They were from different worlds. He lived on the fringes of society, in the dim stretch between criminals and civilians. She was an idol, a romantic dream to a whole country of people. She spent her days in the skyscraper her family owned, her nights in ballrooms, her weekends in Newport. He negotiated with low-life kidnappers and traded bullets with fascists and whack-jobs for a living.
She was satin and platinum. He was leather and gunmetal.
Oh, hell. Now he was starting to sound like a country singer.
He looked across the room. Grace had stood up and was staring out at the view as the sun went down. His eyes traveled from the crown of her head, where her blond hair was tightly pinned, all the way down to the pointed tips of her high heels.
Lust, hot and carnal, pumped through him.
Smith put on his leather jacket and smiled tightly, thinking they were both goddamn lucky he could control himself.
Because if it weren't for his years of military training, and the fact that his mind was stronger than his body, he'd be inside her this very moment.
* * *
Grace had the dream again a few nights later. The one of her father coming back to her.
She stirred from sleep, becoming aware that he was standing in the doorway to her room. In the dim light, she could see that his lips were moving but she couldn't hear his voice. It kept fading in and out, as if through a bad connection.
What, she asked him in her mind. What are you telling me?
His face had an urgency to it and she watched as he talked faster.
I can't hear you.
And, then for the first time since he died, she heard his voice.
Calla lily.
Grace shot upright, her heart pounding, her breath stuck somewhere in her chest. Pushing the covers away, she put her feet to the floor and braced herself before turning around. She looked toward the door to her room. He was gone.
He'd never been there, she corrected herself.
Stumbling over to the bathroom, she felt around in the dark for her water glass. Turning the tap on, she held her hand under the faucet waiting for the rush to get cool. She told herself that the sink was real, the marble under her feet was real, the pale glow coming through the windows was real.
But her father had not been.
She filled up the glass, took a couple of big gulps and tasted the familiar metal tang in the water. After putting it under the tap again, she took a deep breath and froze.
The smell of tobacco smoke tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze. As it always had when her father had lit up one of his pipes.
And the glass, like her sanity, slipped from her grasp.
* * *
Smith had just lit a cheroot and was staring out into the night when he heard the crash. Pitching the thing into an ashtray, he grabbed his gun and ran down the hall.
As he burst through Grace's door, he heard her voice from the bathroom.
"I'm in here."
When he flipped on the light, he saw her on her tiptoes surrounded by broken glass.
"I'm okay, I'm okay," she said, blinking against the glare. "I just dropped a glass and it shattered."
When she was able to focus on him, she stared at his bare chest and that was when he realized he was only wearing a pair of boxers. Her eyes widened and he knew she was looking at his scars.
"You sure you aren't hurt?" he said harshly, running his eyes down her body, trying to keep it clinical.
He failed. Like an answer to his fantasies, she wasn't wearing much, just a thin wisp of silk that was trimmed in lace. The sight of her breasts pushing against fragile cups made him want to fall on his knees and to hell with the glass shards.
"I really am fine. And I'm sorry I woke you." She started to look around the floor as if for a way out.
"Don't even think about moving. You're going to get cut." Smith put his gun on the counter.
She eyed the weapon warily. "I think I'll be fine if I just—"
"Stand still," he said sharply. "There's glass all around you. Give me a minute."
He went to his room and threw on a shirt and his boots. When he got back to the bathroom, he walked over the glass and grabbed her.
"What are you doing!" she yelped as he swung her up into his arms. He didn't reply. The glass crackling beneath his thick soles said enough.
As soon as he hit the carpet, he released her abruptly and she stumbled a little. He knew he'd better let her go fast or something was going to happen. Something like him pushing her down on the bed and covering her with his body.
In a rotten mood, Smith stalked into the kitchen, came back with a broom and cleaned up. the mess. He was on his way out when he paused and looked at her.
She was wearing the thick bathrobe and sitting on the edge of her bed in the shallow pool of light cast by her reading lamp. Her back was to him and she seemed to be staring out at the darkness of Central Park.
Just leave her, he told himself. It's none of your business what's banging around that head of hers. You're paid to keep her body safe, not be her shrink.
"You okay?" he asked, anyway.
"Yes," she answered in a small voice. When he didn't leave, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Really."
"You want me to leave the light on?"
She nodded.
"Goodnight," he said, and got a mumble in return.
Smith went to the kitchen, put the broom away, and was on his way to his room when he heard a soft sound. It was barely audible and he waited to see if it came again. When it did, he realized it was a sob.
He walked silently down the dark hall until he stood on the brink of her doorway. She'd wrapped her arms around herself and was rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed.
"Grace?" he said quietly. It was the first time he'd called her by her name.
She jumped and hastily wiped her eyes. "What?"
"Why are you crying?"
"I'm not crying." He watched as her shoulders set like concrete.
"Tell me what woke you up earlier."
She waved him away. "I'm fine."
Smith took a deep breath. Sniveling women had never had much power over him. Any power, actually. He was attracted to strength, not weakness.
But he couldn't turn away from the sight of her so alone on that big bed, trying so hard to look composed.
"You're not fine."
When she turned to him, her green eyes were hostile.
He almost smiled, thinking he knew all about that kind of reaction. All about pushing people away.
"I thought we weren't supposed to get to know each other," she said hotly.
He shrugged. "Maybe I was wrong."
No, he was right. But, even though his instincts were screaming for him to go back to his bedroom, he was going to stay with her until she calmed down.
She regarded him steadily. "Okay, then you can go first."
With a determined sniffle, she crossed her arms over her chest. When he remained silent, she gave him a sharp look.
"What? There's nothing you want to share? No deep dark secrets you want to talk about?"
"This isn't about me," he said gruffly.
"Do you ever let it be about you? "
Not in a million years, he thought.
"Look," he said reasonably, "you're under incredible stress right now. Letting some of it out might help."
"Screw. You." She flashed him a glittering stare. "How's that?"
He smiled at her, relishing her backbone. "Pretty strong words for a countess."
"Well, I'm not feeling real royal right now. I'm tired of falling apart inside and having to pretend I'm—I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "The stiff upper lip routine can be an exhausting bore when your life is a mess."