by Jessica Bird
He heard the water fall silent.
All he had to do was go down that hall, he thought. Walk into her room and take her into his arms. Because he had a feeling, even though she'd agreed with his strict hands-off policy, she'd get carried away by the passion again.
One kiss and he would have her.
As blood pounded through his body, Smith stopped moving.
What the hell was he doing?
He shook his head.
What the hell was he doing?
Moving with deliberate motions, he took off his holster and slid his gun out. He stared at the black metal as the grip welcomed his palm and his fingers. The weapon had been handmade for him, to his precise specifications, and there were two more identical to it in the Kevlar briefcases.
The familiar weight of his gun was comforting.
His preoccupation with Grace was not.
He remembered that man at the Congress Club, the one in the suit who had kissed her on the cheek and made her smile. Smith hadn't thought much of it at me time but now his aggressive reaction to the guy struck him as way out of line. He was behaving like a jealous lover of hers.
As opposed to the woman's professional bodyguard.
Maybe he just needed a vacation. A little time off somewhere warm, where the drinks flowed like water and the women were easy.
Yeah, that's what he needed.
A goddamn vacation.
Smith frowned. And realized that in all his life, he'd never taken one.
* * *
Days later, Smith found his fixation on Grace was only getting worse. The result wasn't pretty. Sexual frustration was cutting into his sleep and shortening his temper.
And it wasn't as if he was known for his good humor to begin with.
From his seat at the conference table, he looked across the office. Grace had her head buried in some documents and he tried not to notice that her silk blouse had opened up and was showing more of her skin than usual.
Becoming aroused, he shifted in the chair.
Great. On the job with a hard-on.
Real professional.
Smith felt his mood sink deeper into dark and aggravated territory so he took out his cell phone and dialed Lieutenant Marks's number. He knew an update on the investigation would get his mind off that woman's damn blouse.
"How are things going, Lieutenant?"
"Oh, Christ, not good." The man sounded tired. "The chief of police is up my ass because those women's names are plastered all over New York's cultural institutions. The press is barking up a storm, wanting confirmation that the Times article was found on the first body—I'm trying to find out who the asshole was who leaked that little tidbit. And we don't have any suspects so far."
Smith kept his voice low. "Did you check with the doormen of those buildings?"
"Yeah. The day and evening shifts in both places have been covered by the same guys for the past five years. Their background checks have all come back clear and each one of them said they saw nothing suspicious on either of the nights in question. The delivery and visitor logs didn't tell us squat, either. Everyone signed in and out—no dropped balls there."
"Any names show up on both logs?"
"Quite a few. These wealthy-types tend to use the same people. There were cleaning folks, caterers, tailors, plant people. Those places are a goddamn revolving door of help. We're chewing our way through the background checks on every single name."
"You find any connection between the husbands of these women? Business? Pleasure?"
"Haven't checked that, yet. Good idea." Marks paused. "So tell me, how's the countess?"
Smith's eyes flickered across the room. "Holding up, considering the stress she's under."
"Nice woman. Someone with her kind of money could be a real pain in the ass if they wanted to but she seemed surprisingly normal."
They talked for a little longer about the forensic tests that had been performed on samples from the crime scenes. When Smith hung up, he glanced back across the room. Kat had come in and Grace was laughing at something the girl had said. Kat was smiling broadly.
People tended to do that a lot around Grace, he realized.
They came into her office or met up with her in the halls and they'd leave the encounter looking lighter, happier.
Surprisingly normal didn't go far enough.
"Thanks, Kat," Grace said, shuffling the papers around, "You were a big help on this."
The assistant beamed. "I'll make the changes now."
"Don't worry. It's past six. Let's all go home." Grace's eyes shifted to him and then she looked away quickly.
"Well, I'm in no hurry," Kat said.
"Don't tell me. Another date ?" Grace's eyes were sympathetic.
"Just drinks. He's an IT guy. I'm hoping we'll talk about something other than Java programming or the Sims." Kat picked up the document and walked over to the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Smith."
Smith nodded without looking in the girl's direction. Grace glanced over at him and then looked back at the girl.
"Good night, Kat," she said softly, her expression growing concerned.
When the door was closed, her eyes narrowed at him. "You could be a little warmer with her."
"With who?"
"Kat."
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I think she has a little crush on you."
Smith shrugged and began gathering the papers he'd been reviewing. He was consulting on a fraud case for a friend of his. "That's not my fault."
Grace rose to her feet. "True. But it isn't hers, either. When you ignore her like you do, I think you hurt her feelings."
Neither her eyes or her tone were combative but he felt defensive. The idea that his behavior hadn't lived up to her standards galled him for a reason he didn't want to examine closely.
Because he shouldn't care what she thought of him.
Smith smiled grimly. "You want me to take her out on a date or something?"
"Why don't you just shoot for being polite?"
