An Unforgettable Lady

Fredrique, however, wasn't going to be hurried along. He took his time, looking around the office while she stood at the open door.

"Such a beautiful painting,,, he murmured as he stared at the landscape over the conference table.

"Thank you. Now if you don't mind, I have another appointment to go to."

She was taken aback when he came up close to her. "Are you sure you want to do this? "

Grace frowned but before she could respond, Smith's hand clamped on the man's shoulder.

"You want to step back a little, Fredrique.” Smith's smile was on the north pole side of warm.

The other man looked up in surprise and immediately moved away from Grace. With a little bow, he murmured, "I'm sure I'll see you again soon, Countess."

As he walked away, Grace breathed a sigh of relief and shut the door.

"Thanks for putting some space between him and me," she said to Smith as he sat back down at the conference table.

"I can't be too careful."

She hid a shudder. "I should probably warn Isadora that he's on the hunt for business and she's next on his list."

Besides, she thought numbly, she and Isadora had other things to talk about. Their lost friends. That god-awful article.

* * *

Grace went through the rest of the week in a daze. There seemed to be an endless supply of problems to confront. The invitations for the Gala, which needed to be mailed out immediately, came back with a typo. The reprinting cost a small fortune and, when she'd looked at the final product, the absence of a major auction piece was obvious. She hoped no one else picked up on it but she knew they would.

Lamont had been right about one thing. Trying to do her father's job and pull a prestigious event together was a heavy load to shoulder. Dealing with the caterers, rental companies, sound men, publicists, and video graphers was an incredible drain on her time. As the demands rose, and the event drew closer, she began to rely on Kat more and more. Fortunately, the girl welcomed the extra responsibility.

Grace was so distracted by work and the undercurrents between her and Smith, that she almost forgot about the danger she was in.

Until Lieutenant Marks called again.

She and Smith had just walked into the penthouse after attending a late-night gallery opening when the phone started ringing. As soon as she heard the Lieutenant's voice, the fear came back, vivid and awful.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'm just checking in. Have you seen anything unusual? Is Smith still with you?"

She felt a measure of relief as she sat down on the couch. "Yes, he is. And no, not really."

"Can you put him on?"

Grace called out to Smith. "Marks wants to talk with you."

As Smith took the phone, she watched him anxiously. She had no idea what they were talking about, all she heard were Smith's short replies. He hung up the phone and she was disappointed when he didn't say anything.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"So what did you talk about?"

He shrugged and started to walk down the hall. She hurried after him.

"Tell me," she demanded as she grabbed his arm. His wrist was thick and warm under her fingers, reminding her of what it felt like to be against his body.

When he looked down at the contact, she took her hand back but stepped in front of him, blocking his way to his bedroom.

"Don't hide things from me," she said bluntly. "I'd rather know bad news than have to deal with what my mind can imagine."

Smith gave her a level stare before speaking. "The only thing they know is that the victims have been killed by the same person. They've DNA-tested blood samples and hair fibers found at the scenes and skin found under the victims' nails and it's a match. Other than that, they have no leads. No suspects. No motive."

She leaned her hip and shoulder against the wall, feeling sick as she pictured her friends scratching at the killer. And the fact that the police hadn't made much progress was daunting. In the back of her mind, she'd assumed that they were picking up clues and hints that would eventually make some kind of sense.

“I can't believe they've found nothing," she said, looking down at the fine nap of the hall carpet. She moved the pointed heel of her Manolo Blahnik in a circle, making a half-moon trail in the otherwise smooth, cream-colored surface. It was an attempt to avoid his eyes and some of the harsh reality they were discussing but the distraction only worked on the former. "Have they looked hard enough?"

"Marks has a good reputation and I know he runs a tight ship. The bastard who killed those women has just been lucky so far."

"Or he knows what he's doing."

Smith's voice was harsh. "He's an amateur."

She cringed, thinking of the photos of Cuppie's body. "What makes you say that?"