He cocked an eyebrow. "A man who makes the Terminator seem loose and easygoing? "
"Now there's an original comparison," he said sarcastically. "Never heard that one before."
She looked away. "I think you're right. We don't need to get to know each other."
She felt Smith keep staring at her.
As soon as her anger dissipated, she was sorry she'd snapped at him. Under normal circumstances, she wasn't prone to losing her temper. Clearly, the stress was wearing her down.
That and being around him. Even though he was quiet, she found him agitating.
Grace took a deep breath. "I know Lamont is going to blow this problem way out of proportion. He's probably calling Bainbridge right now. It's like I can't get a break around here."
She leaned back in the chair and stared at her father's bust. Had things been this tough for him? If they had, he'd never shown it.
"And the worst of it is, Lou's right. This is really bad timing. I don't have any idea where I’m going to find something that important to auction off."
The intercom buzzed.
"Yes?"
"Your mother's calling."
Wincing, Grace felt like she'd been put back into a headlock.
"Terrific," sh
e muttered. When she picked up the receiver, her voice was light and cheerful. "Hello, Mummy. Tonight. Of course, I'd love to. Yes. Eight? Right. Bye-bye."
She hung up the phone. When she looked up, she gave him a tired smile. "You ever feel like just screaming out loud?"
Before he could respond, Kat buzzed again with another call.
The day passed in a blur of meetings and paperwork and people who wanted things from her. There was nothing unusual about it except that everything was complicated by Smith.
Even though he was silent, his presence affected her and everyone else. The men tended to be subdued around him, as if they were intimidated by his presence. The women had the same reaction Kat had. One look at him and they became all wide-eyed and fussy. It got to the point that Grace could time when the surreptitious check of the hair would happen.
And she knew she'd better get used to the floor show when the Hall Foundation's general counsel, a woman who took the term sturdy to a whole new level, came in for a meeting. Sitting across from Smith, the dour paragon of serious behavior let out a girlish giggle like nothing anyone had heard come out of her mouth before.
Frankly, it had been hard not to stare. Who knew she even had the estrogen in her?
But the truth was, Grace got a little irritated watching women fall all over themselves while trying to get Smith's attention. At least he never seemed to notice and that was probably why they worked so hard at it. His eyes never dwelled too long or inappropriately on any of them, even when one of the staff accountants removed her jacket and pushed her big breasts out in his direction.
At that moment, the idea of being totally autocratic and firing the Betty Page wannabe was very attractive, but Grace let it go.
And she refused to dwell on the implications of her passing impulse. Delving into why she was having a territorial reaction wasn't going to do her any good. She had a feeling she wasn't going to like the answer.
Fortunately, it had been the last meeting of the day.
chapter
9
When they returned to the penthouse in the early evening, Grace quickly changed into a short black dress. She'd grabbed a thick wrap and was heading out of the door when Smith put on his leather jacket.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"With you."
She started shaking her head, resolutely. "Oh, no. You simply can't."
His brow rose as he gave her a bored look.
"How am I going to explain to my mother what you are?"
"I think I do a damn good impression of a human," he replied lazily.
Grace put a hand up to her forehead. "Forgive me, I didn't mean it like that. I just don't know what I'll say to her."
"How about the truth?"
She shook her head fiercely. "I couldn't possibly.”
"You couldn't possibly tell your own mother that you have a bodyguard to keep you safe?”
"She doesn't know about ..." She waved her hand around. "Any of this. My mother and I aren't exactly close.”
Smith's eyes narrowed on her engagement ring. "And you haven't told her about the divorce, either, have you?"
Grace frowned, wishing he wasn't so observant or incisive. It made her wonder what other clues he'd picked up about her. Did he know how often she thought about him?
"Why does that matter?"
"It doesn't."
"So why did you bring it up?" Her voice was turning toward the hot side of disagreeable but she couldn't help herself. Smith had the ability to goad her into anger faster than anybody she'd ever met. It was almost as if he liked getting her in a bad humor.
He shrugged, "it's just an observation."
"Keep them to yourself," she muttered under her breath.
"Now, where's the fun in that?"
She glared at him and he held his hands up. "Okay, okay. You and your mother can eat alone."
"Thank you," she said grudgingly.
He started for the door.
"Where are you—"
“I’ll sit a few tables away. That's the most I'm willing to compromise." He went out in the hall and pushed the elevator button.
She looked at his back, which was ramrod straight, and knew there'd be no further negotiation.
* * *
Smith walked into the dining room of the members-only Congress Club and felt like he'd been ricocheted back to the turn of the century. With its white marble floor, blood red walls, and sweeping gold colored drapes, the place looked like a bank lobby.
Or a high-class whorehouse, depending on your background and associations.
