by Jessica Bird
"He seems like he's prepared to wait."
"Really?"
"He brought a cooler and a newspaper.”
"Send him in then," Grace said, annoyed. "There's no sense turning the waiting area into a cafeteria."
When Fredrique came into the room, he smiled widely. Dressed in chef's whites, the man had a small picnic basketlike container in one of his hands. He looked as if he'd gained some weight, she thought, although maybe it was just the way the stiff cotton fell over his short, stocky build.
When he came around for an air kiss, she accepted the greeting with reserve.
"Please, have a seat" she said, indicating a chair across from the desk.
As he sat down, he looked over his shoulder at Smith. "And who is this?"
"What may I do for you?" Her tone was direct.
Fredrique faced her reluctantly, as if he would have enjoyed the introduction.
"I've brought you something to sample. From the new line of hors d'oeuvres I'm developing with Lolly Ramparr of NightWorx. You know Lolly, don't you? She and I go way back."
Grace narrowed her eyes, doubting that he was actually working with Lolly. After interviewing several firms, Grace had decided to use NightWorx as a caterer for the Gala this year because they had a good reputation and were reasonably priced considering their popularity. Lolly had asked specifically whether Fredrique was going to be working on the event and Grace had explained her reasons for not using him. Lolly, an up-front person who was not unkind, had indicated that she was moving away from collaborating with him for similar reasons.
Fredrique put the cooler on her desk, splitting the handles and popping off the lid. "I understand that you are using Lolly this year for the Gala," he said casually. "She's such a talent, as you will recall when you try these."
He took out a white plate. On it, there were three small mounds of peach-colored mousse atop some kind of cracker.
"I call them shrimp towers." He extended the plate, as if he were offering jewels. "Try them and fall in love."
"I'm sorry, Fredrique. They look lovely but I'm allergic to shellfish."
He frowned and retracted the plate. Glancing over to Smith, he said, "Perhaps you will do the honors?"
Smith, who had turned his chair toward Fredrique and been staring at him, just shook his head.
The other man took a moment to collect himself. "No matter, I'll bring you something else. Perhaps tenderloin on sesame-encrusted pita chips. Ooh! I have a wonderful lamb-stuffed mushroom—"
"I appreciate the thought but I have to remind you. We're not in the market for your kind of services."
Fredrique stiffened and returned the plate to the cooler. With precise movements, he put the lid back on and reunited the two handles over the top. "It's a shame for the Gala to miss out on my contributions. Mimi Lauer is thrilled with my work on the ballet's event."
Grace wasn't so sure about that, as Mimi had called recently to express her frustration with the man.
"I don't know what to say, Fredrique. We aren't using a party planner this year."
Abruptly, he smiled.
"Perhaps not at the foundation, but privately?" He began gathering momentum again. "As you know, I do fabulous holiday parties in private homes. Although my book is filling fast, I could make sure I save you a date. I plan to meet with Isadora Cunis this week about the holidays but I could make sure you get first choice of the calendar. As long as you put down a deposit today."
"I don't think so." Grace didn't want to lead the guy on and knew she had to be clear. He was persistent and any polite prevarication would only be seen as a opening. "But I appreciate the offer."
She stood up, hoping he'd take the hint.
Fredrique stared at her and then slowly got to his feet, straightening his chef's uniform with a sharp movement. She forced a smile at him as he picked up his little cooler, and then led him across the room.
"Thank you for coming by," she said, wishing she could just push him out the door. Her day was jam-packed and the last thing she needed was to stroke the ego of someone whose food was second-rate and who'd overcharged them the year before to the tune of $20,000.
Fredrique, however, wasn't going to be hurried along. He took his time, looking around the office while she stood at the open door.
"Such a beautiful painting,,, he murmured as he stared at the landscape over the conference table.
"Thank you. Now if you don't mind, I have another appointment to go to."
She was taken aback when he came up close to her. "Are you sure you want to do this? "
Grace frowned but before she could respond, Smith's hand clamped on the man's shoulder.
"You want to step back a little, Fredrique.” Smith's smile was on the north pole side of warm.
The other man looked up in surprise and immediately moved away from Grace. With a little bow, he murmured, "I'm sure I'll see you again soon, Countess."
As he walked away, Grace breathed a sigh of relief and shut the door.
"Thanks for putting some space between him and me," she said to Smith as he sat back down at the conference table.
"I can't be too careful."
She hid a shudder. "I should probably warn Isadora that he's on the hunt for business and she's next on his list."
Besides, she thought numbly, she and Isadora had other things to talk about. Their lost friends. That god-awful article.
* * *
Grace went through the rest of the week in a daze. There seemed to be an endless supply of problems to confront. The invitations for the Gala, which needed to be mailed out immediately, came back with a typo. The reprinting cost a small fortune and, when she'd looked at the final product, the absence of a major auction piece was obvious. She hoped no one else picked up on it but she knew they would.
