An Unforgettable Lady

by Jessica Bird

  "He isn't." Grace swallowed her irritation.

  "Oh, and one more thing. A Lieutenant Marks just called you from the NYPD. Said you'd know what it was about."

  Smith's cell phone went off and he put it up to his ear.

  Grace felt her stomach flip-flop.

  As they stepped into her office and closed the doors, she heard him say, "Yes, I'm with her now."

  Grace watched Smith anxiously as she sat down. He was on the phone for a few more minutes but she couldn't tell anything by his monosyllabic responses.

  As soon as he hung up, she said in a frozen voice," Who?”

  He came around the desk, getting closer to her than he had for days. His eyes were gentle and that terrified her.

  "Who?" she repeated.

  "They won't release the name because they're still trying to notify the family. It happened last night. A maid found the body."

  Grace shut her eyes.

  She felt his hand cover hers and thought it was the first time he had touched her since that awful scene on the night of her birthday.

  "It's a good thing we're going to Newport this weekend, isn't it," she said with false bravado. "They all seem to die in New York."

  She tried to smile gamely and couldn't pull it off. Grimly, she glanced over to the windows so he wouldn't see her fear.

  "Look at me. Grace?" Reluctantly, she shifted her eyes to him. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

  "I want to believe that."

  When Kat buzzed in that her first meeting had arrived, John went over to the conference table.

  Grace pressed the intercom button and said she needed a moment.

  She was thinking of Mimi Lauer and picked up the phone. The idea that Isadora could be dead was horrifying and she needed to talk with someone who knew firsthand exactly how out of control and saddened she felt.

  When voice mail kicked in, she left a message.

  As she hung up the phone, she felt a fine sheen of sweat break out across her forehead. A wave of dizziness followed closely on the flash of heat in her body, turning her vision into a checkerboard. Trying to draw breath through lungs that had turned to stone, she told herself she wasn't going to die. Nobody died because of anxiety. You'd just rather be dead.

  She winced, thinking of the killer and the woman who had just been murdered.

  That was one expression she wasn't going to use anymore.

  chapter

  14

  That night, Grace could not get to sleep. After an hour of trying in vain, she wandered out to the kitchen.

  Earlier that evening, she'd taken a couple of potential donors to the Congress for dinner, in hopes of securing an auction piece. Trying to concentrate on business had been impossible and maybe that was why she'd been turned down when she'd asked the Staffords for their collection of Early American needlework. The samplers would have been a good auction item. Even though they weren’t as flashy as the Franklin/Jefferson letters, the pieces were still noteworthy for their rarity and excellent condition.

  She opened the refrigerator and thought of Smith. The shelves were full of fresh vegetables, meats, and cartons of orange juice and soy milk. She figured the appliance was probably grateful for being used as more than a graveyard for condiments.

  She was on the way back to her bedroom after having had a sandwich, when the phone rang. Smith materialized in the doorway as she reluctantly picked up the receiver in the living room.

  "Grace?" It was a male voice. A shakey, grief-stricken male voice.

  "Yes?"

  "It's Ted Lauer."

  She felt the blood drain out of her head. "Oh, God no..."

  "Mimi is ... she's gone, Grace ..." Ted choked and cleared his throat.

  Letting out a small, wounded sound, she collapsed into a chair, picturing Mimi as the woman had left Bo's suite. The; idea that she'd been dead when Grace tried to reach her that morning was horrifying.

  She tried to imagine Ted having to tell their son that his mother wasn't coming home ever again.

  "Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked.

  "There's nothing anyone can do."

  When she finally put the phone down, after offering words of condolence and sorrow that felt pitifully insubstantial in the face of the man's suffering, she looked up at Smith.

  "That family's life is ruined. Her son ..." She stood up, shaking her head desolately. "We can't go to Newport. The funeral's this weekend."

  "I don't want you to go."

  "To the funeral?" She frowned. "How can I not?"

  Smith shook his head. "I'm not taking chances."

  "But I'll be perfectly safe. You'll be with me—"

  "It's going to be a mob scene. I told you, no big crowds if we can avoid it."

  "But she was my friend." Grace crossed her arms over her chest, battling tears of rage and frustration and fear.

  "Grace, we've got to be reasonable."

  "They'll be plenty of policeman there. You manage to protect political figures, right? People like the ambassador," she shot back. "So why is it any different for me? "

  "That night, I had the Plaza crawling with my men."

  "So bring them on, make me a damn coat out of them, I don't care."

  His eyes grew dark. "We have an agreement. You'll do what I say is right."

  Grace started shaking her head. "This isn't fair. I have to go."

  "It's got nothing to do with fairness. This is about risk and going to that funeral is an avoidable one. Serial killers enjoy seeing the aftermath of their work. There's a good possibility he'll be somewhere in the crowd and I don't want you anywhere near him."

  "So what's next? Are you going to tell me I can't go to the Gala?" When he didn't answer her she thrust her chin out. " I'm going to the Foundation's Gala, John. No matter what you say."

  "Then we may have a problem."

  "What the hell's that supposed to mean? Are you threatening to leave?"

  "I told you from the beginning. I'm here only on my terms."

