An Unforgettable Lady

by Jessica Bird

  But, hell, he should be thanking those guys with the tool-belts and the pencils behind their ears. They were the only reason he hadn't made love to her then and there. On the carpet. Without the coverall brigade, he wouldn't have taken the time to spell out where the future had to lie. He'd have taken her, instead.

  Which would have been a bad idea. Nursing a lonely, frightened woman through an inappropriate love affair was nothing he wanted to be a part of.

  Even if she was like cozying up to a blow torch.

  It was a damn shame they weren't sleeping under the same roof in a different set of circumstances. The countess had genuine heat under that prim exterior. Fire and ice. He couldn't remember when he'd been so hot for a woman.

  Smith shook his head. Never would have predicted this one, he thought.

  He reached over and picked up a picture of her with the mayor of New York.

  He wasn't worried by the fact that he wanted her. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with a good dose of kick ass underneath that glossy WASP exterior and he was a man, after all. But, though she was proving to be a tempting package all around, that didn't mean she was going to rock his world. When the threat was over, when they found her stalker, he was going to leave her life exactly as he had come into it. A clean break, a handshake, and then off to the next assignment. Exactly as he'd done with his other clients.

  He returned the picture and went over to the mug he'd used. He hated herbal tea but it had been the only thing he'd found in her kitchen, apart from a sponge, that he could throw in with some hot water. When she'd mentioned him finding the coffee, he'd had no idea what she'd been thinking. After an extensive search, he'd only found a few jars of caviar, some crackers and a lot of empty space in her cupboards. The refrigerator was just as bad. Ancient, half-used salad dressing bottles and a tub of fancy mustard. That was it.

  Smith's stomach growled and he went back into the kitchen. It was either hors d'oeuvres or nothing, so he got out the caviar and crackers and rooted through a few drawers until he found a knife. Breaking the seal on a jar marked Tsar Imperiale, he began ladling the stuff on some of Carr's best and tossing the piles into his mouth.

  Not bad, he thought, but he'd have to stock the shelves if he was going to live with her.

  When the knocker sounded, he went out into the front hall.

  "Yeah?" he said without opening the door. He noticed with disapproval that she didn't have a peephole.

  There was a hesitation. "It's—ah, it's Joey, the doorman. Who's this?"

  "A friend of the countess's."

  "Oh." The confusion in the guy's voice was obvious.

  "Can I help you, Joey?"

  "A package came for her yesterday. She forgot to pick it up."

  "Leave it there in the hall."

  "Ummm... okay."

  Smith waited a minute or two and then began to unlock the door.

  From behind him, he felt her approach. "Who was that?"

  He glanced over his shoulder. Fresh out of the shower, she was wearing a terry cloth bathrobe and had a towel wrapped around her head. Her face was freshly scrubbed and a little pink and he tried not to think about what the rest of her looked like.

  As he picked up a box wrapped in brown paper, he wondered if there was a way to make her keep wearing the fuzzy thing instead of that other, silky kind of robe she'd shown up in. No reason to torture himself.

  "A package came for you." Smith carried the box inside. It was small, about a six-inch cube.

  "Oh, thanks." She reached to take it from him.

  "Not so fast," he said. "Let me open it."

  She warily pulled together the lapels of the robe and followed him into the kitchen.

  He put the box on the counter and reached into his back pocket, taking out the thin leather case he took with him wherever he went. It was about the size of a wallet and when he opened it up, thin, stainless steel tools gleamed. "You got any rubber gloves around here?"

  She plucked two yellow ones out of a cabinet under the sink, handing them to him with a worried look. He snapped them on and examined the package carefully, looking, listening, smelling. The countess's name and address had been written by hand across the top, otherwise there were no identifying marks.

  "You recognize this handwriting?" he asked.

  She shook her head as he continued.

  "Where'd you learn all this?" She was lingering in the doorway, watching him work. The smell of the soap she'd used pleased him. He tried to ignore it.