Lamont had been right about one thing. Trying to do her father's job and pull a prestigious event together was a heavy load to shoulder. Dealing with the caterers, rental companies, sound men, publicists, and video graphers was an incredible drain on her time. As the demands rose, and the event drew closer, she began to rely on Kat more and more. Fortunately, the girl welcomed the extra responsibility.
Grace was so distracted by work and the undercurrents between her and Smith, that she almost forgot about the danger she was in.
Until Lieutenant Marks called again.
She and Smith had just walked into the penthouse after attending a late-night gallery opening when the phone started ringing. As soon as she heard the Lieutenant's voice, the fear came back, vivid and awful.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm just checking in. Have you seen anything unusual? Is Smith still with you?"
She felt a measure of relief as she sat down on the couch. "Yes, he is. And no, not really."
"Can you put him on?"
Grace called out to Smith. "Marks wants to talk with you."
As Smith took the phone, she watched him anxiously. She had no idea what they were talking about, all she heard were Smith's short replies. He hung up the phone and she was disappointed when he didn't say anything.
"Is anything wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"So what did you talk about?"
He shrugged and started to walk down the hall. She hurried after him.
"Tell me," she demanded as she grabbed his arm. His wrist was thick and warm under her fingers, reminding her of what it felt like to be against his body.
When he looked down at the contact, she took her hand back but stepped in front of him, blocking his way to his bedroom.
"Don't hide things from me," she said bluntly. "I'd rather know bad news than have to deal with what my mind can imagine."
Smith gave her a level stare before speaking. "The only thing they know is that the victims have been killed by the same person. They've DNA-tested blood samples and hair fibers found at the scenes and skin found under the victims' nails and it's a match. Other than that, they have no leads. No suspects. No motive.
"
She leaned her hip and shoulder against the wall, feeling sick as she pictured her friends scratching at the killer. And the fact that the police hadn't made much progress was daunting. In the back of her mind, she'd assumed that they were picking up clues and hints that would eventually make some kind of sense.
“I can't believe they've found nothing," she said, looking down at the fine nap of the hall carpet. She moved the pointed heel of her Manolo Blahnik in a circle, making a half-moon trail in the otherwise smooth, cream-colored surface. It was an attempt to avoid his eyes and some of the harsh reality they were discussing but the distraction only worked on the former. "Have they looked hard enough?"
"Marks has a good reputation and I know he runs a tight ship. The bastard who killed those women has just been lucky so far."
"Or he knows what he's doing."
Smith's voice was harsh. "He's an amateur."
She cringed, thinking of the photos of Cuppie's body. "What makes you say that?"
When he didn't reply, she looked up at him.
"Are you sure you want to be talking about this?" he said gruffly.
"I asked, didn't I," she shot back as pride's sting surged through her fear. She didn't want him to think she was incapable of rationally discussing something which so obviously affected her life. At the same time, her stomach had started to roll with nausea.
Smith still didn't answer and her body went cold.
"Talk to me, for Chrissakes," she said sharply. "This sphinx routine is getting on my nerves."
Smith smiled faintly. "I'd asked Marks to look for any connections between the husbands of the women in that article. He said that other than social ties, there appeared to be no commonality. I wasn't surprised."
"So what do you think? Why is this happening?"
Hanging in the air was, why me.
"It's personal. The connection is among you, not your husbands. Look, all I can tell you is that Marks is doing everything he can with what he has. He's a damn good cop. Something will turn up, eventually."
"But what happens until then? How many of us will..." Grace couldn't say the word that was bouncing around her head. Death was never easy to speak of, she thought, but it was damn near impossible to say the word die when you were thinking of yourself.
She wrapped her arms around her rib cage, missing the fog of security she'd been living in over the last few days.
"Grace. Look at me."
She lifted her head.
"You hired me to protect you." She nodded when he paused. "And that's what I'm going to do."
"I hope so. God, I truly hope so."
"Don't hope," he said. "Believe."
She stared into his eyes and saw self-confidence, power, control. It all seemed to promise that her faith in him would be rewarded.
When he reached out a hand to her, the gesture was unexpected.
"Let's go to bed."
Her eyes widened, but then she realized that he wasn't talking about sex. His words were a casual direction intended to get her to rest.
She took his hand, feeling his fingers wrap around her own, warm and strong. They walked down the hall together until they got to his room and then he broke the contact silently and left her.
She'd changed into a nightgown and was lying in bed in the dark when she heard him go into the bathroom. The sounds of water were muted and brief. Minutes later, he emerged.
"John?"
"What?" His voice through the darkness was smooth.
"I'm glad you're here,"
There was only silence and she assumed he'd gone back to his room.
"Me, too," he said softly.
Surprised by his answer, she rolled over only to find that she was alone.
Hours later she was still awake. Feeling claustrophobic amid all the pillows and the thick comforter, she picked up her diary and a pen and went to the living room. As she passed Smith's door, the light was off.
Sitting on the couch, she curled her legs under her but found herself thinking instead of writing. When Smith had reached out his hand to her, she'd been surprised and, as she remember the feel of his palm against hers, she thought of other things he'd done that had been unexpected.
