An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(39)

Smith nodded without looking in the girl's direction. Grace glanced over at him and then looked back at the girl.

"Good night, Kat," she said softly, her expression growing concerned.

When the door was closed, her eyes narrowed at him. "You could be a little warmer with her."

"With who?"

"Kat."

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I think she has a little crush on you."

Smith shrugged and began gathering the papers he'd been reviewing. He was consulting on a fraud case for a friend of his. "That's not my fault."

Grace rose to her feet. "True. But it isn't hers, either. When you ignore her like you do, I think you hurt her feelings."

Neither her eyes or her tone were combative but he felt defensive. The idea that his behavior hadn't lived up to her standards galled him for a reason he didn't want to examine closely.

Because he shouldn't care what she thought of him.

Smith smiled grimly. "You want me to take her out on a date or something?"

"Why don't you just shoot for being polite?"

His first instinct was to make a cutting comment to get her to drop the subject but the bravado faded as he realized she wasn't trying to control him. She was honestly concerned about the girl's feelings.

Smith wanted to curse. It was easier to light against something than to give in to a thoughtful request and he'd have preferred the former, especially in his current frame of mind. His attraction to her, in addition to frustrating the hell out of him, was making him more aggressive than usual.

Which was saying something.

"Fine," he said darkly.

She smiled. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

As if he were a child in need of soothing.

The gently chiding comment was all it took to spark his temper. Smith got up and marched across the room. Her smile faded.

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.