An Unforgettable Lady

"Thank you. Er—I'm going to get dressed."

"We need to talk."

She shook her head. "No, we don't. Because—because it's not going to happen again. It should never have happened in the first place."

There was a pause. "I couldn't agree more on that."

"So there's nothing else to talk about."

Smith's eyes flickered over her face. "Weaknesses that aren't acknowledged have a nasty habit of turning into liabilities."

She began twisting her engagement ring around her finger, partially out of embarrassment, mostly out of gnawing frustration with herself and the situation. When Smith looked down at the heavy stone, she dropped her hands.

"I can assure you," she said with an edge, "I have no intention of throwing myself at you. If that's what you consider a liability, I think we're okay."

When he didn't reply, she prompted, "Are you going to leave?"

His eyes darkened with resolve. "No. I don't quit. Ever. But let's be very clear. All we have between us is the job, nothing more."

"I agree completely."

"I'm glad you see it my way."

His choice of words chafed. She lifted her chin.

"It's not your way. It's the truth." Grace looked away quickly and caught sight of the clock on the microwave. "I'll make it short and sweet in the bathroom. We're late."

* * *

After she'd left, Smith went into the living room and paced around.

In spite of his Sermon-on-the-Mount pronouncement that there was only a job between them, part of him was cursing that damn doorbell. It was tough luck he had the only contractors in the city who showed up on time. Nine o'clock sharp. The bastards.

But, hell, he should be thanking those guys with the tool-belts and the pencils behind their ears. They were the only reason he hadn't made love to her then and there. On the carpet. Without the coverall brigade, he wouldn't have taken the time to spell out where the future had to lie. He'd have taken her, instead.

Which would have been a bad idea. Nursing a lonely, frightened woman through an inappropriate love affair was nothing he wanted to be a part of.

Even if she was like cozying up to a blow torch.

It was a damn shame they weren't sleeping under the same roof in a different set of circumstances. The countess had genuine heat under that prim exterior. Fire and ice. He couldn't remember when he'd been so hot for a woman.

Smith shook his head. Never would have predicted this one, he thought.

He reached over and picked up a picture of her with the mayor of New York.

He wasn't worried by the fact that he wanted her. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with a good dose of kick ass underneath that glossy WASP exterior and he was a man, after all. But, though she was proving to be a tempting package all around, that didn't mean she was going to rock his world. When the threat was over, when they found her stalker, he was going to leave her life exactly as he had come into it. A clean break, a handshake, and then off to the next assignment. Exactly as he'd done with his other clients.

He returned the picture and went over to the mug he'd used. He hated herbal tea but it had been the only thing he'd found in her kitchen, apart from a sponge, that he could throw in with some hot water. When she'd mentioned him finding the coffee, he'd had no idea what she'd been thinking. After an extensive search, he'd only found a few jars of caviar, some crackers and a lot of empty space in her cupboards. The refrigerator was just as bad. Ancient, half-used salad dressing bottles and a tub of fancy mustard. That was it.

Smith's stomach growled and he went back into the kitchen. It was either hors d'oeuvres or nothing, so he got out the caviar and crackers and rooted through a few drawers until he found a knife. Breaking the seal on a jar marked Tsar Imperiale, he began ladling the stuff on some of Carr's best and tossing the piles into his mouth.

Not bad, he thought, but he'd have to stock the shelves if he was going to live with her.

When the knocker sounded, he went out into the front hall.

"Yeah?" he said without opening the door. He noticed with disapproval that she didn't have a peephole.

There was a hesitation. "It's—ah, it's Joey, the doorman. Who's this?"

"A friend of the countess's."

"Oh." The confusion in the guy's voice was obvious.

"Can I help you, Joey?"

"A package came for her yesterday. She forgot to pick it up."

"Leave it there in the hall."

"Ummm... okay."

Smith waited a minute or two and then began to unlock the door.

From behind him, he felt her approach. "Who was that?"

He glanced over his shoulder. Fresh out of the shower, she was wearing a terry cloth bathrobe and had a towel wrapped around her head. Her face was freshly scrubbed and a little pink and he tried not to think about what the rest of her looked like.