An Unforgettable Lady (An Unforgettable Lady #1)(47)

"John?"

"What?" His voice through the darkness was smooth.

"I'm glad you're here,"

There was only silence and she assumed he'd gone back to his room.

"Me, too," he said softly.

Surprised by his answer, she rolled over only to find that she was alone.

Hours later she was still awake. Feeling claustrophobic amid all the pillows and the thick comforter, she picked up her diary and a pen and went to the living room. As she passed Smith's door, the light was off.

Sitting on the couch, she curled her legs under her but found herself thinking instead of writing. When Smith had reached out his hand to her, she'd been surprised and, as she remember the feel of his palm against hers, she thought of other things he'd done that had been unexpected.

The other morning, after they had come home from a blistering run, she'd been late getting out of the shower. She'd rushed into the kitchen to tell him that it was his turn when he pressed a cup of steaming coffee into her hand and pointed at a plate of toast he'd made for her.

She'd been dumbfounded.

"It's food," he'd drawled. "You may not recognize it because you haven't eaten much in the last week."

"Of course, I have. I—"

"That salad last night for dinner doesn't count. You're dropping weight you can't afford to lose."

She'd looked down at herself. He was right. Her skirts had been a little bigger at the waist lately.

"Eat." He'd pushed the toast at her.

She'd picked up a slice and noticed it was covered with strawberry jam. "I haven't had jam on toast for years."

As soon as she swallowed one mouthful, her appetite came back. After four slices, and having finished the coffee, she'd sighed with contentment. She'd been running on nervous stress for so long, she'd forgotten about feeding her body.

She remembered glancing up at him. All the while she'd been eating, he'd been standing against the counter, arms crossed, watching her.

"I'd like to thank you for this," she'd said wryly, "if you'll let me."

He'd shrugged but when no-acerbic comment was forthcoming, she'd smiled at him.

"So thank you."

His sharp eyes had flickered over the empty plate. "Just, taking care of my client.”

Grace smiled at her memory of how he'd looked. The image of him being something close to sheepish was incongruous, but that's what he'd seemed. Her simple gratitude for his thoughtfulness had been hard for him to accept but he hadn't turned it down, either.

It was progress, she thought. Just like him reaching for her this evening had been.

But progress toward what?

In her heart, she wanted more of him. All of him.

And the desire was getting stronger as she got to know him better.

At first, she'd wondered whether he had another side, something to offer other than aggressive charisma. Now, she knew there were different, less harsh parts to him. He kept most of them hidden behind his mask of control but they came out in his actions, as simple courtesies that proved he was aware of others. Aware of her.

That breakfast was just one example of how thoughtful he could be. He never left the bathroom a mess. He'd made a point of being nicer to Kat. He cooked his own meals, cleaned up the kitchen, and somehow didn't track mud all over her white carpets, even on rainy days.

They were small things, but they meant a lot to her. They were also unfamiliar. Having a man in the house who didn't require constant attention or have a long list of demands was a new experience. Ranulf had expected her to organize their social calendar, make sure the penthouse was properly staffed, attend to his needs small and large, and entertain dinner guests nearly every night, even though she was working full-time and he wasn't. And all of this was done without thanks from him because, in his mind, it was her duty.

She was never falling into that trap again.

Grace looked down at the diary and the date she'd written at the top of the blank page. In the morning, she was turning thirty. At 7:05 a.m. to be precise.

Feeling whimsical, she wrote: All I want for my birthday today is John Smith. In my bed with a ribbon around his neck and nothing else on him.

Laughing softly, Grace pushed the book and the pen aside. She was being ridiculous, of course, but it was fun to fantasize. Certainly better than a lot of what her mind had been cooking up lately. Staring out at the night, she imagined things that made her blush. Eventually, she drifted back down the hall, pausing at the open door to Smith's bedroom. She toyed for a moment with going inside and finding him in the dark but forced herself to go to her own room.

The next morning, she took a shower and then went to find Smith. They'd fallen into a morning ritual. She'd go first and while she was getting dressed, he'd take over the bathroom.

"Smith?" She peeked in his room. The bed was made, as always, and there was no clutter around. The heritage of a military man, she thought. When she turned away, she saw a black bar in the doorway to his bathroom. A chin-up bar. So that was how he kept in shape.

Heading into the living room, she found him facing toward the morning sky. After days of gray clouds, the horizon was a pale blue and the sun was coming up over the city.

"Shower's free."

He showed no surprise at the sound of her voice even though she'd been quiet in her approach. She was getting used to his uncanny senses and the fact that he always seemed to know where she was. He was looking at her reflection now in the glass door.