"Haven't we met?" she repeated, putting out her hand and waiting for an answer.
Smith looked down. She'd given him her left hand and he caught a look at the jewels on her ring finger. She was wearing a monstrous sapphire and a thick band of diamonds.
The rings reminded him he'd just mentally undressed a married woman.
He glanced up into her eyes, wishing she'd go the hell away. They were beginning to attract attention as she stood there with her hand out.
"No, you don't know me," he said roughly, gripping her palm.
The instant he touched her, a flare of heat shot up his arm, and he saw an echo of it flash in her eyes. She pulled back sharply.
"Are you sure we haven't met?" Her head tilted to one side while she rubbed the hand, as if trying to get rid of an unpleasant sensation.
His earpiece fired up with another update on the ambassador. "Yeah, I'm sure."
Smith turned and walked away from her.
"Wait," he heard her call out.
He didn't stop, just kept heading for the back of the ballroom. Pushing open an unmarked door, he stepped into a corridor that was filled with extra chairs and tables. Bald light bulbs were suspended from the squat ceiling and they cast harsh shadows on the concrete floor. The hall would take him to the service entrance the ambassador was going to use.
When he heard a clicking noise behind him, he turned around. The countess had followed him.
Even under the glare, she was breathtaking.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Who are you?"
"What's it to you?"
She hesitated. "It's just that you were looking at me as if we'd met."
"Trust me. We haven't."
Smith started walking away again. The last thing the countess needed was another man panting after her. No doubt adoring simps were a dime a dozen in her life. And speaking of simps, why wasn't her husband drooling all over her tonight? She seemed to have come to the party alone.
Smith glanced over his shoulder.
The countess had turned back to the door. Her head was down, as if she were bracing herself before going back into the gala.
His feet slowed. Then stopped.
"What's wrong with you?" he called out, his voice bouncing off the bare walls. The instant he asked the question, he wanted to take it back, and muttered, "Someone show up wearing the same dress tonight? "
The countess's head snapped toward him. She straightened and regarded him coolly.
"There is absolutely nothing wrong with me." Her voice was steady, the words coming out clean and sharp. Maybe he'd imagined the vulnerability. "You, however, are sadly lacking in manners."
Smith frowned, thinking that she was damn efficient with the putdowns. With one sentence spoken in level, calm tones, she'd made him feel like a total heel. Then again, she'd no doubt had plenty of practice cutting people down, had probably perfected the skill on a whole retinue of servants and waiters over the years.
Well, he wasn't one of her lackeys. And she had no business getting in his way. Even if the ambassador's assassin was dead, the last thing Smith needed was to have someone like her hurt in the middle of one of his details. She needed to go back to the party now, so he could do his job.
Time to be a hard ass, he thought.
Smith sauntered over to the countess and had to ignore the tantalizing scent of her while glaring into her eyes.
"Is there something you have to say?" she asked primly. "Or do you just want to loom over me?"
As she regarded him with that even stare, Smith was surprised. People backed off quickly when he glowered. The blond was holding her own.
He pushed his face closer to hers, feeling irritated.
"I'm sorry if I merely offended you," he said. "I meant to piss you off."
"Now why would you want to do that?"
"Because you're in my way."
"How so?"
Time was passing, the ambassador was getting closer, and the countess's tenacity was beginning to get under his skin.
Just like her proximity was. Staring down at her, he felt an urgency that had nothing to do with timing.
And everything to do with hunger.
Wrong woman, wrong place, he thought. Get rid of her.
"Tell me, countess, do you always beg for attention like this?" His voice was cold, disdainful.
"I'm not begging you for anything," she said smoothly.
"You pick the only man who has no interest in you and follow him out of the party. You think that's standoffish?"
He was itching to be free of her but there was more. His reaction to her, the strength and inappropriateness of it, made him wary. She was like standing in front of a fire.
And he was a man who had no intention of being burned.
He was surprised when her lips lifted in a slight smile. Instead of getting the reaction he'd banked on, some kind of huffy disapproval, he was being eyed with tolerant censure.