The other morning, after they had come home from a blistering run, she'd been late getting out of the shower. She'd rushed into the kitchen to tell him that it was his turn when he pressed a cup of steaming coffee into her hand and pointed at a plate of toast he'd made for her.
She'd been dumbfounded.
"It's food," he'd drawled. "You may not recognize it because you haven't eaten much in the last week."
"Of course, I have. I—"
"That salad last night for dinner doesn't count. You're dropping weight you can't afford to lose."
She'd looked down at herself. He was right. Her skirts had been a little bigger at the waist lately.
"Eat." He'd pushed the toast at her.
She'd picked up a slice and noticed it was covered with strawberry jam. "I haven't had jam on toast for years."
As soon as she swallowed one mouthful, her appetite came back. After four slices, and having finished the coffee, she'd sighed with contentment. She'd been running on nervous stress for so long, she'd forgotten about feeding her body.
She remembered glancing up at him. All the while she'd been eating, he'd been standing against the counter, arms crossed, watching her.
"I'd like to thank you for this," she'd said wryly, "if you'll let me."
He'd shrugged but when no-acerbic comment was forthcoming, she'd smiled at him.
"So thank you."
His sharp eyes had flickered over the empty plate. "Just, taking care of my client.”
Grace smiled at her memory of how he'd looked. The image of him being something close to sheepish was incongruous, but that's what he'd seemed. Her simple gratitude for his thoughtfulness had been hard for him to accept but he hadn't turned it down, either.
It was progress, she thought. Just like him reaching for her this evening had been.
But progress toward what?
In her heart, she wanted more of him. All of him.
And the desire was getting stronger as she got to know him better.
At first, she'd wondered whether he had another side, something to offer other than aggressive charisma. Now, she knew there were different, less harsh parts to him. He kept most of them hidden behind his mask of control but they came out in his actions, as simple courtesies that proved he was aware of others. Aware of her.
That breakfast was just one example of how thoughtful he could be. He never left the bathroom a mess. He'd made a point of being nicer to Kat. He cooked his own meals, cleaned up the kitchen, and somehow didn't track mud all over her white carpets, even on rainy days.
They were small things, but they meant a lot to her. They were also unfamiliar. Having a man in the house who didn't require constant attention or have a long list of demands was a new experience. Ranulf had expected her to organize their social calendar, make sure the penthouse was properly staffed, attend to his needs small and large, and entertain dinner guests nearly every night, even though she was working full-time and he wasn't. And all of this was done without thanks from him because, in his mind, it was her duty.
She was never falling into that trap again.
Grace looked down at the diary and the date she'd written at the top of the blank page. In the morning, she was turning thirty. At 7:05 a.m. to be precise.
Feeling whimsical, she wrote: All I want for my birthday today is John Smith. In my bed with a ribbon around his neck and nothing else on him.
Laughing softly, Grace pushed the book and the pen aside. She was being ridiculous, of course, but it was fun to fantasize. Certainly better than a lot of what her mind had been cooking up lately. Staring out at the night, she imagined things that made her blush. Eventually, she drifted back down the hall, pausing at the open door to Smith's bedroom. She toyed for a moment with going inside and finding him in
the dark but forced herself to go to her own room.
The next morning, she took a shower and then went to find Smith. They'd fallen into a morning ritual. She'd go first and while she was getting dressed, he'd take over the bathroom.
"Smith?" She peeked in his room. The bed was made, as always, and there was no clutter around. The heritage of a military man, she thought. When she turned away, she saw a black bar in the doorway to his bathroom. A chin-up bar. So that was how he kept in shape.
Heading into the living room, she found him facing toward the morning sky. After days of gray clouds, the horizon was a pale blue and the sun was coming up over the city.
"Shower's free."
He showed no surprise at the sound of her voice even though she'd been quiet in her approach. She was getting used to his uncanny senses and the fact that he always seemed to know where she was. He was looking at her reflection now in the glass door.
When he didn't say anything, she cleared her throat. "Er—the shower?"
She pointed behind her with a thumb.
He didn't reply, just continued staring at her in the glass.
Her skin prickled in awareness as he remained silent. There was something different about him this morning, she thought.
When he finally turned around, his expression shocked her. There was heat in it, the kind of burning intensity she hadn't seen since the night she'd stopped him. She thought about his body against hers and what it had felt like to be touched by him. His eyes focused on her lips, as if he was thinking about the same thing.
When he crossed the room in long strides, she felt herself bracing for contact with him, ready for it.
“I’ll make it quick," he said as he came up to her.
The letdown was tremendous. She'd been sure he was going to take her into his arms and she tried to cover her disappointment by smiling nonchalantly.
But then he paused on his way by and bent his head down to her ear. "Happy birthday, Grace."
His breath brushed against her neck and she felt him run a forefinger down her cheek.
Electricity jolted through her and she gasped.
To her frustration, though, he just continued down the hall.