An Unforgettable Lady

From Smith's perspective, he couldn't justify taking the job. It wasn't that he wanted Mr. Corporate America to get killed. Watching a guy who was a king in his world cry over fennel soup wasn't pleasant, but Smith had rules. If he was going to risk his own life for someone else's, they had to be honest with him.

It also helped if they weren't in a pigpen of their own making.

But he didn't leave the guy, flapping in the wind. Before Smith left, he'd passed along the number of another security firm.

Anyway, if he had taken the job, it would've involved some shuffling of clients. Tomorrow he was due in Paraguay and Tiny would have hated subbing on that job, even though he'd have done it at the drop of a hat. Tiny was big enough to make a linebacker look dainty and as tough as Smith was, but he hated the tropics. Something about spiders.

Going into the bathroom, Smith peeled off the undershirt he was wearing. In the light flooding down from the ceiling, his muscles stood out in stark relief, a powerful show of flesh and bone that he didn't stop to admire. He'd been in top physical condition all his life but his body was only one reason he was considered a heavy hitter in a profession full of tough guys.

What he did linger on were patterns across his skin, crisscrosses and streaks that distorted as the muscles underneath moved. They were scars, ragged testaments to the life he'd chosen. Some were twenty years old, from his violent youth, others were more recent. Some were the result of attempts on his life, others badges of his courage. He was so used to them, he didn't regard them as unusual or ugly. They were like his arms and legs, a part of him so intrinsic it was as if he'd come out of the womb with them.

Which of course, he hadn't. He just couldn't recall being unmarked.

Absently, he ran his hand over a pale pink scar that cut across his abdominal muscles. He thought about the countess and imagined her touching him with her delicate hands. The mere thought hardened him.

He cursed out loud.

It was a great fantasy but that's all it would ever be.

Besides, a woman like her would be used to the unmarred skin of investment bankers and aristocrats. Men whose professions didn't require they be stitched back together with a needle and thread. One look at Smith's map of horrors and she'd probably run shrieking in the opposite direction.

Then again, maybe she wouldn't. He thought of that chin of hers, kicked up high.

Oh, Christ, who was he fooling? He was never going to find out.

Smith shut off the light and left the bathroom. Shrugging out of his pants, he tossed them over the back of a chair, logged off his computer, and laid down on the bed. He didn't bother getting under the covers. The night was unseasonably warm for fall and he'd turned up the temperature gauge in the room so that the air conditioning wouldn't come on.

He hated fake air.

Smith crossed his arms over his chest and shut his eyes, ready for blackness. He was an efficient sleeper. Out like a light, awake just as fast. A typical night was three hours flat on his back and then he'd be recharged.

Except he hadn't had "typical" in the past week. Lately, he'd had trouble sleeping, and sure enough, minutes later, he jacked himself up into a sitting position. With visions of the countess swirling in his head, Smith leaned back against the padded headboard, pissed.

That dreamless trance he went into every night was the closest thing to a normal routine he had. The fact that it was getting thrown out of whack on account of some woman was simply unacceptable.

Maybe he just needed to get laid.

He leaned over to the nightstand and slid a long, thin cigar out of a pack that was mostly full. The flash of his lighter was bright yellow in the darkness, the tip of the cheroot glowed orange when he inhaled.

That was probably it. He needed to have sex.

As he exhaled, the feel of the countess's body against his own came to him in a rush.

But Christ, not with her.

His cell phone rang.

Smith's head whipped around, and before the sound came again, he had the phone against his ear.

"Yeah?"

There was a long pause. "Is this ... John Smith?"

His body knew the voice even before his brain recognized it.

"Yeah."

"It's Grace Hall," the voice said. "I need you." When Smith put the phone down, he wondered what had taken her so long to call. Tiny, it seemed, might be going to Paraguay after all.

chapter

5

Twenty minutes later, Smith was on Wall Street, walking up the granite steps of her family's skyscraper. As he approached the banks of revolving doors, a uniformed security guard opened a side door for him.

"Mr. Smith?"

When he answered, the man stepped aside to let him pass.

"She's waiting for you," the guard said. "Up in her office, on the top floor. You want to take the elevators over there."