An Unforgettable Lady(16)

"A detail?"

"A couple of my men. So you're protected."

Her first impulse was to say yes, but then she pictured a photo of herself surrounded by cops showing up on the front page of some tabloid.

"Don't worry," Marks said, obviously guessing what she was thinking, "they'll be in plainclothes."

"I'd like some time to think about it."

Marks hesitated. "Okay. You know where to find me."

When Marks hung up, she sat frozen in the chair, her phone in her hand.

She should do something, she thought. Call someone. Go somewhere safe.

Except there was no one to go to and nowhere to hide. Her mother was hardly the place for solace and good advice. She'd already leaned on Carter enough. And she'd rather be by herself than with Ranulf.

She was totally alone.

And how ironic, considering she'd spent the morning culling a list of the city's top five hundred luminaries.

When the intercom buzzed, her head snapped around.

"Mr. Lamont says he needs to go to another meeting."

"Right. I'm coming," Grace answered.

But in reality she was going nowhere. Her mind was clogged, her body unresponsive. Abruptly, she felt her chest tighten, as if she'd inhaled something toxic, and she bolted to her feet. She knew what was coming next.

The anxiety attack came on fast and hard, bringing with it a crushing sensation of suffocation. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't—there was no... No breath in her lungs.

Opening her mouth, she tried to reassure herself that she was in fact drawing in air. She felt it passing over her lips and her tongue but it seemed to travel no farther. As her body ran away from her mind, she braced herself on the desk and broke out in a cold sweat. Quick breaths went in and out of her. Frantically, she brought a hand up and wiped off her forehead. Hell of a lot of good that did. Her fingers were numb now and all they did was tangle in her hair.



Grace wheeled around, caught sight of the big windows and the overpowering view and let out a moan as her head spun. She doubled over, leaning on the back of the mighty chair and putting her head down on her arms.

She tried to picture happier times. Her father at her college graduation, beaming from the crowd. The way she'd felt when she'd finished her first marathon. That Thomas Cole she'd just bought.

Good things, happy things. Things that didn't have anything to with death. Invasion. Terror. Things that would block out that picture of Cuppie lying dead on a marble floor.

Gradually, almost imperceptibly, she began to notice that her legs were shaking. So were her hands. And her bra was still jabbing her in the back.

Her breathing began to return to normal. Her heartbeat slowed.

When she felt up to, she raised her head and ran an unsteady hand over the chignon. A piece of hair in the front had been dislodged and she tucked it behind her ear.

Exhaustion came over her in a rush but it was a relief. Anything was better than the crushing explosion of fear.

Oh, God.

She didn't know how she was going to keep going.

Minutes later, Grace walked across the office to the double doors that led out into the reception area. When she opened them and met the irritated eyes of Lou Lamont, she had herself back under control.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." She was proud of her smooth smile and casual words.

Lamont brushed by her, issuing a command over his shoulder. "Katy, whip me up some Earl Grey, would you? And make it hot this time.”

Kat grimaced and rose from her desk as Grace shut the door with annoyance.

As soon as he took a seat, Lamont carefully unbuttoned his suit jacket and brushed something off his pant leg with a flick of the hand. A staccato beat sounded out, the rhythm of his shoe hitting the corner of the desk. His impatience was one of the first things she always noticed about him. Well, that and his cologne.

Grace covered a sneeze with her hand.

"God bless," he said solicitously. "Are you getting sick?"

As if he secretly hoped she had something lethal and efficient.

"Not at all.” Grace sat down, watching his eyes flicker over her. She knew the attention wasn't sexual. He didn't want her body, he was after her job and the piece of furniture she'd put her butt onto.

His cell phone went off.

"Excuse me," he said, taking it out of the jacket of his stick suit.

As the man started in on a chorus of yeses and absolutely she reflected on how long she'd known him. He'd started years ago on the lowest rung of the ladder, working part-time as a grant application sifter while he got through a master's degree in art history at NYU. By the time she came onboard full-time, he’d risen in the ranks and his piece de resistance had been when her father had promoted him into senior management.