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."
"Doing what?"
"Watching you."
Her eyes flashed up to his. They were full of vulnerability and an unconscious inquiry that turned him on.
She frowned, as if a thought just occurred to her. "Tell me something. Do you like what you do? "
When it came to watching someone like her, yeah, he liked it just fine, Smith thought. But he didn't answer her question.
"You'll sleep well tonight," he said instead as he headed out of her room. “And keep the door open. I need to be able to hear you."
"Smith?"
He stopped and looked over his shoulder.
"Thank you. I really appreciate—"
He cut her off, telling her the same thing he did all his clients. "Don't waste time with gratitude. We have a professional arrangement. All you have to do is pay me at the end and I’ll be happy."
Her eyes dimmed. "All right."
An odd sensation shot through his chest as he turned away from her.
It dawned on him that he'd hurt her feelings. Again.\
And somehow, hurting her bothered him.
As he walked into his new bedroom, he was wondering what the hell was wrong with him. When had he started caring about the feelings of others?
About the countess's in particular?
chapter
7
Grace came awake with a wild jerk, her arms pinwheel-ing through the sheets. Straining in the faint light of dawn, her body tense, she waited for some clue as to what had disturbed her exhausted collapse.
There was only silence.
She looked around her room. She was alone for all she knew.
She thought immediately of Smith. Had he been moving around? Or was it someone else? She slipped out of bed, debating whether to go find him. When the silence continued, she didn't think she had a reason to wake him up. He was her bodyguard, not a security blanket.
Feeling ill at ease, she went over to the French doors. The sun was just about to rise and high, thin clouds brushed across the horizon. Below, the streets were still marked with glowing lamps and Central Park was a dark, dense expanse.
So they'd gotten through their first night together, she thought. And it hadn't been that bad. Only one argument caused by the intersection of his sharp tongue and her nervous fatigue. All things considered, maybe it was a triumph.
Now, if she could just figure out how to share a bathroom with the guy, she was practically home free.
Grace was about to turn away when Smith walked out onto the terrace from the living room.
Her breath caught in her throat and she leaned forward until her forehead hit the glass. Cursing, she pulled back and rubbed the spot.
He was naked to the waist, wearing the black pants he'd had on the night before. His body was everything she'd suspected it to be. He was built hard and strong and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him as far as she could see. As he moved, she watched the shifting and contracting muscles of his back. They fanned out from his spine and filled his shoulders, giving heft to his upper torso.
It was then she noticed marks on his skin. Scars. Several on his back, one that went across his side, a jagged streak on his right shoulder.
She put her hand up, as if she could soothe him from afar; and tried to imagine the kind of life he must have led. Where he had been. What had been done to him.
The need to know about his past was intense.
No wonder he was so tough. He knew a hell of a lot about physical pain.
She watched, entranced, as he moved stealthily across the terrace, sidestepping plants and porch furniture, stopping only when he stood a couple of feet from the wrought iron railing. Facing the sun, he put his two hands together and bowed his head.
Grace wondered whether any tenderness could have survived in a man like him. She thought of his hard face, his impassive eyes, that bored tone she suspected he cultivated as another guise to hide his true thoughts. She wanted to know what was under the camouflage.
When he looked up again, he began to shift through the ancient gestures and positions of tai chi. She was amazed.
He harnessed his masculine power, all those muscles and bones capable of such brute force, and disciplined them into movements that were fluid, calm. As the sun rose behind him, his silhouette pushed and pulled against the air in a graceful dance.
She stayed at the glass until he returned to his starting position. When he bowed his head again, and began to turn around, she scurried into bed, praying he hadn't seen her.
When she closed her eyes, she only saw visions of him. The sensual kaleidoscope was disturbing so she reached over and picked up her diary. Spilling her thoughts onto a page had always relieved her mind and she'd been writing in the small leather book a lot lately. Her pen flew across the page until there was nothing else to say about her attraction to him.
When she closed the book and laid back into the pillows, she thought she would just rest a moment but her body had different ideas. Much later, she surfaced from sleep in a plodding, heavy-lidded fashion. Enticing dreams seemed reluctant to let her go. Or maybe it was the other way around.