by Jessica Bird
"Honey, I'm in charge of the whole world."
"Really? So why are you so upset? We're just talking."
“We’re not doing anything. You're wasting my time."
She shrugged, an elegant lift of her shoulders. "You came back to me. No one is keeping you here."
As he towered over her, she raised her hands, the picture of innocence.
She turned back to the door and looked at him over her shoulder. "You also aren't very savvy."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?”
"Sun Tzu, The Art of War, Some simple rules on human conflict. If your opponent is angry, irritate him." She shot him a glance from under her lashes while putting her hand on the doorknob. That big, relaxed smile of hers goaded him. "The instigation technique works particularly well, even with tough guys like you. Maybe especially with tough guys like you."
That did it.
In a surge of movement that had nothing to do with his conscious mind, Smith reached out and snatched her against him. She'd driven him to the brink of his self-control.
And one inch past it.
The amusement left her face as she braced her hands against his chest. "What are you doing?"
"Too late to go back now, Countess," he growled. "You pushed the wrong man, too far."
He took her lips in a punishing kiss, his arms contracting and holding her so tightly, he could feel every inch of her. The sensation of her body against his was a total shock. Her soft contours fit into his hard angles seamlessly and a wave of lust burned through him. She was like harnessing pure lightning, like nothing he'd ever felt before.
As he slid his tongue between her lips, a moan drifted up through her throat and into his mouth. He felt her grip his shoulders as she stopped trying to shove him away and began to kiss him back.
And then his earpiece went off. The ambassador's car had pulled up.
Smith broke the contact abruptly, stepping back and breathing hard. She opened her vivid green eyes and stared at him, wordlessly.
He paused, soaking in the way she looked. Her lips were swollen and red from his kiss, her breath was coming out in soft beats, her cheeks were flushed. She was an unforgettable woman who would have to be forgotten. Otherwise he'd go insane, he was sure of it.
Smith turned away sharply and broke into a jog, knowing he better damn well be at that service entrance when the ambassador got out of his limo. He hadn't lost a client yet and he wasn't starting tonight.
Just forget you ever met her, he told himself as he pounded over the concrete.
Fat chance of that.
Dammit, why the hell did she have to follow him? And why hadn't he just kept going when she did?
Because it's just getting started between us, he thought grimly.
His sixth sense told him that their paths were going to cross again.
chapter
2
Cuppie Alston was dead.
The words had been bouncing around Grace's head all day long, from the moment Alfred had called her with the terrible news. She still couldn't believe what had happened, couldn't comprehend that her friend had been killed the night before while they had been at the ambassador's ball.
The surrealism of it all had been a terrible companion on her long drive from New York City to the Adirondacks. Over miles of highways, county roads, and then winding mountain passes, her mind had struggled with the tragedy, churning relentlessly over happy memories that were now tinted gray with grief.
How could this be real, she thought once again as she pulled up to a sprawling mansion on the shores of Lake Sagamore. She turned off the Mercedes's engine and stared into the darkness.
She didn't like the silence or the lack of movement. With no distractions, her mind spiraled into something close to hysteria. Not only because Cuppie was dead but because she herself was now in danger.
Grace curled her fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed. Her conscious mind told her she hadn't been followed. A sliver of fear told her she might have been. She looked out into the night, searching for shadows. In the moonlight, she found them twisting and turning, thrown off by tree limbs waving in the wind.
Just a day before she wouldn't have gone looking for dark corners or wondered what they concealed.
But twenty-four hours ago, someone she knew hadn't been brutally murdered.
She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel.
The whole thing was inconceivable, like some bad movie. Cuppie found dead. In the foyer of the Alstons' lavish Central Park West penthouse. Next to the body, a recent article on the six most prominent women in the city. Cuppie had been the first one featured and her picture had been ripped out.
The piece had culminated by praising Grace.
Which was why she'd spent the afternoon at a police station. No one but the murderer knew for sure whether the other five women were next, but Grace could tell what the police believed. The lieutenant had treated her with kid gloves when she'd come in for questioning, even though he had a harsh, smoker's voice and the tired eyes of a man who wasn't impressed by much. He was, she realized, treating her like a victim.
When she'd walked into his cramped office, he'd done his best to cover up the crime scene photos but he hadn't been fast enough. She'd caught a glimpse of them and nearly retched. Cuppie's neck had been ripped apart, a gaping hole where her voice box should have been.
Grace didn't need a medical degree to see the violence in it all. Someone had stabbed Cuppie over and over and over again. Not just to kill her, but to defile her.
Nausea swelled and Grace pushed open the door, leaning out in spite of the seat belt. Because she'd left the keys in the ignition, the car chimed cheerfully, and she counted the passing moments by the electronic sounds. Looking at the gravel on the drive, she wondered what she'd clean up the mess with if her stomach followed through on its threat.
It'd be nice to have something pleasant to say when her oldest friend opened the door. I just threw up in your side yard was not the kind of greeting Grace wanted to offer. Much better to lead with Congratulations on your marriage, Carter. Or, How does it feel to be Mrs. Nick Farrell?
