When he didn't reply, she looked up at him.
"Are you sure you want to be talking about this?" he said gruffly.
"I asked, didn't I," she shot back as pride's sting surged through her fear. She didn't want him to think she was incapable of rationally discussing something which so obviously affected her life. At the same time, her stomach had started to roll with nausea.
Smith still didn't answer and her body went cold.
"Talk to me, for Chrissakes," she said sharply. "This sphinx routine is getting on my nerves."
Smith smiled faintly. "I'd asked Marks to look for any connections between the husbands of the women in that article. He said that other than social ties, there appeared to be no commonality. I wasn't surprised."
"So what do you think? Why is this happening?"
Hanging in the air was, why me.
"It's personal. The connection is among you, not your husbands. Look, all I can tell you is that Marks is doing everything he can with what he has. He's a damn good cop. Something will turn up, eventually."
"But what happens until then? How many of us will..." Grace couldn't say the word that was bouncing around her head. Death was never easy to speak of, she thought, but it was damn near impossible to say the word die when you were thinking of yourself.
She wrapped her arms around her rib cage, missing the fog of security she'd been living in over the last few days.
"Grace. Look at me."
She lifted her head.
"You hired me to protect you." She nodded when he paused. "And that's what I'm going to do."
"I hope so. God, I truly hope so."
"Don't hope," he said. "Believe."
She stared into his eyes and saw self-confidence, power, control. It all seemed to promise that her faith in him would be rewarded.
When he reached out a hand to her, the gesture was unexpected.
"Let's go to bed."
Her eyes widened, but then she realized that he wasn't talking about sex. His words were a casual direction intended to get her to rest.
She took his hand, feeling his fingers wrap around her own, warm and strong. They walked down the hall together until they got to his room and then he broke the contact silently and left her.
She'd changed into a nightgown and was lying in bed in the dark when she heard him go into the bathroom. The sounds of water were muted and brief. Minutes later, he emerged.
"John?"
"What?" His voice through the darkness was smooth.
"I'm glad you're here,"
There was only silence and she assumed he'd gone back to his room.
"Me, too," he said softly.
Surprised by his answer, she rolled over only to find that she was alone.
Hours later she was still awake. Feeling claustrophobic amid all the pillows and the thick comforter, she picked up her diary and a pen and went to the living room. As she passed Smith's door, the light was off.
Sitting on the couch, she curled her legs under her but found herself thinking instead of writing. When Smith had reached out his hand to her, she'd been surprised and, as she remember the feel of his palm against hers, she thought of other things he'd done that had been unexpected.
The other morning, after they had come home from a blistering run, she'd been late getting out of the shower. She'd rushed into the kitchen to tell him that it was his turn when he pressed a cup of steaming coffee into her hand and pointed at a plate of toast he'd made for her.
She'd been dumbfounded.
"It's food," he'd drawled. "You may not recognize it because you haven't eaten much in the last week."
"Of course, I have. I—"
"That salad last night for dinner doesn't count. You're dropping weight you can't afford to lose."
She'd looked down at herself. He was right. Her skirts had been a little bigger at the waist lately.
"Eat." He'd pushed the toast at her.
She'd picked up a slice and noticed it was covered with strawberry jam. "I haven't had jam on toast for years."
As soon as she swallowed one mouthful, her appetite came back. After four slices, and having finished the coffee, she'd sighed with contentment. She'd been running on nervous stress for so long, she'd forgotten about feeding her body.
She remembered glancing up at him. All the while she'd been eating, he'd been standing against the counter, arms crossed, watching her.
"I'd like to thank you for this," she'd said wryly, "if you'll let me."
He'd shrugged but when no-acerbic comment was forthcoming, she'd smiled at him.
"So thank you."
His sharp eyes had flickered over the empty plate. "Just, taking care of my client.”
Grace smiled at her memory of how he'd looked. The image of him being something close to sheepish was incongruous, but that's what he'd seemed. Her simple gratitude for his thoughtfulness had been hard for him to accept but he hadn't turned it down, either.