  She was ready to argue with him when a surge of hope broke through her anger. "But maybe he'll be caught by then. Maybe this will be all over in a couple of weeks."

  "Maybe."

  His tone was more along the lines of maybe not.

  "The Gala is still over three weeks away," she said. "Can we at least discuss this later?"

  "You can't bargain with me."

  She cursed out loud. "Fine! Can I yell at you, then? Because I'm getting pretty sick and goddamn tired of having no say in my life."

  She felt wetness on her cheeks and realized she'd begun to cry. Impatiently, she wiped under her eyes.

  "Christ," he muttered, holding out his arms. "Come here."

  Grace hesitated and then went to his embrace, collapsing into his strength, laying her cheek on his wide chest. He held her for a long time, stroking her back with his big hands.

  "I despise you right now," she said against his shirt.

  "I know."

  * * *

  Smith cradled her in his arms for some time, trying to ease some of her frustration and fear. He'd decided even before Mimi Lauer's death that he might have to pull Grace out of the Gala and knew the conversation was going to be a tough one.

  She was right. He had protected people like the ambassador, people who were being hunted by assassins who liked taking down targets in public. And the killer who was after Grace had a pattern of working in private. He probably preferred an intimate setting, which was why he killed in the victims homes. Still, though Smith trusted his men and he had confidence in himself, when it came to Grace the slightest elevation in risk seemed unacceptable.

  As he held her tightly against him, he couldn't bear the thought of her getting hurt and felt a real shot of sympathy for that Lauer woman's husband. To find out your wife had her throat slashed open and bled to death in your living room. What the hell was that like for a civilian? Death was hard enough to deal with if you were trained to handle it and it
took out your colleagues or your enemies. But a wife ?

  Christ.

  He recalled what Marks had told him over the phone earlier. The murder had been along the lines of the other two. No forcible entry. Vicious knife work. No prints. And the woman's clothes had been neatly arranged after the struggle. The killing fit the pattern although it was out of order. Isadora Cunis should have been next if the killer was following the sequence of the article but Smith knew that didn't mean that woman was out of danger. Marks had said Cunis and her husband had left the city and were not coming back until her big event later in the month.

  Lack of availability had undoubtedly trumped the order, to Mimi Lauer's tragic disadvantage.

  Smith wondered how the killer had gotten to the woman. She'd been watched by good cops. Marks's men had been in the building and outside at the curb.

  Just not in her damn house, evidently.

  He felt Grace pull back. Her eyes were luminous from a haze of tears and her voice was a mere whisper when she spoke.

  “I don't want to be alone tonight. Stay with me?"

  Smith smothered a groan and stiffened. Sleeping next to her was not the kind of support he felt capable of offering. No matter how god-awful she was feeling, or how much sympathy she deserved, nothing was going to change the way he felt when her body was anywhere near his. He wanted to ease her suffering but lying next to her all night wasn't going to keep him in a compassionate mood.

  "Are you sure?" he said gruffly.

  When she nodded, and they started to walk down the hall, he told himself there were tougher tests of his strength.

  Of course, they mostly involved moving heavy machinery or large household appliances. With an arm tied behind his back and his legs in goddamn shackles.

  Still, he didn't think he could turn her down.

  After she got into bed, he laid down on top of the sheets. He was thinking it wouldn't be so bad as long as they stayed on opposite sides but then she moved into his arms and curled up in a small ball. Gradually, her breathing slowed and the tension in her body dissipated until she became exactly what he'd dreaded.

  Soft, yielding, warm.

  He could feel her breath against his forearm, her tight little butt tucked into the cradle of his hips, the weight of her head on his shoulder.

  Christ.

  He was a tough guy. He'd gone through Ranger School with no problem—just a little mud, sweat, and sleep deprivation. Getting shot at? Healed up just fine, thank you very much. Same with getting stabbed, clonked on the head with a lire iron, and being hit by that Chevy Nova.

  Okay, so he'd needed some time in traction after the Nova and even now his knee ached a little when it rained. Still, all that was nothing compared to what spending a night laying next to Grace was going to do to him.

  He had to wonder when he'd last laid down with a woman in his arms. Other than when he was having sex. He couldn't remember how long it had been. Maybe never.

  Grace shifted in her sleep, rubbing against his hips.

  As he gritted his teeth, he knew he wasn't going to get any sleep. And had to imagine, if lying next to her and being separated by blankets, her bathrobe, and his clothes was this difficult, making love to the countess would only land him right where the Chevy Nova had stunned and on his ass.

  He closed his eyes, thinking it was a damn shame they hadn't met under different circumstances.

  Although he didn't know what other state of affairs could possibly have brought them together.

  * * *

  On the Friday afternoon of Columbus Day weekend, Grace rubbed tired eyes and stretched in her father's chair. Smith was at the conference table, talking on his phone. He did that a lot while they were in the office and she'd grown used to hearing the deep rumble of his voice.

  Grace studied him covertly, thinking back to the night they'd spent together. Sometime before dawn, she'd woken up to the feeling of heavy arms holding her tight and a big body pushed in close against hers. She'd rolled over carefully, trying not to disturb him, because she'd wanted to see what he looked like when he was sleeping.