Grace looked up at the house. Someone walked past a window and she thought about how much she'd hated missing Carter and Nick's wedding. Her father had been buried the day they'd wed and the two life events, a beginning and an ending, had meant neither could be there to support the other in person. There had been plenty of phone calls, however.
And now there was another reason to reach out to her friend. Just when Grace thought she couldn't handle another awful surprise, when the loss of her father seemed an impossible weight in her chest and the failure of her marriage an embarrassing anchor to drag behind her life had thrown another punch.
All things considered, it had been a horrible year. The highpoint had been her wedding in January and things had been on a downhill spiral ever since.
At least it was September and there wasn't much left, she thought.
The noise of the car got on her nerves so she pulled the key free. It was hard to marshal the energy to go inside even though the cold night air was working its way through her clothes. She didn't want to be less, than perfectly happy for her friend but the effort of pretending seemed more than she could manage.
In a flash of memory, her father's voice, stern and commanding, came to her. Buck up, Starfish. Let's see that smile.
The refrain from childhood made her see him as he had been then, bending down, looking at her with love and determination. On command, she straightened and released the seat belt.
There'd be time enough to wallow in things she couldn't change on the trip back home. No amount of feeling sorry for herself was going to bring her father back and it wasn't going to change the implications of that article or the fact that Cuppie was being buried on Monday.
Grace flipped down the vanity mirror to check her makeup. The dark circles under her eyes were still hidden, but her lipstick had worn off. She f
ished through her purse, found a tube, and began to put some on.
The contact made hex pause and she let her fingertips drift across her lips.
She could still feel his kiss. That soul-shattering meeting of mouths and tongues and bodies was as vivid to her as it had been just after they'd parted. She couldn't forget what it had felt like to be drawn in hard against that stranger's body, the way he'd touched her, the thundering in her blood.
She'd had, in that stark hallway, her first taste of passion.
Grace snapped the mirror up, disturbed.
It was too bad she was never going to see him again. She had no idea who he was or where he was from and she knew asking questions about a man like him would get talk started. She was still legally married, after all, and he was dangerously attractive. The last thing she needed was to spark rumors.
God knew, they bubbled up enough of their own accord.
What she needed to do was buck up, drag herself into that beautiful house, and share in her friend's joy.
As Grace stepped out of the car, she looked over her shoulder. Moving swiftly, she grabbed her Vuitton bags and rushed over to the house. Just as her feet hit the porch, Carter Wessex threw open the door with arms outstretched.
"Woody! You made it!"
Grace dropped the luggage and hugged her friend hard.
“Whoa, you okay?"
"Fine, just fine. I'm glad to see you." Grace smiled as they pulled away.
"Well, you look fantastic. Then again, you always do."
Grace glanced down at the Chanel suit she was wearing. She couldn't wait to take it off, get it away from her skin. It reminded her of the police station.
"Why don't you leave your bags here and let's go into the kitchen." Carter pushed her thick, black hair over her shoulder. "Have you eaten?"
Grace's stomach let out a wheeze of protest. "I'm not hungry, but I could use a glass of wine."
Or two.
"Well, I've got plenty of that," Carter said as she led the way to the rear of the house. "I'm so glad you've come for the weekend. Nick's flying into Albany from London and driving up, too. He should be home within the hour. He's looking forward to getting to know you a little better."
"Me, too. Those big parties I always see him at are hardly the place to make friends."
Carter laughed. "Which was precisely why I gave them up."
When they'd settled down at a sturdy oak table in the kitchen, a plate of cheese and fruit between them, Grace raised her glass of Chardonnay. "To my best friend and comrade in arms. May your marriage be long and full of joy."
With a warm light in her intense blue eyes, Carter smiled. “I’m so glad you came. "
"Me, too.” Grace looked away. "So tell me about the wedding. Were you gorgeous?”
"How are you doing?" Her friend's voice had an edge to it.
"I told you. I'm fine, Mrs. Farrell. Now, I want details, although the Cliffs Notes version of the wedding night will be sufficient."
"You look exhausted."
"You just told me I looked fabulous."
"You look fabulous and tired." Carter's expression softened. "I've been worried about you. I know how close you and your father were."
Grace glanced down into her wine. "Let's only talk about good things. Wouldn't you rather wow me with details of the honeymoon?"
The silence that followed told her that Carter, in typical fashion, wasn't going to be sidetracked.
Grace put her glass to her lips and emptied it in two swallows. Liquid courage, she thought, tilting the thing toward her friend.
Carter obligingly refilled it.
"Did you read in today's paper about Cuppie Alston's death?"
Carter frowned. "A gruesome tragedy. You knew her well, didn't you?"
Grace nodded. "I was at the reception last night. Waiting for her to arrive like everyone else."
"That must have been awful."
"It was. They kept extending the cocktail hour until finally they had to start the program without her. That empty chair on the dais ..." Grace shuddered. "They found an article next to the body, about socialites in the city. Cuppie was one of the women covered by it."
"Don't tell me they think it's some kind of serial killer?"
Grace took a deep breath. "I was also featured in the piece. I was questioned by the police today."
