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 surprised. 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.