She was right. He had protected people like the ambassador, people who were being hunted by assassins who liked taking down targets in public. And the killer who was after Grace had a pattern of working in private. He probably preferred an intimate setting, which was why he killed in the victims homes. Still, though Smith trusted his men and he had confidence in himself, when it came to Grace the slightest elevation in risk seemed unacceptable.
As he held her tightly against him, he couldn't bear the thought of her getting hurt and felt a real shot of sympathy for that Lauer woman's husband. To find out your wife had her throat slashed open and bled to death in your living room. What the hell was that like for a civilian? Death was hard enough to deal with if you were trained to handle it and it took out your colleagues or your enemies. But a wife ?
Christ.
He recalled what Marks had told him over the phone earlier. The murder had been along the lines of the other two. No forcible entry. Vicious knife work. No prints. And the woman's clothes had been neatly arranged after the struggle. The killing fit the pattern although it was out of order. Isadora Cunis should have been next if the killer was following the sequence of the article but Smith knew that didn't mean that woman was out of danger. Marks had said Cunis and her husband had left the city and were not coming back until her big event later in the month.
Lack of availability had undoubtedly trumped the order, to Mimi Lauer's tragic disadvantage.
Smith wondered how the killer had gotten to the woman. She'd been watched by good cops. Marks's men had been in the building and outside at the curb.
Just not in her damn house, evidently.
He felt Grace pull back. Her eyes were luminous from a haze of tears and her voice was a mere whisper when she spoke.
“I don't want to be alone tonight. Stay with me?"
Smith smothered a groan and stiffened. Sleeping next to her was not the kind of support he felt capable of offering. No matter how god-awful she was feeling, or how much sympathy she deserved, nothing was going to change the way he felt when her body was anywhere near his. He wanted to ease her suffering but lying next to her all night wasn't going to keep him in a compassionate mood.
"Are you sure?" he said gruffly.
When she nodded, and they started to walk down the hall, he told himself there were tougher tests of his strength.
Of course, they mostly involved moving heavy machinery or large household appliances. With an arm tied behind his back and his legs in goddamn shackles.
Still, he didn't think he could turn her down.
After she got into bed, he laid down on top of the sheets. He was thinking it wouldn't be so bad as long as they stayed on opposite sides but then she moved into his arms and curled up in a small ball. Gradually, her breathing slowed and the tension in her body dissipated until she became exactly what he'd dreaded.
Soft, yielding, warm.
He could feel her breath against his forearm, her tight little butt tucked into the cradle of his hips, the weight of her head on his shoulder.
Christ.
He was a tough guy. He'd gone through Ranger School with no problem—just a little mud, sweat, and sleep deprivation. Getting shot at? Healed up just fine, thank you very much. Same with getting stabbed, clonked on the head with a lire iron, and being hit by that Chevy Nova.
Okay, so he'd needed some time in traction after the Nova and even now his knee ached a little when it rained. Still, all that was nothing compared to what spending a night laying next to Grace was going to do to him.
He had to wonder when he'd last laid down with a woman in his arms. Other than when he was having sex. He couldn't remember how long it had been. Maybe never.
Grace shifted in her sleep, rubbing against his hips.
As he gritted his teeth, he knew he wasn't going to get any sleep. And had to imagine, if lying next to her and being separated by blankets, her bathrobe, and his clothes was this difficult, making love to the countess would only land him right where the Chevy Nova had stunned and on his ass.
He closed his eyes, thinking it was a damn shame they hadn't met under different circumstances.
Although he didn't know what other state of affairs could possibly have brought them together.
* * *
On the Friday afternoon of Columbus Day weekend, Grace rubbed tired eyes and stretched in her father's chair. Smith was at the conference table, talking on his phone. He did that a lot while they were in the office and she'd grown used to hearing the deep rumble of his voice.
Grace studied him covertly, thinking back to the night they'd spent together. Sometime before dawn, she'd woken up to the feeling of heavy arms holding her tight and a big body pushed in close against hers. She'd rolled over carefully, trying not to disturb him, because she'd wanted to see what he looked like when he was sleeping.
But his eyes had been alert and glowing as she'd looked into them. The expression on his face had been intense in the morning light and he'd stared at her for what seemed like a long time. She'd wondered if he was going to kiss her but then he'd jackknifed off the bed in a smooth motion and walked out of the room without so much as a good morning.
The soft whir of the fax behind the desk brought her back to the present. Absently, she reached over and picked up the pages as they came through the machine.
Since that night, he'd avoided getting too close to her and it was hard not to feel like a leper as he sidestepped around her if they met in the hall or they passed while going in and out of her bathroom. She told herself not to take it personally but that didn't really help.
As the fax kept going, shooting out page after page, she looked down at the list of signatures and frowned.
"That's for me."
Grace jumped at the sound of his voice. He'd managed to cross the room without a sound and she wondered whether she'd ever get used to how quietly he moved.
"What are they?" She handed the documents to him.
"Delivery and visitor logs." He went back to the conference table.
"From what?"
When he didn't answer, she knew they had to do with the case.
"Tell me about the investigation," she said quietly.
He looked up. "I don't want to upset you."
"I told you before, I'd feel better knowing what's going on."
"I'm not so sure about that," he muttered. When she stared at him pointedly, he shrugged. "I’m going through the buildings logs with a fresh set of eyes. Looking for patterns Marks and his team might have missed."
She went to him, leaning over his shoulder and staring down at the columns of signatures and dates and times. She saw a lot of the same names and recognized many of them.
"Isn't it time to go to the airport?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes. I suppose so."
Although she wouldn't have minded putting off the trip altogether. She still felt as if she should be going to Mimi's funeral and she wasn't looking forward to seeing her mother. The conversation she'd had with Carolina the day before, when she'd had to explain that Ranulf wasn't coming, hadn't gone well. The disapproval coming through the phone had intensified when she'd mentioned she was being accompanied by a male "friend."
When she and Smith left the office, Grace was hoping that the time would just fly by. She loved her mother, as much as the woman would let her, but a little of Carolina Hall went a long way.
Eddie drove them out of the city to Teterboro Airport where the Hall family plane was waiting, fueled up and gleaming on the tarmac. The Gulf stream jet had been used frequently by her father, but Grace was thinking of selling it, feeling that the overhead expense outweighed the convenience. The trip wasn't a long one. It was little more than an hour of air time to T. F Greene Airport, which was located just outside of Providence, Rhode Island. As they stepped from the plane, she saw a familiar black Mercedes waiting at a special, side entrance of the field.