Grace raised her glass to her lips and remained silent, thinking that would be the last thing she'd tell anybody.
When Marta announced dinner was served, Jack raised his elbow and she took his arm. As they walked through to the dinning room, she felt Smith's eyes boring into her back. She had to fight the urge to wheel around and tell him his intensity was making her nervous. She was in her own home, among friends, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like Hugh Blankenbaker was going to rush at her with his salad fork or something.
Although, as soon as they sat down, she had other things to worry about.
In the middle of the soup course, her mother's voice cut through the conversation like a scythe. "Now tell me, Mr. Smith, what do you do?"
Everyone stopped talking and all eyes went to John, except for Grace's. She looked down at her plate, wondering if there was a way to deflect her mother's attention.
She could always bring up her impending divorce, she thought wryly.
"I'm in the service industry," John said, sounding bored.
"What kind of service do you offer?"
Grace answered before he could. "He helps with organizational development. I asked him to come to the Foundation and work on team building after Father's death."
Carolina's eyes shifted down the table and held her daughter's for a long moment. "Well, if you must. Although I still can't understand why you don't let Mr. Lamont run things. Your father had the highest confidence in him."
Maybe so, Grace felt like tossing back, but he didn't leave the guy in charge, did he?
Instead, she smiled graciously around tight lips. "Thank you again for the suggestion."
As the conversation surged again, Grace met Smith's eyes across the table.
Jack nudged her arm. "So?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What are you auctioning off for the Gala this year?"
Before she could answer him privately, the others at the table quieted down again and looked her way. She pinned a smile on her face and did a little PR dance.
"We've relocated the event this year. We're having it in the atrium of the Hall Building instead of at the Plaza. It's going to be spectacular in that space, assuming we can get the acoustics right."
Mr. Blankenbaker leaned forward while pushing his glasses higher onto his little nose. "What is the auction piece?"
"We're trying to decide," she answered.
And it's a bitch of a choice. Between nothing and nada.
"Would you be interested in Copley's portrait of Nathaniel Walker?"
Grace slowly lowered her spoon to her plate, sure she'd heard him wrong. "Excuse me?"
"John Singleton Copley's painting of Nathaniel Walker. It was done in 1775, I believe. Right before the battle of Concord in Massachusetts, wherein Walker was captured by the British and spirited away to Fort Sagamore. Surely you recall the history.''
"Of course, I do. And the Foundation would absolutely be interested in the painting."
Mr. Blankenbaker nodded to Jack. "Your ancestor has been hanging over our fireplace for a rather long time. My wife purchased it from your father."
There was a subtle disapproval in the tone, as if the man couldn't fathom why such a family treasure would have fallen out of a Walker's hands.
"I remember when he sold it," Jack muttered, obviously sharing Blankenbaker's sentiment.
The man nodded, acknowledging their accord on the matter.
"Well, Walker looks outstanding in our parlor but my wife, she just keeps acquiring things whilst our wall space remains constant. I think donating the portrait to the Foundation would meet with her approval. Especially if you end up being the buyer."
"If it comes up for sale, he will come home with me. Whatever the price." Jack's smile did not temper the fierce light in his eyes.
Blankenbaker turned to Grace. "Tomorrow, you shall come to Edge Water and view the painting. I must say, it needs to be cleaned. He's rather dark, but it's an excellent example of Copley's early work, before he went across the pond and made a name for himself in London."
As she thanked the man, Jack leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Does this mean you don't want that old pair of long underwear I've got in my closet? Word has it they were worn by Benedict Arnold."
Rolling her eyes, Grace elbowed him, then looked up.
Smith was staring at her from across the table, his eyes stern. She felt as though he were offended in some way and thought maybe it was her mother who had put him out of joint. God knew, Carolina Woodward Hall had done that to plenty of people.
As she took a drink from her water glass, Grace wondered whether her father and Smith would have gotten along and decided they probably would have. Cornelius had liked strong people and Smith was certainly the dominant type. She doubted, however, that her father would have approved of Grace's attraction to the man.
When she'd confessed the poor state of her marriage to him a couple of months before his death, his response had been emphatic. He'd told her she should immediately go home and make things right with her husband. He took great pains to stress the international significance of the von Sharone family and point out all the good that came out of her having a royal title. Of having royal children. When she'd pressed him, explaining how unhappy she was, he'd glossed over the fact that she didn't love the man she was sleeping next to at night. In his eyes, he felt that she'd made a commitment to a worthy man and had better live up to it.
Her father had disappointed her that day. But she'd gone back to Ranulf.
Grace looked over at the portrait of Cornelius that hung on the wall behind the head of the table. He stared out of the frame sternly, his dark red hair brushed off his autocratic forehead, his eyes hooded, judging.
No, he wouldn't have approved of the way she felt about Smith. Not at all.
* * *
After dinner was over, and the party had dispersed, Smith saw Grace to her bedroom and went across the hall. Pacing around the room he'd commandeered, he was not a happy man.
Watching Grace and Mr. Charm flirt during dinner had really gotten on his nerves. And that Pepsodent grin the man was sporting when he'd said goodnight to her had been the kicker. Smith couldn't help wondering if Walker was looking so damn cheerful because he planned on spending the night with Grace.
Smith wrenched a hand over his hair and caught his reflection in a mirror. He looked like a caged dog and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.
You're jealous, stupid.
"I am not," he muttered, turning away.
He told himself to get real. He had no claim to Grace. He had no reason to care what she did after dark. Who she did.
Smith had turned her down so she was moving on. And why shouldn't she have a fling with some two-bit, Hugh Grant look-alike? She was a beautiful, vibrant, young woman, free to do what she wished.
He cursed out loud, thinking that was a great rationale, real logical. Too bad it hit him like a pair of brass knuckles.
The idea of her with Jack Walker put him in a commando kind of mood. He wanted to go find Walker, drag him out behind the house, and rearrange those pearly whites of his. Which was utterly ridiculous.
Still, getting physical on something was damn appealing.
Smith looked across the room, sized up the highboy in the corner and rejected the temptation. The thing would have been a fine opponent, for an inanimate object, but he'd feel like an idiot trashing the place. He wasn't a rock star, for God's sake.
No, he was just a sexually frustrated man who was going to have to try and sleep across the hall from the woman he wanted .. . while she was making love to somebody else.