An Unforgettable Lady(29)

"When was the last time you slept through the night?" he asked.

Surprise flared in her face.

"Before my father died." She paused. "Actually it's more like sometime before my wedding."

She looked around, seemed to realize she had nowhere to go, and stalled.

"What time are you getting up?" he asked.

"Early. Six-ish. I'm going out for a run."

"I'm coming with you."

"Fine." She hesitated. "Will you be with me all day long?"

"Yes."

"Won't that be boring?"

"I'll be busy."

"Doing what?"

"Watching you."

Her eyes flashed up to his. They were full of vulnerability and an unconscious inquiry that turned him on.

She frowned, as if a thought just occurred to her. "Tell me something. Do you like what you do? "

When it came to watching someone like her, yeah, he liked it just fine, Smith thought. But he didn't answer her question.

"You'll sleep well tonight," he said instead as he headed out of her room. “And keep the door open. I need to be able to hear you."

"Smith?"

He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Thank you. I really appreciate—"

He cut her off, telling her the same thing he did all his clients. "Don't waste time with gratitude. We have a professional arrangement. All you have to do is pay me at the end and I’ll be happy."

Her eyes dimmed. "All right."

An odd sensation shot through his chest as he turned away from her.

It dawned on him that he'd hurt her feelings. Again.\

And somehow, hurting her bothered him.

As he walked into his new bedroom, he was wondering what the hell was wrong with him. When had he started caring about the feelings of others?

About the countess's in particular?





chapter

7





Grace came awake with a wild jerk, her arms pinwheel-ing through the sheets. Straining in the faint light of dawn, her body tense, she waited for some clue as to what had disturbed her exhausted collapse.

There was only silence.

She looked around her room. She was alone for all she knew.

She thought immediately of Smith. Had he been moving around? Or was it someone else? She slipped out of bed, debating whether to go find him. When the silence continued, she didn't think she had a reason to wake him up. He was her bodyguard, not a security blanket.

Feeling ill at ease, she went over to the French doors. The sun was just about to rise and high, thin clouds brushed across the horizon. Below, the streets were still marked with glowing lamps and Central Park was a dark, dense expanse.

So they'd gotten through their first night together, she thought. And it hadn't been that bad. Only one argument caused by the intersection of his sharp tongue and her nervous fatigue. All things considered, maybe it was a triumph.

Now, if she could just figure out how to share a bathroom with the guy, she was practically home free.

Grace was about to turn away when Smith walked out onto the terrace from the living room.

Her breath caught in her throat and she leaned forward until her forehead hit the glass. Cursing, she pulled back and rubbed the spot.

He was naked to the waist, wearing the black pants he'd had on the night before. His body was everything she'd suspected it to be. He was built hard and strong and there wasn't an ounce of fat on him as far as she could see. As he moved, she watched the shifting and contracting muscles of his back. They fanned out from his spine and filled his shoulders, giving heft to his upper torso.

It was then she noticed marks on his skin. Scars. Several on his back, one that went across his side, a jagged streak on his right shoulder.

She put her hand up, as if she could soothe him from afar; and tried to imagine the kind of life he must have led. Where he had been. What had been done to him.

The need to know about his past was intense.

No wonder he was so tough. He knew a hell of a lot about physical pain.

She watched, entranced, as he moved stealthily across the terrace, sidestepping plants and porch furniture, stopping only when he stood a couple of feet from the wrought iron railing. Facing the sun, he put his two hands together and bowed his head.

Grace wondered whether any tenderness could have survived in a man like him. She thought of his hard face, his impassive eyes, that bored tone she suspected he cultivated as another guise to hide his true thoughts. She wanted to know what was under the camouflage.