  "Here and there."

  Unexpectedly, she let out a giggle. As he shot her a wry look, he watched her clap a hand over her mouth.

  "Sorry. I have a tendency to laugh at inappropriate times."

  "Somehow I doubt that." He slid a thin knife out of the kit.

  "No, it's true. I used to drive my father mad. Once, during a holiday party, a guest got drunk and fell into the fountain. Everyone was stunned into silence as he splashed around except for me. As my father liked to tell it, from out of the crowd, a giggle rose like a bad smell."

  Smith inserted the blade through the wrapping and began cutting around the top of the box. "Children can have rotten timing."

  "Actually, it was two years ago."

  He flashed her another look and then found himself pausing. It seemed inconceivable that someone as poised as she was could make such a gaffe and he wondered what other foibles and mischief she'd gotten herself into.

  Her lips lifted sweetly into a smile and he felt his chest tighten.

  Smith frowned and went back to work. "Let me guess, the guy in the drink was someone important."

  "Bishop Bradford. Not the sort one laughs at."

  " Where've I heard the name?"

  "Bradford Bourbon. Kentucky's best."

  "Hard to imagine a bourbon king with low tolerance," he muttered.

  "Funny, that's what my father said."

  When Smith was done, he lifted off the top and saw Tiffany's signature blue glowing from underneath a thin veil of tissue.

  "What is it?" she asked nervously.

  "If it is a mail bomb, they have excellent taste." He pulled the smaller box out gingerly and put it on the counter. "Mind if I do the honors?"

  When she shook her head, he cut off the white bow and lifted off the lid. There was a card on top of the tissue.

  He could feel the tension emanating from her as he picked up the envelope. After opening it, he read aloud, "To Woody with love, Bo. PS, can't wait to see you next week."

  Grace began to laugh, a lovely sound of relief.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Bo happens to be Bishop Bradford's niece. You might know her as Senator Barbara Ann Bradford from Kentucky. What a coincidence."

  Smith began pulling out tissue, creating a fluffy pile on the counter. "Assuming she's not paying you back for that giggle over her uncle, I don't think this is going to blow on us."

  Nestled deep in the protective layers, he found a small porcelain box with flowers on it. He debated on whether to open it and decided it would be safe for her to. He had a feeling she'd appreciate the privacy if it was a personal gift and passed it over to her.

  When she lifted the lid, she gasped.

  "What?"

  "Nothing," she said softly. She tucked the small box into her hands, curling it up and holding it close.

  He restuffed the package, cramming the wrapping paper as well as the white fluff into its belly. He was surprised that he actually wondered what was inside the little box.

  She nodded toward the caviar and crackers on the counter. "I see you've scavenged around for something to eat. Sorry about that. I wasn't expecting company ... last night."

  "Better than some other things I've had over the years." He snapped off the gloves and put them back under the sink. "About your maid."

  "Therese?"

  He nodded. "When she came this morning, I told her she was going to have a break for a while."

  The countess frowned. "But she's com
pletely trustworthy. She's been with our family for years and—"

  "Do you have a regular driver?"

  She nodded while regarding him warily.

  "Call him and tell him he’s going to have a little vacation. I want my own man at the wheel."

  "But Rich has been my—"

  "I want my man."

  Grace dropped her head. He could feel her inner struggle.

  "This won't be forever," he said gruffly. "Look, I know this is hard but you're not alone."

  Her eyes flashed up to his. "You're right. I’m living with a trained killer and being stalked by a murderer. I should be praying for solitude." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You don't deserve to get hit with my frustration."

  "I can take it."

  She looked at him for a long time, her green eyes the color of spring leaves. "I'm sure you can. You look like you could withstand anything."

  And thank God for that, Smith thought, remembering how she felt pressed against his body.

  "The shower's free," she told him.

  "Okay."

  Grace led the way down the hall to her bedroom.

