An Unforgettable Lady(8)

“From what I've heard about this guy, Smith seems more like a trained killer."

Grace flattened her lips. "I don't want that either."

When Farrell came back ten minutes later, he said, "Smith’ll be here tomorrow morning."

Grace opened her mouth to protest but the two of them just stared at her with almost identical expressions of determination.

No wonder they were such a great pair, she thought. Although their arguments could probably level a city block.

“I guess it can't hurt to talk to him," she said, giving up.

As they smiled at her, Grace took another sip from her glass. Inside, she felt numb. As she had so often in previous weeks, she found herself wondering whose life she was living.



* * *



The next morning, Grace paced around the mansion's living room until she thought she'd wear a track in the Aubusson rug. She made herself stop in front of an Early American mirror and stared at her reflection. Her face was disfigured by the leaded glass and the contortion seemed right.

She didn't feel much like herself, either.

She ran a hand down her skirt and adjusted her silk shirt, though neither needed the fine-tuning. She'd thrown the suit she'd arrived in back on. It was business, after all, and Chanel made her feel in control.

Grace wore Chanel a lot.

Feeling restless, she checked the backings of the heavy diamond studs she was wearing. Both were secure. She glanced down at her shoes. Not a spec of dirt on them. She wouldn't have minded a tear or a smudge requiring an emergency blast of seltzer. Without anything to focus on, she just dwelled on the lack of oxygen in the sun-drenched, airy room.

She went over to a window and pushed it open, welcoming the cool autumn breeze on her face. Outside, the lake was calm, the sun was shining, the day seemed full of promise. Perversely, she wished it was raining.

"He's just pulled up,” Carter said from the doorway.

Grace turned around just as Nick came up behind his wife, putting his hands on her shoulders.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Bring on Mr. Smith," Grace replied as the brass door knocker let out a thundering noise.

This was all wrong, she thought, as Nick went to open the door. She didn't want a security detail. What she wanted was for Cuppie to be alive. She wanted to go back to Thursday night at the Plaza and to see Cuppie sitting between her husband and the ambassador all the way through the dessert course.

Grace fiddled with her watch, looking down at the platinum dial. She wasn't going to hire whoever came into the room and regretted letting herself get talked into the meeting. Nick might have had her best interests at heart but she felt like she'd been pushed.

What was it about her that made her a sucker for controlling men? Her father had been utterly devoted to her but he'd also been domineering and heavy-handed. She'd learned to accept the good and the bad in him, reminding herself, when he made unreasonable demands or tried to take over her life, how much he loved her. But being able to see both sides of him was not the same as sticking up for herself and that had led to her marrying the wrong man.

Her husband Ranulf had been equally difficult. With his continental opinions about what ladies should and shouldn't do, he'd proven to be a close second to her father when it came to issuing orders.

Her mother was no damn walk in the park, either.

Grace took a shallow breath as she heard the deep rumble of men's voices and then the sound of heavy footfalls.

It was high time she stopped being polite and started taking control of her life. As a result of her caving in last night, some poor guy had come from God only knew where just to waste his time. She didn't want this kind of help. And' she wasn't going to let Nick Farrell's aggressive concern, or her old friend's more muted variety, make her take on a bodyguard.

She grimaced. As for the man who'd come in hopes of getting hired, she'd be up-front and apologize, tell him that it was a mistake. She'd pay his expenses, of course. Yes, that was the right thing to do.

Grace lifted her head and stopped breathing. She had to blink her eyes, to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

"It's you," she whispered as she stared into the hard face of the man who had kissed her.

Her heart kicked into overdrive.

What was he doing here? Was he a—

But of course, he'd been protecting the ambassador. That was why he'd been at the ball. That was why he stood out from all the other men as someone harder, tougher, different.