An Unforgettable Lady(122)

When the lights came back on, Grace looked down and saw her mother standing in the front of the crush of people, back ramrod straight, neck elegant as a swan's, black dress hanging perfectly from her dainty shoulders. The expression on her face was one of regal forbearance, although the light in her eyes was something close to warm.

When the Walker portrait was unveiled, the crowd fell into a hushed silence. Jack and Blair came up front and a battle ensued between her friend and a media mogul whose fondness for American art was well known. As the two took good-hearted jabs at each other, the price climbed over $3 million, with Jack finally taking the painting with a bid close to $5 million.

The crowd burst out in applause. As flashbulbs went off like firecrackers, Jack came up and embraced Grace, his austere face showing pleasure at his success.

Sometime later the guest began to disperse and Grace's mother was among the first to leave.

"I think it went well," Grace said, as she kissed Carolina good-bye. "Although of course, Father's parties are a high standard to meet."

Her mother reached out and squeezed Grace's hand with surprising urgency.

"It was just perfect, darling. You did a perfect job." Their eyes met. "Your father would have been very proud of you tonight."

"Why, thank you, Mother." But she felt more relief than pleasure at the praise.

"I am also very proud of you. And I told Bainbridge the same thing." Carolina leaned forward and kissed Grace's cheek. "You are going to make a fine president."

With a parting wave, her mother turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Grace shook her head. It was hard to comprehend that, after having given up on ever hearing a supportive word from the woman, her mother had finally come through with one. At a moment when Grace actually needed it. She knew better than to think this was the start of a trend, but she appreciated the gesture.

And then the Gala was all over.

Grace lingered afterward, talking to the caterers for a while and watching the cleanup crew start to reclaim the atrium from the detritus of the party. She thanked the security guy who'd tailed her discreetly all night long and was about to dismiss him when she decided that being escorted home was probably a good idea.

She asked the man to call them a car while she went up to her office to get her bag of clothes and daytime purse. As she rode up in the elevator, she felt solitude and silence push into her.

The distraction offered by the Gala had been a relief, but, like all Band-Aids over fresh wounds, its effects were transitory. Listening to the electronic beeps as floors were passed, she couldn't help but wonder where John was and what he was doing. She pictured him on a plane, somewhere over the ocean, heading for God only knew where.

A part of her refused to believe it was truly over. Common sense told her she'd better get with the program and embrace reality.

Her office was dark as she entered but she found the desk easily, sidling around the conference table and various chairs. She turned on the light next to her phone.

She was getting her purse from a drawer when a man's voice cut through the quiet.

"What a great success it all was."

Grace looked up to see Fredrique standing between the open doors. He shut them as he stepped into the room.



* * *



Smith came back from the hotel's gym in a grim mood. He'd deliberately beaten the hell out of himself, but even after miles of running and having lifted enough weights to make his shoulders scream in pain, he still hadn't gotten what he'd been looking for. He'd been shooting for the kind of dead, exhausted state he remembered from his combat days. Instead, he was still keyed up, only sore now.

He knew he had to call Pryne's office. They were expecting to hear from him.

He took a shower, first.

Smith was drying off when he heard his cell phone ringing. His instincts came alive, his first thought of Grace.

When he answered it, an unfamiliar voice said, "Mr. Smith?"

"Yeah?"

"It's Joey. The countess's doorman."

Smith gripped the phone. "What is it?"

"You, ah—you told me to call you if anyone wanted to get into her apartment. Well, this guy showed up here a little while ago."

"Tell me."

"He's a caterer. I've seen him here before. Fredrique-something. He said the countess needed a change of clothes after the Gala and that he'd been told to pick them up and take them to the Foundation for her. I mean, I've seen him with her before. Last year, as a matter of fact. But you did say to call you."