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Frankly, it had been hard not to stare. Who knew she even had the estrogen in her?
But the truth was, Grace got a little irritated watching women fall all over themselves while trying to get Smith's attention. At least he never seemed to notice and that was probably why they worked so hard at it. His eyes never dwelled too long or inappropriately on any of them, even when one of the staff accountants removed her jacket and pushed her big breasts out in his direction.
At that moment, the idea of being totally autocratic and firing the Betty Page wannabe was very attractive, but Grace let it go.
And she refused to dwell on the implications of her passing impulse. Delving into why she was having a territorial reaction wasn't going to do her any good. She had a feeling she wasn't going to like the answer.
Fortunately, it had been the last meeting of the day.
chapter
9
When they returned to the penthouse in the early evening, Grace quickly changed into a short black dress. She'd grabbed a thick wrap and was heading out of the door when Smith put on his leather jacket.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"With you."
She started shaking her head, resolutely. "Oh, no. You simply can't."
His brow rose as he gave her a bored look.
"How am I going to explain to my mother what you are?"
"I think I do a damn good impression of a human," he replied lazily.
Grace put a hand up to her forehead. "Forgive me, I didn't mean it like that. I just don't know what I'll say to her."
"How about the truth?"
She shook her head fiercely. "I couldn't possibly.”
"You couldn't possibly tell your own mother that you have a bodyguard to keep you safe?”
"She doesn't know about ..." She waved her hand around. "Any of this. My mother and I aren't exactly close.”
Smith's eyes narrowed on her engagement ring. "And you haven't told her about the divorce, either, have you?"
Grace frowned, wishing he wasn't so observant or incisive. It made her wonder what other clues he'd picked up about her. Did he know how often she thought about him?
"Why does that matter?"
"It doesn't."
"So why did you bring it up?" Her voice was turning toward the hot side of disagreeable but she couldn't help herself. Smith had the ability to goad her into anger faster than anybody she'd ever met. It was almost as if he liked getting her in a bad humor.
He shrugged, "it's just an observation."
"Keep them to yourself," she muttered under her breath.
"Now, where's the fun in that?"
She glared at him and he held his hands up. "Okay, okay. You and your mother can eat alone."
"Thank you," she said grudgingly.
He started for the door.
"Where are you—"
“I’ll sit a few tables away. That's the most I'm willing to compromise." He went out in the hall and pushed the elevator button.
She looked at his back, which was ramrod straight, and knew there'd be no further negotiation.
* * *
Smith walked into the dining room of the members-only Congress Club and felt like he'd been ricocheted back to the turn of the century. With its white marble floor, blood red walls, and sweeping gold colored drapes, the place looked like a bank lobby.
Or a high-class whorehouse, depending on your background and associations.
Hanging from the walls were dower portraits and Smith recognized some of the faces staring out of the gilt frames— they were on bills he had in his wallet and coins that jangled in his pockets. He wasn't surprised. The Congress, as the place was known, was all about old, establishment money and entrenched power. Its members had long shaped the history of the country, for better and worse, and were still doing so.
As he was led to his table, he looked over the diners. The people who were eating glanced at him, their patrician faces showing nothing but openness and welcome. Even though they didn't recognize him, they knew he was there only because he knew one of them.
The maitre d' who'd led him through the room bowed as Smith sat down in a leather club chair. His table for two had a glowing candle in a brass holder, heavy silverware, and a lot of thick crystal. He figured the thing must have been braced up by an I-beam.
"Would you care for a libation, sir?" The man leaned forward and with a flourish put a leather bound book down in front of Smith.
He shook his head.
As the maitre d' disappeared, Smith tugged at the tie the club had lent him, hating it. The navy blue jacket they'd given him was also too tight but he didn't dwell on that either. Grace was being escorted into the room.
As she greeted the men and women whose tables she passed, her smile was radiant, her gestures elegant and refined. She seemed perfectly at ease but he could read her well. He knew she was nervous because her hand kept fluttering up to her throat and, in the dim light, her eyes were dull. She was clearly on social autopilot.