  "I put out some fresh towels and a razor." She went over to her dressing room, pausing in the doorway. "If you need anything..."

  "I'll be fine."

  She nodded and closed the double doors behind her.

  chapter

  8

  A half hour later, they left the penthouse and went down to the lobby. As Grace introduced Smith to Joey, the regular doorman, she saw a black SUV pull up to the curb. It was big as a tank and, with its darkened windows, she was convinced only Smith's twin could be behind the wheel.

  "Where's Rich?" the doorman asked as he took in the new car.

  "On a little vacation," Grace said casually. "Oh, and the contractors won't be coming back for a while. Therese won't be here, either."

  The man shot her a quizzical look while Smith gave him a card. "If anyone asks to get into her apartment, call my cell phone immediately. No one gets in unless I clear it, okay?"

  "Yeah, sure thing."

  "Have a good day," Grace said as they went out under the awning. Approaching the car, Smith went ahead and opened the door. She climbed up into the backseat, trying not to rip her skirt in the process.

  "Good morning!" The cheery, booming voice was a shock. "Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Eddie."

  A hand the size of a bear paw was passed into the backseat and as she took it, she looked into a face that belonged on a Christmas card. Round, rosy-cheeked, white-bearded, the guy was a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

  "Er. .." Grace smiled and shook her head. "I'm sorry to stare. It's just that you look—"

  "Like Brad Pitt? Yeah, I get that a lot." The New York accent was thick, warping the words. She liked the sound of it. "So do I have to call you Countess?"

  "Absolutely not. I'm Grace."

  "Okay, Grace." He gave her a wink.

  As soon as Smith climbed in the other side, the doors were locked with a stereo click.

  "Mornin', Boss man," Eddie said, hitting the gas and throwing them out into traffic. Grace grabbed onto the armrest to keep from pitching into Smith's lap. As the Explorer's engine roared, and then Eddie slammed on the brakes to avoid sideswiping a taxi, she reached around behind her and put on her seat belt.

  Heaven help her; she hoped they'd make it downtown in one piece.

  Eddie looked up into the mirror. "Hey, Grace, what did you feed this one for breakfast? He looks a little drawn. A little piqued. A little—"

  "Not in the mood for your antics," Smith muttered.

  Grace's eyes flickered across the seat. Smith's tough face was relaxed.

  "So come on, Grace," Eddie prompted, "whatcha feed him?"

  The man was staring into the rearview mirror while pumping the gas and the brake like they were bike pedals. If only to get him to look at the street again, she said, "He didn't get a lot, I'm afraid,"

  "Ah." He addressed Smith. "What'd you make do with? A bowl of cereal that tastes like cardboard but it's good for your colon?"

  "Caviar," Smith said dryly.

  "Jeez! Is that what you fancy people eat for breakfast?” Another wink was sent Grace's way. "Well, you can't keep a man like him going on fish eggs. Boss man, you want to pick up something on the way?"

  The tone was light but the question serious. She had the impression that Eddie was used to taking care of Smith.

  "I think I can make it."

  "Well," Eddie huffed, "you aren't gonna lap me in a weight contest with that kind of attitude."

  "That's a trophy you can take home."

  Eddie looked back over to Grace in the mirror. "You know, not only can I eat him under the table, but I can bench press two of him.”Course, he could probably bench press two of me, come to think of it. Which is even more impressive."

  Smith was staring out of the window, his face a study in calm concentration in spite of all the jerking and surging. She got the sense he was comfortable around Eddie and she wondered what had brought the two men together. Maybe they were related in some way.

  She glanced at one and then the other. Or maybe not.

  "We have to think of a reason ... for you," Grace said abruptly. "I don't want people to think I need a bodyguard."

  Smith looked over at her, one eyebrow rising. "Understandable."

  "A consultant. You'ie a consultant of some kind." She started smiling. "On organizational development."

  He frowned. "What's that?"