His first instinct was to make a cutting comment to get her to drop the subject but the bravado faded as he realized she wasn't trying to control him. She was honestly concerned about the girl's feelings.
Smith wanted to curse. It was easier to light against something than to give in to a thoughtful request and he'd have preferred the former, especially in his current frame of mind. His attraction to her, in addition to frustrating the hell out of him, was making him more aggressive than usual.
Which was saying something.
"Fine," he said darkly.
She smiled. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
As if he were a child in need of soothing.
The gently chiding comment was all it took to spark his temper. Smith got up and marched across the room. Her smile faded.
What he wanted to do, as he towered over her, was kiss her.
Instead, he said, "I'm willing to make allowances. I'm not too interested in being patronized, though."
Her startled eyes traced over his face and then bounced down to the span of his chest, as if she was remembering the feel of him against her. Her lips parted.
Sweet Jesus.
All he wanted to do was kiss her.
So before he did something stupid, Smith took his bad mood and his desire for her and went back to where he'd been sitting at the conference table. He packed up his things and used the time to berate himself.
Christ, of all women. Why did he have to be so damn hung up on her? He hated complications and there was nothing more complicated than a beautiful, rich woman who was a client. And why couldn't he just let it go? He'd forgotten plenty of women over the years. Nearly every one he'd ever been with, as a matter of fact.
But this one? She just wouldn't get out of his mind.
Every night, when he was at the height of his insanity, he convinced himself that they could jump into bed as soon as the job was over and everything would be fine. They'd s
pend a couple of athletic hours together, maybe a day or two. And then he'd move along.
Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it sounded like a good plan, but in the daylight, he knew it was a terrible idea. If she was going to sleep with a man, she'd no doubt want all the things Smith couldn't give her. She'd want more than hours, more than days. She'd want a relationship. Some sense of security. A little stability.
And then there were the bells and whistles she'd expect. According to the papers, she'd been wooed by some of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Men who had nothing better to do than worry about pleasing her. Men who, no doubt, showed up on her doorstep in suits and wing tips with diamonds and pearls. They were men capable of whispering sweet nothings into a gentle ear and making the bullshit seem halfway believable.
Smith couldn't pull off that kind of act to save his soul, even if it was to get her into bed so he could get her out of his blood.
They were from different worlds. He lived on the fringes of society, in the dim stretch between criminals and civilians. She was an idol, a romantic dream to a whole country of people. She spent her days in the skyscraper her family owned, her nights in ballrooms, her weekends in Newport. He negotiated with low-life kidnappers and traded bullets with fascists and whack-jobs for a living.
She was satin and platinum. He was leather and gunmetal.
Oh, hell. Now he was starting to sound like a country singer.
He looked across the room. Grace had stood up and was staring out at the view as the sun went down. His eyes traveled from the crown of her head, where her blond hair was tightly pinned, all the way down to the pointed tips of her high heels.
Lust, hot and carnal, pumped through him.
Smith put on his leather jacket and smiled tightly, thinking they were both goddamn lucky he could control himself.
Because if it weren't for his years of military training, and the fact that his mind was stronger than his body, he'd be inside her this very moment.
* * *
Grace had the dream again a few nights later. The one of her father coming back to her.
She stirred from sleep, becoming aware that he was standing in the doorway to her room. In the dim light, she could see that his lips were moving but she couldn't hear his voice. It kept fading in and out, as if through a bad connection.
What, she asked him in her mind. What are you telling me?
His face had an urgency to it and she watched as he talked faster.
I can't hear you.
And, then for the first time since he died, she heard his voice.
Calla lily.
Grace shot upright, her heart pounding, her breath stuck somewhere in her chest. Pushing the covers away, she put her feet to the floor and braced herself before turning around. She looked toward the door to her room. He was gone.
He'd never been there, she corrected herself.
Stumbling over to the bathroom, she felt around in the dark for her water glass. Turning the tap on, she held her hand under the faucet waiting for the rush to get cool. She told herself that the sink was real, the marble under her feet was real, the pale glow coming through the windows was real.
But her father had not been.
She filled up the glass, took a couple of big gulps and tasted the familiar metal tang in the water. After putting it under the tap again, she took a deep breath and froze.
The smell of tobacco smoke tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze. As it always had when her father had lit up one of his pipes.
And the glass, like her sanity, slipped from her grasp.
* * *
Smith had just lit a cheroot and was staring out into the night when he heard the crash. Pitching the thing into an ashtray, he grabbed his gun and ran down the hall.
As he burst through Grace's door, he heard her voice from the bathroom.
"I'm in here."
When he flipped on the light, he saw her on her tiptoes surrounded by broken glass.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," she said, blinking against the glare. "I just dropped a glass and it shattered."
When she was able to focus on him, she stared at his bare chest and that was when he realized he was only wearing a pair of boxers. Her eyes widened and he knew she was looking at his scars.
