by Jessica Bird
What a change, she thought, compared to how frightened she'd been when she'd run into the building an hour earlier. Being with Smith, she didn't worry about a thing. She could feel his strength and protection radiating around her.
He was a trained killer. Indeed, a force of nature.
Her new roommate.
"Are you armed?" she asked abruptly.
"Always."
She shivered.
Her driver seemed surprised when he got out of the car to open the door and looked up, way up, into Smith's face.
"Good evening, sir."
Smith nodded, and got into the back with her.
Although it was cool in the interior of the car, Grace had the sudden urge to open a window, anything to give her a little more space. Even though he was sitting across from her, looking calm and in control, there was something completely overpowering about him.
Oh, get over it, she told herself. He's not the messiah.
Grace smiled and looked out the window.
Because then he'd be in a white sheet and wearing sandals. Probably have a halo around his head, maybe some cherubs floating around. He would most certainly not be wearing black leather, an intense expression, and a gun.
As a fit of giggles struck her, induced by stress and the absurd picture of him in a toga, she knew she needed to get a grip. After all, he was no doubt riddled with imperfections. He probably sang off-key in the shower, snored like a bulldog, and had frayed waistbands on his boxers.
As an image of him half naked came to mind, she winced and started to massage her temples. The Calvin Klein ad running through her head was not helping, not if she was shooting to demystify the man.
Through her fingers, Grace's eyes went to him. He was staring out of the car as they sped up Park Avenue. With every street lamp they went passed, light flared over the harsh lines of his face and then faded.
How had he broken that nose of his? And how many times?
"Is John Smith your real name?" she wondered, aloud.
His head snapped in her direction. She thought his stony expression meant he wasn't going to answer her but then he shrugged. "Real enough."
"What do I call you?"
"Whatever you want."
"Will you answer to Pookie?"
He looked back out of the window but she caught the corner of his mouth lifting up. "No."
Her eyes traveled over his short hair to the proud length of his jaw and then lingered on his lips. In a flash of heat, she remembered their kiss.
Smith turned to her and his eyes narrowed, as if he knew what she was thinking about.
"Were you about to say something?" he said with disarming softness.
She glanced away.
"No more questions, Countess?" His voice was mocking.
"None that you would care to answer," she muttered.
And none she had any business asking. She'd been wondering if he was married. She hadn't seen a ring on his finger, but some men didn't wear them.
As they pulled up in front of her building, he leaned over to her. His voice was a low growl.
"Be careful with those eyes of yours, Countess. They may be asking for things you don't really want."
And then he opened the door and stepped out.
Oh God, she thought. How was she going to live with him?
Grace took a deep breath. At least she'd have tonight to figure it out because surely he wouldn't be moving in until tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. There'd be time to adjust.
Grace gathered her wrap around her shoulders and stepped out of the car. As Smith walked her under the green-and-gold awning of her building, she wracked her brain for a way to end the evening on a casual, confident note. While the doorman opened the door, she was trying to frame the kind of breezy, sophisticated comment she was known for.
Too bad her wit was shooting blanks, she thought. Under the circumstances, probably the best thing to do was say goodnight and leave it at that.
When he started to go inside, she froze.
"Er—you're coming up? Tonight?" The pitch of her voice was an octave higher than usual and the doorman discreetly dematerialized.
Smith waved to the driver and the limo pulled away.
"That was our agreement." His eyes were laconic. "Do we have a problem? Again?"
"What are you going to sleep in?" she blurted.
"My own skin usually does the job."
"Oh, of course. Yes." And she'd thought the underwear fantasy had been hard to handle. "Ummm."
"What are you waiting for?"
She couldn't very well answer that one truthfully. He didn't need to know she was trying to clear her mind of what he'd look like buck naked.
As she led him through the grand lobby of the building, her mind was lamenting that she had no time to prepare for him coming into her home. Sleeping in the bedroom next to hers.
Sharing a bathroom with her.
A giggle came out of her mouth as she remembered her guest bath was ripped apart. There wasn't even running water in it. He was going to have to use her towels, her soap, her shower.
"What's so funny?" Smith reached over and hit the button to summon the elevator. His blue eyes moved over to her lazily, as if he might not really care what was amusing her.
So she made sure to tell him.
"I'm wondering what you're going to think when you take a shower tomorrow morning and have to use my lavender-scented soap." She smothered another fit of laughter born out of tension. "Are you sure you don't need anything? A razor? A comb? Or do you roll out of bed looking like your bad-ass self?"
"Well, what do you know. The countess knows a curse word," Smith remarked as the elevator arrived.
"I'm quite well-versed in the use of slang," she said. "Just the other day, I dropped a jar on my foot and swore a blue streak."
"Was it caviar?"
"No, shoe polish."
"Now that's another surprise." He bowed slightly at the waist as he held the door. "Your Highness."
She frowned. He was mocking her again and, stupidly, it hurt her feelings.