  "OD experts help companies overcome organizational stress by bringing staff together and helping them get along. Think Wall Street meets the Age of Aquarius."

  He shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

  "And it'll even explain the wardrobe."

  "What's wrong with my clothes?" He drawled, obviously not prepared to change even if they were downright offensive.

  She eyed his leather jacket with a smile. "You're not exactly pulling off the corporate pinstripe and wing tip routine."

  Eddie laughed. "Well, the man's got basic black down cold. He's got more dark clothes than an undertaker."

  "There's nothing wrong with black," Smith countered.

  "Maybe if you're in the embalming arts, sure."

  "You know that's just a side job."

  The two shared a look and Grace's smile dropped from her face. She couldn't help wondering if Smith had had to kill anyone.

  "Tell me more about your number two," he said.

  "Lou Lamont is head of our Development Department. As I mentioned, he's been fighting with me, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, from the moment I took over."

  "Well, maybe I can help him get used to you." There was a tightening of Smith's jaw and a furrow appeared between his brows.

  "I thought you didn't know anything about OD."

  Eddie laughed. "You're looking at a man who marshaled a team of Army Rangers through the desert. He can handle one guy in a suit. Trust me."

  Grace flushed and looked at Smith. He must have been an officer, she thought. And fought in Desert Storm.

  She stared at him, as if she could find answers in his face or his hands or the way he was sitting. He had one arm against the window and the other across the back of the seat. Spread out as he was, his jacket was gaping open and his black shirt stretched across his chest. The glimmer of his gun was barely visible. His confidence in himself was obvious.

  But there were no hints, no clues for her.

  She looked back out of the window, trying to distract herself by watching the people on the sidewalk. Anything to keep her from getting absorbed in him.

  Although on that logic she'd need something big. The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. A presidential motorcade.

  Elvis, back from the dead.

  When Eddie pulled up in front of the Hall Building, Smith leaned forward. "I've got stuff I need back at the hotel."

  "No problem. Anything else?”

  "Food. And lots of it."

  "I know
what you like."

  "That's it."

  Grace reached for the door handle but Smith stopped her. "Allow me."

  He got out, looked around, and then opened her door.

  Grace paused by Eddie's open window. "It was nice to meet you."

  "You, too. Now will you feed him something real for lunch? A good sandwich. Some salad. Maybe a piece of fruit. It's good to keep the potassium up and protein is really important."

  Smith rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me you're back at the extension school."

  "Sure am. Just finished a class on nutrition. Now, I’m taking creative writing."

  "Oh, boy." Smith lifted a hand as Eddie lurched back into traffic. "Here we go again."

  Grace shot him a quizzical look as they walked past George Washington. She was surprised when he indulged her.

  "Eddie never graduated from high school. When he turned fifty, he decided it was time to get educated. We've been through medieval history, French, and how to bake bread in the last year."

  "That's wonderful."

  "Yeah, except he made me eat his homework. He failed light and fluffy. Makes an excellent brick, though."

  Grace glanced up at him and her quick laugh caught in her throat. His voice had been so casual, she'd assumed he was merely strolling through the plaza as she was. He wasn't. His eyes, calculating and impassive, were scanning the pedestrians around them, noting the revolving doors they were walking to, measuring the street behind them. His stride was even but she knew he could spring into action in the space of a breath.

  As they stepped into the lobby, she thought about her attraction to him.

  Was he right? Was her fascination with him because he was from a different world? She didn't think so. No matter what planet he was from, it was the electricity between them that tempted her. He could be another fancy-dressed, dandy blue blood like her husband or a garage mechanic. When she was in his arms, she wasn't thinking about his tax returns.

  As soon as they were inside the Hall Building, people started coming up to her, greeting her, talking. It took them ten minutes to get into the elevators and she kept the conversation going with more staff while heading up the building. She asked about wives, husbands, children, family members, all by name.

  When they emerged on the top floor and started down the hallway to her office, he said, "You know everyone here."