An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(10)

"But you don't really believe it was a photographer, do you?"

"He didn't take any pictures. And then a couple of days later, I know for sure I was trailed. I was going out to Newport by car with my father's ashes. My driver noticed it first. A white sedan behind us, all the way into Connecticut."

The countess's hands were busy with her watch, playing with the catch, releasing and closing, releasing and closing, a small noise marking each movement. He suspected she was screaming inside that fine skin of hers.

"Again, I told myself it had to be the press, that someone must have leaked that we were going to lay him to rest. There were photographers at the cemetery and I did see a white sedan just outside the gates."

"You still felt threatened, though."

She nodded, reluctantly. "And it hasn't stopped, I'll be coming out of a restaurant and I'll see someone step back, out of the light. I leave work and, I swear, I'll see a figure across the street. Yesterday morning, I came out of my building and I thought I saw him on the corner."

The countess paused and looked out at the lake. Her brows drew tightly together, knotting the skin of her forehead. She was searching for answers, he could tell. He'd seen the same questing look before in people who felt their lives were slipping out of their control.

From out of nowhere, Smith felt like he should say something. He wasn't much for offering sympathy, even to women who were in danger. Emotions were just not his bag. He was into saving lives, not nurturing, but there was something about her that struck him as unique and worthy. She wasn't a hysterical woman manufacturing fear to get attention. She was scared, truly afraid, yet her chin was up and she was trying so damn hard to be strong.

He was fascinated by the show of will, especially considering how nervous she was.

She took a deep breath and turned toward him. "The police called the morning after Cuppie's body was found. They questioned me pretty extensively."

Smith thought back to that night, to the party. He remembered the tortured expression on Alfred Alston's face as the ambassador had arrived and been seated next to an empty chair. Alston's wife had never showed up because her plans for the evening had been intercepted by tragedy. Instead of enjoying the dinner and engaging in light and witty; banter with an international dignitary, the woman had been struggling against her killer and then bleeding to death by herself, surrounded by lovely works of art and expensive-antiques, none of which could save her.

According to the police, the murderer's identity was a mystery, the motive, unclear. The only real piece of evidence; had been the newspaper article found with the body. It didn't take a genius to know the killer might get busy again soon.

"What does your husband have to say about all this?" Smith asked.

Her face tightened and she remained quiet, as if trying to form an answer.

"Countess, where is your husband?”

She stiffened. "In Europe."

“When is he coming back? "

There was a pause. "Why is that relevant?'"

"The man's married to you. In fact, I'm surprised he's not here today. Most husbands don't take it well when their wives might be on the short list of a murderer."

"He's a busy man. I don't want to bother him." Her gaze skipped away.

Smith's eyes narrowed. "And why don't the police know that you're being followed? You didn't want to bother them, either?"

She began twisting the rings again. "How did you know—"

"My buddies down at the precinct were pretty forthcoming as to what they knew about you. They didn't mention you were being trailed," he explained coolly. “Why keep it to yourself?"

She shrugged. "As far as I’m concerned, the less I tell the police, the better. Leaks happen and I’m tired of being on the front page after weeks of nonstop coverage. The last thing 1 need right now is some expose about either my paranoia or my connection with the murder."

"So you'd rather be dead than in the newspapers?"

She wrapped her arms around herself. "That's a harsh thing to say."

Smith brushed a hand over his hair impatiently. He was surprised at how frustrated he was with her. “Sorry."

"Thank you." The countess cleared her throat. "As I said before, I’m not sure I need you ... your services." We have our own security force at the Hall Building and with a phone call I can get someone round-the-clock. Anyway, I’m sure this will just blow over."

"No, you aren't."

Her eyes leapt away from his again. "Don't tell me what I think."

"Then be honest with me and I won't have to."

The countess's chin rose a little higher.

As the urge to browbeat her into hiring him stuck, Smith had to ask himself what he was doing. It was none of his business if she went and got herself killed. The fact that he was even entertaining the notion of pushing her to take care of herself rankled. What the hell did he care?

He got to his feet and started walking out of the room.

"Where are you going?"

He spoke over his shoulder.

"Despite the fact that you know about the article found with the body and you admit you're being stalked, you aren't ready to take this seriously. You haven't been upfront with the police, I know you're not being totally honest with me, and you say you're not even sure you want help. "We don't have anything else to discuss."