Because he was, after all, going to be living with her. Even if they were never going to be friends, surely they could both make an effort to be respectful of each other? She was certainly willing to work on getting along with him. Even if she vacillated between wanting to yell at him and ...
She wasn't going to let herself think about kissing him again.
"Just call me Grace, would you," she muttered while stepping inside. "That royal title nonsense is grating."
* * *
In the tight confines of the elevator, Smith was itching for the doors to reopen.
Grace was standing in front of him so he had a good look at the back of her neck, which was the last thing he needed. All the way up the building, he kept picturing his hands sliding around her waist and pulling her back against his body, tilting her head around so he could kiss her long and hard.
If the damn elevator was going up any slower, it'd be heading for the basement, he thought with a curse.
Working with the countess was going to be difficult. While riding in the limo with her, he'd had to stare out the window so he didn't linger on the generous expanse of leg revealed by her dress. And when he'd sensed her looking at him, he had been damn tempted to give her exactly what those eyes of hers had been asking for.
Hell, he'd even been annoyed to learn she'd been faithful to her husband. As if that aristocrat deserved it after the way he'd looked at her father's funeral.
When the doors finally slid open, he felt a surge of release as they stepped out into a hallway.
There were two unmarked doors at either end of the short corridor as well as a third that had a glowing red exit sign over it.
He heard the ringing sound of keys as she opened the door to the left. As soon as she stepped inside, she kicked off her high heels and sighed before padding around, flipping on lights.
Smith was impressed by her home but not surpris
ed. He figured she'd live in one hell of a place. The penthouse had twelve-foot ceilings, a spectacular view, and period details from the turn of the century. The woodwork alone, from the moldings to the hardwood floor, was worth a mint, and it didn't hurt that her antique furniture and paintings were museum-quality.
"I suppose I should give you a tour," she said without much enthusiasm.
It was late and she must be exhausted but he needed to know the layout and he doubted she'd feel comfortable with him snooping around by himself.
“Lead on," he said, nodding.
As he followed her into the living room, he noted several sets of double doors that opened out onto a terrace, which was lit up. There was a lot of silk-covered furniture, antique side tables, and oriental lamps. A grand piano took up one corner.
He walked over to an impressive, marbled fireplace. Over the ornate mantel was an oil painting of a mountain scene. In it, a British redcoat was bathed in a shaft of light breaking through a dark and troubled sky.
"Nice picture," he said idly.
"Thank you, I just bought it. It's a Thomas Cole. I collect Hudson River School works."
Smith got the distinct impression she was eager to get the tour over with but he wasn't going to be rushed. While he was looking at her decor, he was noting the motion sensors in the room, which were no doubt wired into a security system. She obviously hadn't bothered to turn the thing on, however, because she hadn't deactivated it when they'd walked into her home.
He paused next to a table with a series of photographs on it. She was in many of them, looking happy next to all sorts of people, some of whom he recognized as powerful or famous. One picture interested him most. It was a candid black-and-white of her and her father in a thick silver frame. Their smiles were radiant, her eyes full of love and affection as she looked at the man. There wasn't anything staged about it, nothing glamorous. Just a father and a daughter, enjoying each other's company.
"That was taken last year," she murmured. As she came up beside him, her perfume, that subtle blend of lemon and flowers, reached out to him. "We were at Willings, our Newport house. It was the Fourth of July. Neither one of us would have guessed there was so little time left."
She turned away sharply. "The dining room is through here."
But he wandered over to the piano, sizing it up. It was a Steinway and its black lacquered surface glowed in the soft light. He exposed the keys, his thumb and his pinkie easily spanning a C octave. The sound was rich and luxurious. His hand assumed a different position and he struck a major and then a minor chord. Good movement, perfectly tuned.
Nice piece of hardware.
"Do you play?" Her voice held surprise as the notes drifted away.
Smith shut the key guard. "No."
He was not about to tell her that music had been his salvation when he was younger and one of the few ways he found peace as an adult.
For the most part, his life was not about tranquility, it was about being sharp, hyperaware, on guard. On those rare occasions he needed a break, however, the piano could calm him, lead him to still waters. Tai chi was maybe the only other way he could truly relax.
Smith followed her into the next room, which was marked by a long mahogany table and twelve chairs. The crystal chandelier hanging from an ornate plaster medallion twinkled when she turned its lights on. As in the living room, heavy silk draperies in a deep cream were hanging at the windows, held back by tasseled satin ropes.
Smith looked across the gleaming table at her. In that red dress, in those diamonds, she belonged in the regal room.
He had to wonder what she looked like with her hair down. While making love. He imagined her head back in the throes of passion, those buffed nails gripping a sheet as her body shuddered in release, her mouth letting out hoarse words of need.
Now that would be something to see.
And it was a damn shame he never would, he told himself with resolve. Because unless she choked on a chicken bone and required the Heimlich, or fainted dead away and needed resuscitation, he wasn't going near those lips or that body of hers again.
