by Jessica Bird
"No, you aren't."
Her eyes leapt away from his again. "Don't tell me what I think."
"Then be honest with me and I won't have to."
The countess's chin rose a little higher.
As the urge to browbeat her into hiring him stuck, Smith had to ask himself what he was doing. It was none of his business if she went and got herself killed. The fact that he was even entertaining the notion of pushing her to take care of herself rankled. What the hell did he care?
He got to his feet and started walking out of the room.
"Where are you going?"
He spoke over his shoulder.
"Despite the fact that you know about the article found with the body and you admit you're being stalked, you aren't ready to take this seriously. You haven't been upfront with the police, I know you're not being totally honest with me, and you say you're not even sure you want help. "We don't have anything else to discuss."
"So you're leaving? Just like that?" She began to follow him as he walked into the front hall.
"I'm not going to talk you into protecting yourself. But I'll give you a prediction for free. One of two things is going to happen. You're either going to smarten up and call me later or you're going to get hurt. It's your life and you get to pick."
Her voice was strained as she reached out and touched his arm. "You think it's that serious?"
He looked down at her hand and then into her eyes. She stepped back abruptly. "You're the one who can't sleep at night."
"How did you know I can't sleep?"
"Experience."
He reached into his back pocket. When he did, his jacket opened. He saw her catch a glimpse of his gun and thought she looked queasy.
"Here's my card." He scribbled a number on the back. "That's my cell phone."
She took it from him. "Will you come if I call?"
He shrugged. "Maybe."
"But what if I need you?"
"It's my life. And I get to choose who needs me."
She looked back down at the card. Her mouth opened, as if she were going to say something, but then she gave a resigned shrug.
"Sounds fair." When her eyes met his, that delicate chin was thrust out again, a study in determination. "I guess this is good-bye."
As he stared into her eyes, he had a feeling she'd move heaven and earth not to have to call him.
Good thing he didn't take it personally.
"So long, Countess." He opened the front door and stepped out into the fall sunshine.
"You kissed me just because you were angry, didn't you."
The words, soft and low, stopped him dead in his tracks. He hadn't expected her to bring up what had happened between them at all, much less in such a straightforward way.
Smith turned toward her. Pale sunlight was cascading over her face, highlighting her cheekbones and the tender curve of her lips. Her blond hair positively shone.
"Yes. I was angry."
"That's what I thought." A curious insecurity colored her expression, one that he didn't understand. "Thank you for being honest."
Well, he'd been mostly honest. The part about him continuing to kiss her because he couldn't stop, he'd kept to himself.
Then it dawned on him.
"It won't happen again if I work with you," he said, annoyed. That was one disclaimer he'd never had to make before.
She nodded. "Not again."
"Never again." He smiled grimly at her hesitation.
If she only knew how little she had to worry about. He had a reputation for having a cool head and a cold heart and he'd earned it. No Barbie doll sweetheart, no matter how beautiful, was going to change that. Or him.
The countess hovered in the doorway, neither in nor out of the house.
"Was there something else you were worried about?" he asked sharply. "You want references or something?"
She shook her head while staring at his business card. "No, I don't need references. I know you're the best because Nick Farrell says you are. And because you carry yourself as if you wouldn't stand for being anything less."
At least she got that right.
He paused for a moment.
"Take care of yourself," he said, turning away.
"Where do you live?"
"Excuse me?" He looked back at her. Glared at her, actually.
He was ready to leave, impatient to put her behind him, and he wasn't used to personal questions. His clients were usually so wrapped up in their own problems that the subject of his life never came up. It was one of the things he liked most about his job.
She shrugged. "I just wondered where you're headed."
"I'm going. That's all you need to know."
He walked briskly over to his car.
* * *
Grace watched as Smith got into a black SUV and drove off. In his wake, dust from the gravel drive was kicked up and it rose as a milky cloud. She looked down at the card again. It was made of stiff white paper and engraved with dark ink.
Black Watch, Ltd. There was a number in the lower left-hand corner but no address.
She turned it over and looked at the numbers he'd written in bold strokes. She brushed her fingertip over them.
She hadn't meant to tell him everything, had wanted to make the meeting short and sweet, but it hadn't turned out that way. She smiled bleakly. There was nothing short or sweet about John Smith.
And she certainly hadn't intended to bring up the kiss. That little ditty had leapt out of her mouth, a traitorous slip of the tongue. It was a stupid thing to ask. Had she really expected him to say he'd done it because he found her irresistible?
After all, he was one of the most aggressive, fierce men she'd ever seen, as tough as they come. Hell, he looked like he could chew steel and spit out nails. No doubt he'd want an earthy, luscious woman to complement that hardness, someone who was wildly feminine. Someone who could lie on her back naked, open and waiting for him, tempting him with her sexuality. Someone who became wild, unhinged while making love.
Not some tightly wrapped, goody two-shoes, paragon of polite society.
Disappointment burned in her stomach.
