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"That was taken last year," she murmured. As she came up beside him, her perfume, that subtle blend of lemon and flowers, reached out to him. "We were at Willings, our Newport house. It was the Fourth of July. Neither one of us would have guessed there was so little time left."
She turned away sharply. "The dining room is through here."
But he wandered over to the piano, sizing it up. It was a Steinway and its black lacquered surface glowed in the soft light. He exposed the keys, his thumb and his pinkie easily spanning a C octave. The sound was rich and luxurious. His hand assumed a different position and he struck a major and then a minor chord. Good movement, perfectly tuned.
Nice piece of hardware.
"Do you play?" Her voice held surprise as the notes drifted away.
Smith shut the key guard. "No."
He was not about to tell her that music had been his salvation when he was younger and one of the few ways he found peace as an adult.
For the most part, his life was not about tranquility, it was about being sharp, hyperaware, on guard. On those rare occasions he needed a break, however, the piano could calm him, lead him to still waters. Tai chi was maybe the only other way he could truly relax.
Smith followed her into the next room, which was marked by a long mahogany table and twelve chairs. The crystal chandelier hanging from an ornate plaster medallion twinkled when she turned its lights on. As in the living room, heavy silk draperies in a deep cream were hanging at the windows, held back by tasseled satin ropes.
Smith looked across the gleaming table at her. In that red dress, in those diamonds, she belonged in the regal room.
He had to wonder what she looked like with her hair down. While making love. He imagined her head back in the throes of passion, those buffed nails gripping a sheet as her body shuddered in release, her mouth letting out hoarse words of need.
Now that would be something to see.
And it was a damn shame he never would, he told himself with resolve. Because unless she choked on a chicken bone and required the Heimlich, or fainted dead away and needed resuscitation, he wasn't going near those lips or that body of hers again.
When he'd grabbed her in that corridor, she hadn't been a client. She'd been a desirable woman who'd toyed with him and needed to be taught a lesson. Now, he'd accepted the responsibility of keeping her alive. That meant his fantasies could create all kinds of fiction if they wanted to but he wasn't going to do a damn thing to make any of it reality.
Smith followed her through a swinging door into a good-sized kitchen. There was a restaurant range in one corner, a tremendous stainless steel refrigerator in another, and plenty of granite countertops in between. The place was surprisingly high-tech considering how old-world the rest of her home was.
"So now you've seen about everything." Her voice trailed off.
"Do you have live-in help?”
She shook her head. "I have a maid who comes during the day. Now if you don't mind, I'll take you to your room."
"And I'll need to see where you sleep."
Her eyes shifted away from him. "Of course."
On the way to the other end of the penthouse, she picked up her shoes and he was struck by how human she seemed. In spite of the diamonds and the fancy dress, she was just a tired woman with feet that had probably ached all night long.
"How long have you lived here?" he asked.
"About five years."
She led him to a large room with a set of double beds in it. The walls were done in dark blue silk and the oriental rug on the hardwood floor was covered with plastic.
She hesitated before opening a pair of double doors. Inside, he saw a claw-footed bath tub on its side and various toilet parts laying on the floor. "As I mentioned, you'll have to use my bathroom to shower. I'm renovating this one."
Her eyes flashed to his and then looked away.
"My bedroom is down here."
She took him farther down the hall.
The master bedroom was done in various shades of creamy white. There was a set of French doors that opened out to the terrace and many more windows. He noted with approval the motion sensors.
As he looked around, he saw a photograph standing up on an Early American bureau. He went over to it and took a hard look at the face of Count Ranulf von Sharone.
"Handsome guy," Smith commented.
"What? Oh, that. I keep meaning to put that picture away."
"Hanging on to past illusions, Countess?"
When he glanced over at her, he was surprised. Her mouth was screwed down tight and her eyes were flashing vibrant, angry green, even though the comment had been a mere throwaway to him.
She wasn't over the marriage yet, he thought. No matter what she said about not loving the man.
"Let me be very clear, Mr. Smith. I don't appreciate being mocked."