When he'd grabbed her in that corridor, she hadn't been a client. She'd been a desirable woman who'd toyed with him and needed to be taught a lesson. Now, he'd accepted the responsibility of keeping her alive. That meant his fantasies could create all kinds of fiction if they wanted to but he wasn't going to do a damn thing to make any of it reality.
Smith followed her through a swinging door into a good-sized kitchen. There was a restaurant range in one corner, a tremendous stainless steel refrigerator in another, and plenty of granite countertops in between. The place was surprisingly high-tech considering how old-world the rest of her home was.
"So now you've seen about everything." Her voice trailed off.
"Do you have live-in help?”
She shook her head. "I have a maid who comes during the day. Now if you don't mind, I'll take you to your room."
"And I'll need to see where you sleep."
Her eyes shifted away from him. "Of course."
On the way to the other end of the penthouse, she picked up her shoes and he was struck by how human she seemed. In spite of the diamonds and the fancy dress, she was just a tired woman with feet that had probably ached all night long.
"How long have you lived here?" he asked.
"About five years."
She led him to a large room with a set of double beds in it. The walls were done in dark blue silk and the oriental rug on the hardwood floor was covered with plastic.
She hesitated before opening a pair of double doors. Inside, he saw a claw-footed bath tub on its side and various toilet parts laying on the floor. "As I mentioned, you'll have to use my bathroom to shower. I'm renovating this one."
Her eyes flashed to his and then looked away.
"My bedroom is down here."
She took him farther down the hall.
The master bedroom was done in various shades of creamy white. There was a set of French doors that opened out to the terrace and many more windows. He noted with approval the motion sensors.
As he looked around, he saw a photograph standing up on an Early American bureau. He went over to it and took a hard look at the face of Count Ranulf von Sharone.
"Handsome guy," Smith commented.
"What? Oh, that. I keep meaning to put that picture away."
"Hanging on to past illusions, Countess?"
When he glanced over at her, he was surprised. Her mouth was screwed down tight and her eyes were flashing vibrant, angry green, even though the comment had been a mere throwaway to him.
She wasn't over the marriage yet, he thought. No matter what she said about not loving the man.
"Let me be very clear, Mr. Smith. I don't appreciate being mocked."
As he looked at her, he enjoyed seeing the force of her will. "Please call me John. That mister stuff can be grating."
With a quick movement, she picked up the luxurious skirting of her gown and marched over to him, head held high.
As she met his gaze with righteous indignation, Smith felt a thrill go through him. There weren't a lot of people who faced off with him. Tiny was one. Maybe Eddie. The rich people who hired him always treated him with deference and respect, as did the high-level government agents and political leaders he dealt with. Civilians usually just stayed the hell away from him.
And yet this woman, who was easily five inches shorter than he, this lady who was in her stocking feet and a ball gown, was looking at him with an authority and command that reminded him of his Ranger battalion commander at Fort Benning.
He'd thought she was a looker when she was being all prim and proper. Pissed off, she was downright spectacular.
"Mr. Smith, if we are going to live in the same house together, you are going to have to dial down your ego and the condescending attitude that goes with it. I've already put up with a father who lorded over me and a husband who tried to. I don't tolerate heavy-handed men anymore."
God, he wanted to kiss her again. He really, really wanted to kiss her.
He grinned. Something close to sunshine was flowing through his blood and it was waking up parts of him that had lain dormant for years. He kind of wanted to laugh. Throw his head back and really let a belly-roll loose.
Who'd have thought all that fire lived underneath such an icy, elegant skin. But then why should he be surprised? He'd already felt the passion in her once.
"So do we understand each other?" she demanded. "I'm willing to put my life in your hands and take your orders, but I'm not going to be ridiculed."
He inclined his head once, in a way that could have meant anything.
He was thinking that after it was all over maybe they could spend the night together. That way, his fantasies wouldn't have to be a source of frustration. They'd merely be a prelude.
Not a bad idea, he decided, feeling pleased with himself.
She let out a frustrated noise and nodded at an open door. "That's my bathroom."
"What's through there?" He pointed to a set of double doors.
She walked over and opened them up. A light came on to reveal row upon row of hanging clothes. Suits, shirts, slacks, ball gowns. Shoes of every conceivable shape and color lined the floor.
She took a deep breath and he watched her shoulders sag as she turned toward him. Now that her anger was spent, she looked dead on her feet.
"When was the last time you slept through the night?" he asked.
Surprise flared in her face.
"Before my father died." She paused. "Actually it's more like sometime before my wedding."
She looked around, seemed to realize she had nowhere to go, and stalled.
"What time are you getting up?" he asked.
"Early. Six-ish. I'm going out for a run."
"I'm coming with you."
"Fine." She hesitated. "Will you be with me all day long?"
"Yes."
"Won't that be boring?"
"I'll be busy."