Forget about it, she told herself. Forget about him.
Grabbing the brass door handle, Grace threw her weight into closing the heavy door. As she pushed it home, she caught one last glimpse of the fine dust that floated in the air over the drive, like a promise of things to come.
chapter
4
The following week, Grace was in her father's former office reviewing the invitation list for the Foundation's annual gala, when the intercom buzzed softly. She jerked and the pen skidded across the paper.
Her assistant's voice was tinny as it came through the speakerphone. "Mr. Lamont is coming to see you and I have something for you to sign."
Great, she thought. All she needed was another meeting with that man. Each time they talked, their relationship deteriorated further.
"Come on in before he gets here."
Grace tugged at the Hermes scarf around her neck. When she loosened the knot and it still felt like a noose, she took the thing off altogether. The tangerine and yellow silk fell into a vibrant pool on the desk.
She was getting sick and tired of jumping all the time. The spasms were triggered by a host of things such as phones ringing, footsteps in the hall, sudden noises. She felt like a marionette, yanked around by strings she had no control over.
It was a hell of an exercise program, she thought, putting her arms out against the desk and stretching.
The chair and the desk had been her father's command post. They were massive pieces of furniture, made of hand-carved mahogany and fitting for a man of Cornelius Woodward Hall's imposing size and demeanor. She'd always loved them. As a child, when he'd brought her into the office on weekends, she'd sit in his lap feeling utterly safe, surrounded by the strength of his arms and the heft of all the wood.
Now, with only herself to fill the chair, she felt loose in it,
dwarfed by its high back and thick armrests. Still, she was loath to get replacements. They were such a part of her father, as were the dramatic landscapes that hung on the walls, the formal conference table he'd taken his meetings at, the leather bound books on the shelves.
She thought of him every time she walked into the room.
Glancing past his pipe rack and a candy dish still stocked with the peppermints he'd loved, she looked into a bronze bust of her father's face. Cast when he was in his fifties, it showed a handsome man with a distant smile and sharp eyes.
Lately, her memories of him seemed like the only allies she had at the Foundation.
When he'd died following a heart attack, he'd left her almost a billion dollars in his will, as well as his title of president and CEO of the Hall Foundation. The money was hers to keep as soon as the estate went through probate. Her ownership of the titles was proving less absolute. The job was hers by birthright but also one she'd been training for since she'd started interning at the Foundation while in college. Unfortunately, Cornelius's intent had been clear only on paper and others had a different idea of who should be sitting on the throne.
Grace was up to the task of leading the Foundation. She knew the employees, the mission, the strategy for its future. She knew what needed to get done both on the business side and with the social set that poured millions into its coffers-every year. She also knew there were those who thought she couldn't handle the job. That she was too young and inexperienced. That a change of guard might be a good thing.
Some of the older dissidents even objected because she was a woman. That particular criticism really got her steamed. As if wearing pants was somehow a prerequisite for success.
The nexus of her naysayers was a tight-knit group of directors, led by Charles Bainbridge, the board's chair. They were all older men who had respected her father but weren't content to have him rule from the grave if they thought Cornelius was wrong about something. They were men she had grown up around, who had come to the Hall family's Christmas parties and Fourth of July fetes. Some of them had probably seen her in diapers and still remembered her with braces.
She could understand why it would be difficult for them to view her as anything other than young and decorative and she was determined to bring them around. She just hoped she had enough time before they pushed her aside into some figurehead position and let Lou Lamont run the place.
The door to the office swung open and Katherine Focerelli came into the room. Kat was in her mid-twenties and working her way through law school at night. Grace had hired her the day after her father's death, when she'd moved into the office. In a matter of weeks, Kat already seemed to know the ins and outs of the Foundation and didn't seem that impressed with Lou Lamont.
The latter was a huge seller in Grace's mind.
The young woman was also a welcome replacement for the gray-haired ball buster who had served for years as Cornelius's secretary. Getting rid of that old battle-ax had been one of the first things Grace had done when she'd taken over.
"Here are the documents for the Randolph dig," Kat said, a dimple showing in one cheek as she smiled.
Grace leafed through the pages, checking that the changes she'd made had been incorporated correctly. They had.
As she scrawled her name, she said, "So what's Lament up to now?"
"He said he needed ten minutes, but wouldn't tell me why. I put him on the calendar only because you told me never to turn him away. By the way, your five o'clock got bumped and the mayor wants you to call him at six thirty. Oh, and is it okay if I leave early tonight? I'm going on a blind date."
"Only if you fill me in on what happens tomorrow," Grace said, passing the papers back across the desk.
"Can't be worse than the last one."
"The one who wanted you to get in touch with your inner artist?"
"No, the last one was the guy with the Peter Pan fixation. The one who wanted me to body paint him with my lipstick was two dates ago."
"Hard to keep track."
"Hard to keep a straight face, too. God, when am I going to meet a real man? "
An image of Smith came to mind as Kat bustled out.