Her friend's response was a shocked hiss.
"My God, Grace." Carter reached across the table, knocking over a salt shaker.
Grace gave her friend a reassuring squeeze while righting the shaker with her other hand. Just then, the back door swung open and Nick Farrell strode into the kitchen. They both looked up.
Farrell was a big man, a powerful man, dressed in an elegant pinstriped suit with a pale blue shirt and dark tie. As he placed a lingering kiss on his new wife's mouth, Grace looked away discreetly.
"So this is not just Grace Woodward Hall," Carter said nodding her head across the table. "This is my old friend Woody."
Pale gray eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard a lot of things about what you and Carter have done together."
As she shook his hand, Grace forced a smile. "It is true we were almost kicked out of Groton for smuggling in wine coolers, but that thing about the St. Mark's lacrosse team is a total fabrication."
He laughed and glanced back at Carter. Instantly, his expression changed. Dark brows crashed together. "What's wrong?"
Carter's eyes flashed across the table. When Grace shrugged, her friend explained. When she was done, Farrell wore a grim expression.
"Here's what we're going to do," he said.
"Please," Grace interrupted. "None of this is your problem. I don't want to—"
"We're going to call John Smith."
"That's a great idea," Carter declared.
"Who's John Smith?" Grace asked. "Other than a man with a ridiculously ubiquitous name?”
"He's helped me in the past," Farrell said. "He's a private security guy. First rate. And he's very discreet."
"I don't really think that's necessary."
Nick shot her a blunt look. "Whoever left that article is probably just getting started. You want to meet him some night when you happen to be alone? "
The picture of Cuppie's throat flashed through her mind and Grace felt a stab of fear in her chest.
Carter frowned and stroked her arm protectively. "You don't have to be so harsh, Nick."
"I apologize, but you both know I'm right. She needs a bodyguard."
Grace looked away from the man's intense, diamond-colored eyes. The last thing she felt up to was fighting with someone like Farrell about her own safety. She didn't have the energy to spare and, even if she did, she had a feeling he rarely backed down once he'd made up his mind.
"I'm calling Smith right now," he announced and left the room.
Grace took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She shouldn't have come, she thought.
Carter rushed to apologize. "I'm sorry. He can be a little ... aggressive when he worries. We're working on that. It's really just because he's concerned."
Grace shrugged, feeling the tension in her shoulders. "I don't want to be an alarmist. I'm not a movie star who needs a posse and I don't want some doughnut-munching rent-a-cop following me around."
“From what I've heard about this guy, Smith seems more like a trained killer."
Grace flattened her lips. "I don't want that either."
When Farrell came back ten minutes later, he said, "Smith’ll be here tomorrow morning."
Grace opened her mouth to protest but the two of them just stared at her with almost identical expressions of determination.
No wonder they were such a great pair, she thought. Although their arguments could probably level a city block.
“I guess it can't hurt to talk to him," she said, giving up.
As they smiled at her, Grace took another sip from her glass. Inside, she felt numb. As she had so often in previous weeks, she found herself wondering whos
e life she was living.
* * *
The next morning, Grace paced around the mansion's living room until she thought she'd wear a track in the Aubusson rug. She made herself stop in front of an Early American mirror and stared at her reflection. Her face was disfigured by the leaded glass and the contortion seemed right.
She didn't feel much like herself, either.
She ran a hand down her skirt and adjusted her silk shirt, though neither needed the fine-tuning. She'd thrown the suit she'd arrived in back on. It was business, after all, and Chanel made her feel in control.
Grace wore Chanel a lot.
Feeling restless, she checked the backings of the heavy diamond studs she was wearing. Both were secure. She glanced down at her shoes. Not a spec of dirt on them. She wouldn't have minded a tear or a smudge requiring an emergency blast of seltzer. Without anything to focus on, she just dwelled on the lack of oxygen in the sun-drenched, airy room.
She went over to a window and pushed it open, welcoming the cool autumn breeze on her face. Outside, the lake was calm, the sun was shining, the day seemed full of promise. Perversely, she wished it was raining.
"He's just pulled up,” Carter said from the doorway.
Grace turned around just as Nick came up behind his wife, putting his hands on her shoulders.
"You ready?" he asked.
"Bring on Mr. Smith," Grace replied as the brass door knocker let out a thundering noise.
This was all wrong, she thought, as Nick went to open the door. She didn't want a security detail. What she wanted was for Cuppie to be alive. She wanted to go back to Thursday night at the Plaza and to see Cuppie sitting between her husband and the ambassador all the way through the dessert course.
Grace fiddled with her watch, looking down at the platinum dial. She wasn't going to hire whoever came into the room and regretted letting herself get talked into the meeting. Nick might have had her best interests at heart but she felt like she'd been pushed.
What was it about her that made her a sucker for controlling men? Her father had been utterly devoted to her but he'd also been domineering and heavy-handed. She'd learned to accept the good and the bad in him, reminding herself, when he made unreasonable demands or tried to take over her life, how much he loved her. But being able to see both sides of him was not the same as sticking up for herself and that had led to her marrying the wrong man.
