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What he wanted to do, as he towered over her, was kiss her.
Instead, he said, "I'm willing to make allowances. I'm not too interested in being patronized, though."
Her startled eyes traced over his face and then bounced down to the span of his chest, as if she was remembering the feel of him against her. Her lips parted.
Sweet Jesus.
All he wanted to do was kiss her.
So before he did something stupid, Smith took his bad mood and his desire for her and went back to where he'd been sitting at the conference table. He packed up his things and used the time to berate himself.
Christ, of all women. Why did he have to be so damn hung up on her? He hated complications and there was nothing more complicated than a beautiful, rich woman who was a client. And why couldn't he just let it go? He'd forgotten plenty of women over the years. Nearly every one he'd ever been with, as a matter of fact.
But this one? She just wouldn't get out of his mind.
Every night, when he was at the height of his insanity, he convinced himself that they could jump into bed as soon as the job was over and everything would be fine. They'd spend a couple of athletic hours together, maybe a day or two. And then he'd move along.
Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it sounded like a good plan, but in the daylight, he knew it was a terrible idea. If she was going to sleep with a man, she'd no doubt want all the things Smith couldn't give her. She'd want more than hours, more than days. She'd want a relationship. Some sense of security. A little stability.
And then there were the bells and whistles she'd expect. According to the papers, she'd been wooed by some of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Men who had nothing better to do than worry about pleasing her. Men who, no doubt, showed up on her doorstep in suits and wing tips with diamonds and pearls. They were men capable of whispering sweet nothings into a gentle ear and making the bullshit seem halfway believable.
Smith couldn't pull off that kind of act to save his soul, even if it was to get her into bed so he could get her out of his blood.
They were from different worlds. He lived on the fringes of society, in the dim stretch between criminals and civilians. She was an idol, a romantic dream to a whole country of people. She spent her days in the skyscraper her family owned, her nights in ballrooms, her weekends in Newport. He negotiated with low-life kidnappers and traded bullets with fascists and whack-jobs for a living.
She was satin and platinum. He was leather and gunmetal.
Oh, hell. Now he was starting to sound like a country singer.
He looked across the room. Grace had stood up and was staring out at the view as the sun went down. His eyes traveled from the crown of her head, where her blond hair was tightly pinned, all the way down to the pointed tips of her high heels.
Lust, hot and carnal, pumped through him.
Smith put on his leather jacket and smiled tightly, thinking they were both goddamn lucky he could control himself.
Because if it weren't for his years of military training, and the fact that his mind was stronger than his body, he'd be inside her this very moment.
* * *
Grace had the dream again a few nights later. The one of her father coming back to her.
She stirred from sleep, becoming aware that he was standing in the doorway to her room. In the dim light, she could see that his lips were moving but she couldn't hear his voice. It kept fading in and out, as if through a bad connection.
What, she asked him in her mind. What are you telling me?
His face had an urgency to it and she watched as he talked faster.
I can't hear you.
And, then for the first time since he died, she heard his voice.
Calla lily.
Grace shot upright, her heart pounding, her breath stuck somewhere in her chest. Pushing the covers away, she put her feet to the floor and braced herself before turning around. She looked toward the door to her room. He was gone.
He'd never been there, she corrected herself.
Stumbling over to the bathroom, she felt around in the dark for her water glass. Turning the tap on, she held her hand under the faucet waiting for the rush to get cool. She told herself that the sink was real, the marble under her feet was real, the pale glow coming through the windows was real.
But her father had not been.
She filled up the glass, took a couple of big gulps and tasted the familiar metal tang in the water. After putting it under the tap again, she took a deep breath and froze.
The smell of tobacco smoke tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze. As it always had when her father had lit up one of his pipes.
And the glass, like her sanity, slipped from her grasp.
* * *
Smith had just lit a cheroot and was staring out into the night when he heard the crash. Pitching the thing into an ashtray, he grabbed his gun and ran down the hall.
As he burst through Grace's door, he heard her voice from the bathroom.