  But his eyes had been alert and glowing as she'd looked into them. The expression on his face had been intense in the morning light and he'd stared at her for what seemed like a long time. She'd wondered if he was going to kiss her but then he'd jackknifed off the bed in a smooth motion and walked out of the room without so much as a good morning.

  The soft whir of the fax behind the desk brought her back to the present. Absently, she reached over and picked up the pages as they came through the machine.

  Since that night, he'd avoided getting too close to her and it was hard not to feel like a leper as he sidestepped around her if they met in the hall or they passed while going in and out of her bathroom. She told herself not to take it personally but that didn't really help.

  As the fax kept going, shooting out page after page, she looked down at the list of signatures and frowned.

  "That's for me."

  Grace jumped at the sound of his voice. He'd managed to cross the room without a sound and she wondered whether she'd ever get used to how quietly he moved.

  "What are they?" She handed the documents to him.

  "Delivery and visitor logs." He went back to the conference table.

  "From what?"

  When he didn't answer, she knew they had to do with the case.

  "Tell me about the investigation," she said quietly.

  He looked up. "I don't want to upset you."

  "I told you before, I'd feel better knowing what's going on."

  "I'm not so sure about that," he muttered. When she stared at him pointedly, he shrugged. "I’m going through the buildings logs with a fresh set of eyes. Looking for patterns Marks and his team might have missed."

  She went to him, leaning over his shoulder and staring down at the columns of signatures and dates and times. She saw a lot of the same names and recognized many of them.

  "Isn't it time to go to the airport?" he asked abruptly.

  "Yes. I suppose so."

  Although she wouldn't have minded putting off the trip altogether. She still felt as if she should be going to Mimi's funeral and she wasn't looking forward to seeing her mother. The conversation she'd had with Carolina the day before, when she'd had to explain that Ranulf wasn't coming, hadn't gone well. The disapproval coming through the phone had intensified when she'd mentioned she was being accompanied by a male "friend."

  When she and Smith left the office, Grace was hoping that the time would just fly by. She loved her mother, as much as the woman would let her, but a little of Carolina Hall went a long way.

  Eddie drove them out of the city to Teterboro Airport where the Hall family plane was waiting, fueled up and gleaming on the tarmac. The Gulf stream jet had been used frequently by her father, but Grace was thinking of selling it, feeling that the overhead expense outweighed the convenience. The trip wasn't a long one. It was little more than an hour of air time to T. F Greene Airport, which was located just outside of Providence, Rhode Island. As they stepped from the plane, she saw a familiar black Mercedes waiting at a special, side entrance of the field.

  "Hello, Wilhelm," Grace greeted the driver as they approached, a uniformed porter behind them pushing their things on a cart.

  "Miss Grace," the man replied, doffing his chauffeur's hat. The German accent was heavy in his pronunciation.

  "How is Marta?"

  As the man opened the rear door, he replied, "Well. She's just as well as always. She's looking forward to having you in the house again, even if it is only for the weekend."

  "Wilhelm, this is John Smith. A friend of mine."

  The older man bent at the waist briefly. "Sir."

  Smith nodded and slid into the back.

  It took a full hour to reach Newport and, as they scaled the majestic bridge going onto the island, Grace felt a lick of anticipation in her stomach. The house at Newport was her true home, a place she loved as if it were a li
ving member of the family. The vivid summer days and soft summer nights of her youth at the ocean's edge were more clear in her mind than what had happened the day before at the office.

  And with the way things were going with the Gala, the chronological amnesia was a good thing. She still didn't have a suitable auction piece and there were some serious problems with the food for the event.

  Thanks to Fredrique's interference, the caterer had come up with an obscure menu of Asian fusion that was so kinky and over the top, Grace had had to ask them to start all over again. Serving blowfish at the Gala just wasn't what she had in mind—it was expensive, and deadly if prepared incorrectly. She wanted to offer the guests fine fare, not a trip to the Lenox Hill emergency room.

  She put the responsibility for the menu snafu firmly in her own court. She'd assumed that her call to Fredrique when she'd first learned of his meddling had been sufficient to get him to back off but clearly she'd been wrong. According to Lolly Ramparr and her staff at NightWorx, he'd showed up at their shop and refused to leave when they told him it was their understanding he wasn't involved with the Gala this year. When he kept giving orders, Lolly had tried to reach Grace, who'd been in a meeting and unavailable. Freder-ique had then demanded Lamont be called and Lou had promptly vouched for the authority the man was assuming. Lolly had done what he'd said.

  Obviously, Grace was going to have to try again with the man. Perhaps in writing.

  It was damned inconvenient to have to fire someone you never hired, over and over again, she thought.

  Grace lowered the window, leaned her head into the cool sea breeze and took a deep breath. The turmoil of everything seemed slightly removed as she looked over the ocean and she was grateful for the respite.

  "You like it here a lot, don't you," Smith remarked.

  "I love it here," she murmured, watching a sailboat charging through the waves.

  "Your family's place is right on the ocean, isn't it? "

  She nodded. " Willings isn't the largest of the estates, but it's got beautiful sea views and a wonderful garden."