Grace dug her heels into the carpeting and pushed back the chair. The office was on the top floor of the Hall Building and took up the whole northeast corner. The windows and the view they offered were one of the space's greatest assets.
She looked out at the majestic New York skyline, a chorus of buildings rising from the earth, silver and iron gray and black. With the sun just dropping over the horizon, a peach glow was growing in the sky.
She was having a terrible time forgetting about Smith. The man had been lingering in her mind, like an impulse she couldn't shrug, since he'd turned away from her for the second time. She wondered again if she should call him and knew only one thing for sure. If she did, she better have made up her mind to hire him. He wasn't the type to tolerate having his time wasted again.
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Lamont to see you."
Grace went back to the desk. "Tell him I'll be right there."
She crossed over the deep red oriental rug and pushed back a pocket door to reveal her father's private bathroom. In the gilded mirrors, she checked her chignon and her makeup. Everything was holding up well. She looked elegant and composed, just like a Hall should be.
Good thing no one knew the truth.
She had indigestion, thanks to having eaten tic tacs and three old Fig Newtons for lunch. The beginning of a headache was digging in at her temples, her left foot had a blister on it from the new pair of Jimmy Choos she was wearing, and her bra had a little rough spot under the clasp in back that was irritating her no end.
She was coming out of the bathroom when her cell phone rang. Rushing behind the desk, she answered it curtly. When she heard Lieutenant Marks's hoarse voice on the phone, her blood ran cold.
"We've found another body," he said.
Grace gripped the phone, the plastic cutting into her skin. "Who?"
"Suzanna van der Lyden. Early this morning."
A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she fell backward into her father's chair. She'd seen Suzanna two nights before at a prominent museum's annual fundraiser. The woman had chaired the event for the past few years.
"Where did it... happen?"
"At her home."
"Do you have any idea who.. .” She couldn't finish.
"We're still going through the crime scene. We found her late last night when her husband, who was traveling, called us when he couldn't reach her. Listen, I'd like to assign a detail to you.”
"A detail?"
"A couple of my men. So you're protected."
Her first impulse was to say yes, but then she pictured a photo of herself surrounded by cops showing up on the front page of some tabloid.
"Don't worry," Marks said, obviously guessing what she was thinking, "they'll be in plainclothes."
"I'd like some time to think about it."
Marks hesitated. "Okay. You know where to find me."
When Marks hung up, she sat frozen in the chair, her phone in her hand.
She should do something, she thought. Call someone. Go somewhere safe.
Except there was no one to go to and nowhere to hide. Her mother was hardly the place for solace and good advice. She'd already leaned on Carter enough. And she'd rather be by herself than with Ranulf.
She was totally alone.
And how ironic, considering she'd spent the morning culling a list of the city's top five hundred luminaries.
When the intercom buzzed, her head snapped around.
"Mr. Lamont says he needs to go to another meeting."
"Right. I'm coming," Grace answered.
But in reality she was going nowhere. Her mind was clogged, her body unresponsive. Abruptly, she felt her chest tighten, as if she'd inhaled something toxic, and she bolted to her feet. She knew what was coming next.
The anxiety attack came on fast and hard, b
ringing with it a crushing sensation of suffocation. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't—there was no... No breath in her lungs.
Opening her mouth, she tried to reassure herself that she was in fact drawing in air. She felt it passing over her lips and her tongue but it seemed to travel no farther. As her body ran away from her mind, she braced herself on the desk and broke out in a cold sweat. Quick breaths went in and out of her. Frantically, she brought a hand up and wiped off her forehead. Hell of a lot of good that did. Her fingers were numb now and all they did was tangle in her hair.
Grace wheeled around, caught sight of the big windows and the overpowering view and let out a moan as her head spun. She doubled over, leaning on the back of the mighty chair and putting her head down on her arms.
She tried to picture happier times. Her father at her college graduation, beaming from the crowd. The way she'd felt when she'd finished her first marathon. That Thomas Cole she'd just bought.
Good things, happy things. Things that didn't have anything to with death. Invasion. Terror. Things that would block out that picture of Cuppie lying dead on a marble floor.
Gradually, almost imperceptibly, she began to notice that her legs were shaking. So were her hands. And her bra was still jabbing her in the back.
Her breathing began to return to normal. Her heartbeat slowed.
When she felt up to, she raised her head and ran an unsteady hand over the chignon. A piece of hair in the front had been dislodged and she tucked it behind her ear.
Exhaustion came over her in a rush but it was a relief. Anything was better than the crushing explosion of fear.
Oh, God.
She didn't know how she was going to keep going.
Minutes later, Grace walked across the office to the double doors that led out into the reception area. When she opened them and met the irritated eyes of Lou Lamont, she had herself back under control.
"Sorry to keep you waiting." She was proud of her smooth smile and casual words.
Lamont brushed by her, issuing a command over his shoulder. "Katy, whip me up some Earl Grey, would you? And make it hot this time.”
