An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(17)

He hated fake air.

Smith crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes, ready for blackness. He was an efficient sleeper. Out like a light, awake just as fast. A typical night was three hours flat on his back and then he'd be recharged.

Except he hadn't had "typical" in the past week. Lately, he'd had trouble sleeping, and sure enough, minutes later, he jacked himself up into a sitting position. With visions of the countess swirling in his head, Smith leaned back against the padded headboard, pissed.

That dreamless trance he went into every night was the closest thing to a normal routine he had. The fact that it was getting thrown out of whack on account of some woman was simply unacceptable.

Maybe he just needed to get laid.

He leaned over to the nightstand and slid a long, thin cigar out of a pack that was mostly full. The flash of his lighter was bright yellow in the darkness, the tip of the cheroot glowed orange when he inhaled.

That was probably it. He needed to have sex.

As he exhaled, the feel of the countess's body against his own came to him in a rush.

But Christ, not with her.

His cell phone rang.

Smith's head whipped around, and before the sound came again, he had the phone against his ear.

"Yeah?"

There was a long pause. "Is this ... John Smith?"

His body knew the voice even before his brain recognized it.

"Yeah."

"It's Grace Hall," the voice said. "I need you." When Smith put the phone down, he wondered what had taken her so long to call. Tiny, it seemed, might be going to Paraguay after all.





chapter

5





Twenty minutes later, Smith was on Wall Street, walking up the granite steps of her family's skyscraper. As he approached the banks of revolving doors, a uniformed security guard opened a side door for him.

"Mr. Smith?"

When he answered, the man stepped aside to let him pass.

"She's waiting for you," the guard said. "Up in her office, on the top floor. You want to take the elevators over there."

Smith gave the man a nod and got into the elevator. Fifty-two floors up, it eased to a stop and he stepped out into a plush hallway. At the end of the corridor, he saw light spilling from a pair of doors and he went toward it, his feet silent over thick carpeting. He passed by conference rooms and offices and thought, if it weren't for the spectacular oil paintings hanging on the walls, he could have been in the executive suite of any successful corporation.

Smith slowed as he came up to the doors. Without knocking, he pushed open one side and saw her.

Silhouetted against a twinkling view of the city, the countess was wearing a red gown and facing out toward a wall of windows. The flowing silk covered her long, lean body and left her back exposed. With her hair coiled on her head, she had the graceful curves of a ballet dancer.

A howling need hit him in the gut just as she caught his reflection in the glass. He heard her breath suck in with a hiss and she seemed to take a moment to steady herself before she turned. When she did, he saw her fine features were tight with tension.

"You move so quietly," she said.

He shrugged. "No sense announcing myself with a marching band."

Her lips lifted in a smile and Smith felt his chest constrict. He wasn't someone who got preoccupied by beauty but he found himself absorbing hers through his skin. She warmed him.

He resented the effect.

"What's going on?" he said sharply.

"Have you heard the news?" The treble of fear was in her voice, making it higher than he remembered.

"About Suzanna van der Lyden?" He nodded.

She wrapped her arms around herself. As she moved, diamonds shimmered.

“I can't believe it." The countess turned back to the view, as if she didn't want him to see her struggle for self-control. "God, how her family must feel. She has a young son. Had."

Her eyes flashed over her shoulder. She measured him for a long time, as if trying to delve into the space behind his eyes, into who he was as a man.

"Can I trust you?" she asked with quiet urgency.

"With your life, Countess."

There was a pause. She turned back around to him. "My husband and I have separated. We're getting a divorce."

She watched him closely, obviously wondering whether his word was his bond or a fiction. She was no doubt worried he might go to the papers and he didn't blame her. The separation of the Count and Countess von Sharone was going to be big news.

After a moment, she continued. "I am not prepared to announce it, not until the divorce is worked out. That's why I didn't tell the police I was being followed."

"You think your husband's stalking you?"

"He might be paying someone to keep an eye on me."

"Is he still in love with you?"

She shrugged. "I doubt it. But that doesn't mean he wouldn't try and find something to use against me."

"And you?"

"Still in love? No. I married him because I was supposed to." She let out a harsh laugh. "My father liked him. My mother liked his family. I thought there were worse things in life than marrying a handsome man from a royal family."

She looked back out of the windows. "I was wrong, of course. You should never marry for anything less than love."