An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(33)

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.

As soon as she'd taken a seat, a man came up to her. Smith frowned. The guy was probably in his late thirties and looked as polished as a new Rolls-Royce. He had dark hair that was on the long side, a handsome, rather ruthless face, and was wearing an expensive suit. A blue-blood all the way.



When he bent down and kissed Grace's cheek, her face lit up for real.

And Smith felt an inappropriate urge to cross the room and help the guy roughly to whatever his final destination was going to be.

For the next ten minutes, the urbane man talked and Grace laughed. By the time they parted, she was actually looking relaxed. While Mr. Charm sauntered across the room, Smith stared at him, imagining all kinds of fun ways to break his leg bones.

It was a surprise when the man paused at Smith's table.

"Do I know you?" The tones were cultured, the voice deep, the smile on the aggressive side of social propriety.

Up close, he was a really handsome guy. Definitely one of her kind.

“I don't think so," Smith answered darkly.