"You sure you aren't hurt?" he said harshly, running his eyes down her body, trying to keep it clinical.
He failed. Like an answer to his fantasies, she wasn't wearing much, just a thin wisp of silk that was trimmed in lace. The sight of her breasts pushing against fragile cups made him want to fall on his knees and to hell with the glass shards.
"I really am fine. And I'm sorry I woke you." She started to look around the floor as if for a way out.
"Don't even think about moving. You're going to get cut." Smith put his gun on the counter.
She eyed the weapon warily. "I think I'll be fine if I just—"
"Stand still," he said sharply. "There's glass all around you. Give me a minute."
He went to his room and threw on a shirt and his boots. When he got back to the bathroom, he walked over the glass and grabbed her.
"What are you doing!" she yelped as he swung her up into his arms. He didn't reply. The glass crackling beneath his thick soles said enough.
As soon as he hit the carpet, he released her abruptly and she stumbled a little. He knew he'd better let her go fast or something was going to happen. Something like him pushing her down on the bed and covering her with his body.
In a rotten mood, Smith stalked into the kitchen, came back with a broom and cleaned up. the mess. He was on his way out when he paused and looked at her.
She was wearing the thick bathrobe and sitting on the edge of her bed in the shallow pool of light cast by her reading lamp. Her back was to him and she seemed to be staring out at the darkness of Central Park.
Just leave her, he told himself. It's none of your business what's banging around that head of hers. You're paid to keep her body safe, not be her shrink.
"You okay?" he asked, anyway.
"Yes," she answered in a small voice. When he didn't leave, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Really."
"You want me to leave the light on?"
She nodded.
"Goodnight," he said, and got a mumble in return.
Smith went to the kitchen, put the broom away, and was on his way to his room when he heard a soft sound. It was barely audible and he waited to see if it came again. When it did, he realized it was a sob.
He walked silently down the dark hall until he stood on the brink of her doorway. She'd wrapped her arms around herself and was rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed.
"Grace?" he said quietly. It was the first time he'd called her by her name.
She jumped and hastily wiped her eyes. "What?"
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying." He watched as her shoulders set like concrete.
"Tell me what woke you up earlier."
She waved him away. "I'm fine."
Smith took a deep breath. Sniveling women had never had much power over him. Any power, actually. He was attracted to strength, not weakness.
But he couldn't turn away from the sight of her so alone on that big bed, trying so hard to look composed.
"You're not fine."
When she turned to him, her green eyes were hostile.
He almost smiled, thinking he knew all about that kind of reaction. All about pushing people away.
"I thought we weren't supposed to get to know each other," she said hotly.
He shrugged. "Maybe I was wrong."
No, he was right. But, even though his instincts were screaming for him to go back to his bedroom, he was going to stay with her until she calmed down.
She regarded him steadily. "Okay, then you can go first."
With a determined sniffle, she crossed her arms over her chest. When he remained silent, she gave him a sharp look.
"What? There's nothing you want to share?
No deep dark secrets you want to talk about?"
"This isn't about me," he said gruffly.
"Do you ever let it be about you? "
Not in a million years, he thought.
"Look," he said reasonably, "you're under incredible stress right now. Letting some of it out might help."
"Screw. You." She flashed him a glittering stare. "How's that?"
He smiled at her, relishing her backbone. "Pretty strong words for a countess."
"Well, I'm not feeling real royal right now. I'm tired of falling apart inside and having to pretend I'm—I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "The stiff upper lip routine can be an exhausting bore when your life is a mess."
He watched as she climbed in between the sheets and pulled the lace coverlet up to her chin. "Now do you mind? I'd like to get some sleep."
Smith approached the bed and watched her eyes widen as he sat down next to her.
"Tell you what," he drawled. "I'll do you an eye for an eye."
"What?"
"I tell you something about me but then you've got to talk. I'll even let you pick. You want to hear about the hell of Ranger school? How about the dry heat of the Gulf War ? You want to know what gives me indigestion? It's not Mexican food."
She looked at his face for the longest time. "You're serious?"
Dammit to hell, it appeared he was.
"Yes, I am."
She pushed herself up so she was sitting against the padded headboard. She was, he thought, temptation personified. Her hair, which was flowing around her shoulders in loose waves, glowed with blond highlights. Her beauty was classic as always, but with her parted lips and her nose a little red from crying, there was an enticing vulnerability to her.
He forced himself not to assess what the bodice of her nightgown might or might not be revealing.
"I want to know about the scars," she said abruptly.
Smith had to physically restrain himself from recoiling.
Shit. That wasn't what he'd had in mind.
He'd been prepared to give her a short take on how to handle a hard-ass battalion commander. Maybe a little wartime story with a happy ending, like when he'd saved that old man and his family. And being lactose intolerant was no big deal.