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Feeling ill at ease, she went over to the French doors. The sun was just about to rise and high, thin clouds brushed across the horizon. Below, the streets were still marked with glowing lamps and Central Park was a dark, dense expanse.
So they'd gotten through their first night together, she thought. And it hadn't been that bad. Only one argument caused by the intersection of his sharp tongue and her nervous fatigue. All things considered, maybe it was a triumph.
Now, if she could just figure out how to share a bathroom with the guy, she was practically home free.
Grace was about to turn away when Smith walked out onto the terrace from the living room.
Her breath caught in her throat and she leaned forward until her forehead hit the glass. Cursing, she pulled back and rubbed the spot.
He was naked to the waist, wearing the black pants he'd had on the night before. His body was everything she'd suspected it to be. He was built hard and strong and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him as far as she could see. As he moved, she watched the shifting and contracting muscles of his back. They fanned out from his spine and filled his shoulders, giving heft to his upper torso.
It was then she noticed marks on his skin. Scars. Several on his back, one that went across his side, a jagged streak on his right shoulder.
She put her hand up, as if she could soothe him from afar; and tried to imagine the kind of life he must have led. Where he had been. What had been done to him.
The need to know about his past was intense.
No wonder he was so tough. He knew a hell of a lot about physical pain.
She watched, entranced, as he moved stealthily across the terrace, sidestepping plants and porch furniture, stopping only when he stood a couple of feet from the wrought iron railing. Facing the sun, he put his two hands together and bowed his head.
Grace wondered whether any tenderness could have survived in a man like him. She thought of his hard face, his impassive eyes, that bored tone she suspected he cultivated as another guise to hide his true thoughts. She wanted to know what was under the camouflage.
When he looked up again, he began to shift through the ancient gestures and positions of tai chi. She was amazed.
He harnessed his masculine power, all those muscles and bones capable of such brute force, and disciplined them into movements that were fluid, calm. As the sun rose behind him, his silhouette pushed and pulled against the air in a graceful dance.
She stayed at the glass until he returned to his starting position. When he bowed his head again, and began to turn around, she scurried into bed, praying he hadn't seen her.
When she closed her eyes, she only saw visions of him. The sensual kaleidoscope was disturbing so she reached over and picked up her diary. Spilling her thoughts onto a page had always relieved her mind and she'd been writing in the small leather book a lot lately. Her pen flew across the page until there was nothing else to say about her attraction to him.
When she closed the book and laid back into the pillows, she thought she would just rest a moment but her body had different ideas. Much later, she surfaced from sleep in a plodding, heavy-lidded fashion. Enticing dreams seemed reluctant to let her go. Or maybe it was the other way around.
When she glanced at her clock, she groaned. She'd forgotten to set the alarm and had slept through her run. It was now 8:20 and she was late. Sitting up, she pushed her hair out of her face and stretched her arms over her head.
Again, her first thought was Smith. After drawing on a silk robe, she went down the hall to the guest room. The door was open and she knocked on the jamb. When there was no response, she peeked in.
The bed had been made and there was nothing out of place, as if no one had been in the room at all. He was either one heck of a housekeeper or he'd slept on the floor. Or maybe not at all?
She headed for the living room. He wasn't there either.
In a flash of anxiety, she wondered whether he'd left her but the thought passed quickly. He'd have told her if he was going to quit the job and, as long as he stayed, he wouldn't leave her alone.
The doors onto the terrace were ajar and she walked over to them, feeling the cool breeze on her skin. He wasn't outside, but she lingered for a moment.
Everything was as she'd seen it last. The chrysanthemums were still cheery in their porch pots, their small white faces crowding through their thick green leaves. The wrought iron table, with its chairs pushed in and its umbrella wrapped in a tight bundle, was exactly where it had been last. The view was the same with the park and the buildings where they had been the day before and the day before that.
Except now there was a ghost in the familiar landscape. She saw him again in the light of dawn, moving.
"Did you like what you saw this morning?" Smith's voice, deep and laconic, came from behind her.