Hanging from the walls were dower portraits and Smith recognized some of the faces staring out of the gilt frames— they were on bills he had in his wallet and coins that jangled in his pockets. He wasn't surprised. The Congress, as the place was known, was all about old, establishment money and entrenched power. Its members had long shaped the history of the country, for better and worse, and were still doing so.
As he was led to his table, he looked over the diners. The people who were eating glanced at him, their patrician faces showing nothing but openness and welcome. Even though they didn't recognize him, they knew he was there only because he knew one of them.
The maitre d' who'd led him through the room bowed as Smith sat down in a leather club chair. His table for two had a glowing candle in a brass holder, heavy silverware, and a lot of thick crystal. He figured the thing must have been braced up by an I-beam.
"Would you care for a libation, sir?" The man leaned forward and with a flourish put a leather bound book down in front of Smith.
He shook his head.
As the maitre d' disappeared, Smith tugged at the tie the club had lent him, hating it. The navy blue jacket they'd given him was also too tight but he didn't dwell on that either. Grace was being escorted into the room.
As she greeted the men and women whose tables she passed, her smile was radiant, her gestures elegant and refined. She seemed perfectly at ease but he could read her well. He knew she was nervous because her hand kept fluttering up to her throat and, in the dim light, her eyes were dull. She was clearly on social autopilot.
As soon as she'd taken a seat, a man came up to her. Smith frowned. The guy was probably in his late thirties and looked as polished as a new Rolls-Royce. He had dark hair that was on the long side, a handsome, rather ruthless face, and was wearing an expensive suit. A blue-blood all the way.
When he bent down and kissed Grace's cheek, her face lit up for real.
And Smith felt an inappropriate urge to cross the room and help the guy roughly to whatever his final destination was going to be.
For the next ten minutes, the urbane man talked and Grace laughed. By the time they parted, she was actually looking relaxed. While Mr. Charm sauntered across the room, Smith stared at him, imagining all kinds of fun ways to break his leg bones.
It was a surprise when the man paused at Smith's table.
"Do I know you?" The tones were cultured, the voice deep, the smile on the aggressive side of social propriety.
Up close, he was a really handsome guy. Definitely one of her kind.
“I don't think so," Smith answered darkly.
"No?" The guy lifted a shoulder. "So why are you looking as if my imminent demise would be a great source of pleasure for you?"
"Maybe I’m not in the mood to be disturbed."
"You've got a low threshold if you think a little polite conversation is disturbing."
"No, wait, you're reminding me why I'm a misanthrope."
Mr. Charm smiled and leaned down a little. "Well, I hate to disappoint you but my overall health is fine. Enjoy your meal, stranger."
The guy had balls, Smith granted, as Grace's flirt walked away.
He glanced back across the room. She seemed anxious as she stared back at him, but the contact was broken as a stunning older woman was led to her table. He watched as Grace's face immediately assumed a false calm and the two women kissed the air next to eac
h other's cheek.
So this was Mom.
Grace's mother was so thin he had to wonder whether she'd ever had a full meal. The two of them shared the same high cheekbones, the same ruler straight nose, a similar graceful arch to their necks. Like Grace, the mother's pale hair was coiled up high on her head and she was wearing a black dress. As the woman unfolded her napkin and placed it gingerly on her lap, Smith caught sight of a sizable diamond.
A waiter came by Grace's table and Smith watched her mother look up imperiously. She said a few words, the waiter nodded with deference and then he faced Grace. She smiled, something her mother had yet to do, and started to speak. Her mother cut her off.
"Sir," came a voice next to Smith's table. "What may I get for you this evening?"
He didn't take his eyes away from what was happening across the room. "Anything."
"I beg your pardon? "
He frowned. "Just bring me some food. On a plate."
The tuxedoed waiter cleared his throat. "We have an excellent—"
With the look Smith shot him, the man clammed right up and hurried away.
Smith went back to the scene at Grace's table. Their waiter had left and the mother was speaking. As the woman's lips moved, a subtle disapproval floated in the air around her like a bad smell.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," came another voice in Smith's ear. "But was there nothing on the menu to your liking?"
Great. The waiter had brought reinforcements.
Smith didn't bother hiding his irritation. "I haven't looked at the menu."
The eyes of other diners began to focus on the group at his table.
Christ, could these boys make more of a scene, he thought.
"Well, perhaps you might examine it,” the new one suggested. He leaned in and opened up the leather bound book. "We offer a wide selection of—"
" Is there a problem?” came a third voice.
Smith was getting ready to roar when he saw that the other two had come to attention liked they'd had their butts snapped with a newspaper. It was the maitre d'.
"This gentleman—” the taller one started in.
"Is a guest of the Countess von Sharone," the maitre d' said calmly. The other men looked at Smith in surprise and then offered smiles so warm and sincere they could have been missionaries.