As opposed to the woman's professional bodyguard.
Maybe he just needed a vacation. A little time off somewhere warm, where the drinks flowed like water and the women were easy.
Yeah, that's what he needed.
A goddamn vacation.
Smith frowned. And realized that in all his life, he'd never taken one.
* * *
Days later, Smith found his fixation on Grace was only getting worse. The result wasn't pretty. Sexual frustration was cutting into his sleep and shortening his temper.
And it wasn't as if he was known for his good humor to begin with.
From his seat at the conference table, he looked across the office. Grace had her head buried in some documents and he tried not to notice that her silk blouse had opened up and was showing more of her skin than usual.
Becoming aroused, he shifted in the chair.
Great. On the job with a hard-on.
Real professional.
Smith felt his mood sink deeper into dark and aggravated territory so he took out his cell phone and dialed Lieutenant Marks's number. He knew an update on the investigation would get his mind off that woman's damn blouse.
"How are things going, Lieutenant?"
"Oh, Christ, not good." The man sounded tired. "The chief of police is up my ass because those women's names are plastered all over New York's cultural institutions. The press is barking up a storm, wanting confirmation that the Times article was found on the first body—I'm trying to find out who the a*shole was who leaked that little tidbit. And we don't have any suspects so far."
Smith kept his voice low. "Did you check with the doormen of those buildings?"
"Yeah. The day and evening shifts in both places have been covered by the same guys for the past five years. Their background checks have all come back clear and each one of them said they saw nothing suspicious on either of the nights in question. The delivery and visitor logs didn't tell us squat, either. Everyone signed in and out—no dropped balls there."
"Any names show up on both logs?"
"Quite a few. These wealthy-types tend to use the same people. There were cleaning folks, caterers, tailors, plant people. Those places are a goddamn revolving door of help. We're chewing our way through the background checks on every single name."
"You find any connection between the husbands of these women? Business? Pleasure?"
"Haven't checked that, yet. Good idea." Marks paused. "So tell me, how's the countess?"
Smith's eyes flickered across the room. "Holding up, considering the stress she's under."
"Nice woman. Someone with her kind of money could be a real pain in the ass if they wanted to but she seemed surprisingly normal."
They talked for a little longer about the forensic tests that had been performed on samples from the crime scenes. When Smith hung up, he glanced back across the room. Kat had come in and Grace was laughing at something the girl had said. Kat was smiling broadly.
People tended to do that a lot around Grace, he realized.
They came into her office or met up with her in the halls and they'd leave the encounter looking lighter, happier.
Surprisingly normal didn't go far enough.
"Thanks, Kat," Grace said, shuffling the papers around, "You were a big help on this."
The assistant beamed. "I'll make the changes now."
"Don't worry. It's past six. Let's all go home." Grace's eyes shifted to him and then she looked away quickly.
"Well, I'm in no hurry," Kat said.
"Don't tell me. Another date ?" Grace's eyes were sympathetic.
"Just drinks. He's an IT guy. I'm hoping we'll talk about something other than Java programming or the Sims." Kat picked up the document and walked over to the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Smith."
Smith nodded without looking in the girl's direction. Grace glanced over at him and then looked back at the girl.
"Good night, Kat," she said softly, her expression growing concerned.
When the door was closed, her eyes narrowed at him. "You could be a little warmer with her."
"With who?"
"Kat."
He frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I think she has a little crush on you."
Smith shrugged and began gathering the papers he'd been reviewing. He was consulting on a fraud case for a friend of his. "That's not my fault."
Grace rose to her feet. "True. But it isn't hers, either. When you ignore her like you do, I think you hurt her feelings."
Neither her eyes or her tone were combative but he felt defensive. The idea that his behavior hadn't lived up to her standards galled him for a reason he didn't want to examine closely.
Because he shouldn't care what she thought of him.
Smith smiled grimly. "You want me to take her out on a date or something?"
"Why don't you just shoot for being polite?"
His first instinct was to make a cutting comment to get her to drop the subject but the bravado faded as he realized she wasn't trying to control him. She was honestly concerned about the girl's feelings.
Smith wanted to curse. It was easier to light against something than to give in to a thoughtful request and he'd have preferred the former, especially in his current frame of mind. His attraction to her, in addition to frustrating the hell out of him, was making him more aggressive than usual.
Which was saying something.
"Fine," he said darkly.
She smiled. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
As if he were a child in need of soothing.
The gently chiding comment was all it took to spark his temper. Smith got up and marched across the room. Her smile faded.
What he wanted to do, as he towered over her, was kiss her.
Instead, he said, "I'm willing to make allowances. I'm not too interested in being patronized, though."
Her startled eyes traced over his face and then bounced down to the span of his chest, as if she was remembering the feel of him against her. Her lips parted.
Sweet Jesus.
All he wanted to do was kiss her.
So before he did something stupid, Smith took his bad mood and his desire for her and went back to where he'd been sitting at the conference table. He packed up his things and used the time to berate himself.
Christ, of all women. Why did he have to be so damn hung up on her? He hated complications and there was nothing more complicated than a beautiful, rich woman who was a client. And why couldn't he just let it go? He'd forgotten plenty of women over the years. Nearly every one he'd ever been with, as a matter of fact.
But this one? She just wouldn't get out of his mind.
Every night, when he was at the height of his insanity, he convinced himself that they could jump into bed as soon as the job was over and everything would be fine. They'd spend a couple of athletic hours together, maybe a day or two. And then he'd move along.
Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it sounded like a good plan, but in the daylight, he knew it was a terrible idea. If she was going to sleep with a man, she'd no doubt want all the things Smith couldn't give her. She'd want more than hours, more than days. She'd want a relationship. Some sense of security. A little stability.
And then there were the bells and whistles she'd expect. According to the papers, she'd been wooed by some of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Men who had nothing better to do than worry about pleasing her. Men who, no doubt, showed up on her doorstep in suits and wing tips with diamonds and pearls. They were men capable of whispering sweet nothings into a gentle ear and making the bullshit seem halfway believable.
Smith couldn't pull off that kind of act to save his soul, even if it was to get her into bed so he could get her out of his blood.