"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.