chapter
10

Eddie let out a whoop of joy as Smith tossed his leftovers into the front seat. " Bonus! So what am I eating? Lobster Newburg? Filet mignon?"

They were waiting while Grace and her mother said good-bye in front of the club.

"I think it's spaghetti."

Eddie craned around. "Let me get this straight. You go into a place like that and you order freakin' spaghetti?"

"I didn't order it." Grace's face was showing strain as she smiled and nodded. He was amazed that her mother didn't pick up on it.

"What do you mean you didn't order it? Did a fairy just wave a wand and it appeared ?"

"Don't know about the fairy but it was delivered by an evil little henchman."

Eddie laughed. 'I'm not going to go there."

"Wise of you."

After her mother had been swallowed into a black Town Car, Grace came over to the SUV and Smith opened the door for her. While Eddie pulled away from the curb, Smith glanced across the seat. She looked like she'd been pulled through a wringer but she wasn't asking for pity. There were no heaving sighs of exhaustion, no emotional tirades about whatever was wrong with her mother.

Just quiet forbearance. Delicate strength.

Funny, he'd never thought the two words could be used together.

"Rough meal?" he said.

She leaned her head back against the seat and glanced at him sideways. Her eyelids were half closed. "It could have been worse."

She turned away.

They'd gone about three blocks when Smith said sharply to Eddie, "I think we're being tailed. Pull over."

Grace's head snapped up as the Explorer halted. A white car passed them.

"That looks like the sedan that tailed me to my father's funeral," she said.

"Follow it," Smith told Eddie.

The Explorer shot back into traffic. Smith did his best to get the license plate but taxis and other cars kept getting in the way. As they approached an intersection, he thought they were going to get lucky. The light was turning orange and only one car separated them from their prey.

But with an abrupt burst of speed, the sedan raced through the light and dodged down an alley. Eddie gunned the engine to shoot around the vehicle in front of them but a taxi blocked their way at the last moment. Smith watched the taillights of the sedan get smaller and then disappear.

"You get anything, Eddie?"

"Nah, I was too busying trying to get close to the damn thing."

Smith glanced over at Grace. "Take us home."

"Sure, Boss."

After they drew up in front of her building, Smith got out and helped Grace from the car. When she was standing close beside him, he reached into the back and pulled out the duffel bag and metal briefcases that Eddie had picked up from his hotel.

"Thanks for getting my stuff," he said to his friend. j

"No problem. And the doorman accepted the grocery delivery twenty minutes ago. Told me he'd leave it in the hall. What time do you need me tomorrow?”

"Seven-thirty."

"Right-oh."

And then, despite the fact that she looked like she was ready to fall over, Grace leaned into the car and smiled at Eddie. "When you heat up the pasta, do it over a stove if you can. High heat and move it around a lot. That way, the vegetables will stay crisper. I think you'll like the flavor. The head chef comes from Tuscany. Goodnight, Eddie."

Smith glanced at his friend. The man was wearing a bemused expression, having been thoroughly charmed.

" 'Night, Eddie," he said wryly.

"Yeah, Boss," the man said distractedly as he pulled away.

On the way up the building, Smith asked, "How'd you know what I had for dinner? "

"You aren't the only observant one."

When they reached her apartment, Grace's hands were shaking as she tried to unlock the door. It took her several attempts before she let them in. As she reached down for one of the grocery bags he told her to not worry about it.

"Then I'm going to go to bed," she said as he deactivated the alarm and shuttled the food inside.

He followed her down the hall, dropped his bag and the briefcases next to the bed he'd slept in the night before, and kept going into her bedroom. When she looked at him curiously, He told her he was just checking the rooms.

After doing a quick pass through the master suite, he checked the rest of the penthouse, unpacked the groceries, and went to his own room. He was taking off his leather jacket when he heard the sound of water rushing from down the hall.

As he tossed his coat over a chair, Smith imagined her stripped free of that black dress with her hair down around her shoulders. The locks would end just over the tips of her breasts and he'd have to gently push them aside to kiss her skin. He pictured the blond waves covering his chest and falling onto his face as they made love.

He heard the water fall silent.

All he had to do was go down that hall, he thought. Walk into her room and take her into his arms. Because he had a feeling, even though she'd agreed with his strict hands-off policy, she'd get carried away by the passion again.

One kiss and he would have her.

As blood pounded through his body, Smith stopped moving.

What the hell was he doing?

He shook his head.

What the hell was he doing?

Moving with deliberate motions, he took off his holster and slid his gun out. He stared at the black metal as the grip welcomed his palm and his fingers. The weapon had been handmade for him, to his precise specifications, and there were two more identical to it in the Kevlar briefcases.

The familiar weight of his gun was comforting.

His preoccupation with Grace was not.

He remembered that man at the Congress Club, the one in the suit who had kissed her on the cheek and made her smile. Smith hadn't thought much of it at me time but now his aggressive reaction to the guy struck him as way out of line. He was behaving like a jealous lover of hers.

As opposed to the woman's professional bodyguard.

Maybe he just needed a vacation. A little time off somewhere warm, where the drinks flowed like water and the women were easy.

Yeah, that's what he needed.

A goddamn vacation.

Smith frowned. And realized that in all his life, he'd never taken one.

 

* * *

 

Days later, Smith found his fixation on Grace was only getting worse. The result wasn't pretty. Sexual frustration was cutting into his sleep and shortening his temper.

And it wasn't as if he was known for his good humor to begin with.

From his seat at the conference table, he looked across the office. Grace had her head buried in some documents and he tried not to notice that her silk blouse had opened up and was showing more of her skin than usual.

Becoming aroused, he shifted in the chair.

Great. On the job with a hard-on.

Real professional.

Smith felt his mood sink deeper into dark and aggravated territory so he took out his cell phone and dialed Lieutenant Marks's number. He knew an update on the investigation would get his mind off that woman's damn blouse.

"How are things going, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, Christ, not good." The man sounded tired. "The chief of police is up my ass because those women's names are plastered all over New York's cultural institutions. The press is barking up a storm, wanting confirmation that the Times article was found on the first body—I'm trying to find out who the asshole was who leaked that little tidbit. And we don't have any suspects so far."

Smith kept his voice low. "Did you check with the doormen of those buildings?"

"Yeah. The day and evening shifts in both places have been covered by the same guys for the past five years. Their background checks have all come back clear and each one of them said they saw nothing suspicious on either of the nights in question. The delivery and visitor logs didn't tell us squat, either. Everyone signed in and out—no dropped balls there."

"Any names show up on both logs?"

"Quite a few. These wealthy-types tend to use the same people. There were cleaning folks, caterers, tailors, plant people. Those places are a goddamn revolving door of help. We're chewing our way through the background checks on every single name."

"You find any connection between the husbands of these women? Business? Pleasure?"

"Haven't checked that, yet. Good idea." Marks paused. "So tell me, how's the countess?"

Smith's eyes flickered across the room. "Holding up, considering the stress she's under."

"Nice woman. Someone with her kind of money could be a real pain in the ass if they wanted to but she seemed surprisingly normal."

They talked for a little longer about the forensic tests that had been performed on samples from the crime scenes. When Smith hung up, he glanced back across the room. Kat had come in and Grace was laughing at something the girl had said. Kat was smiling broadly.

People tended to do that a lot around Grace, he realized.

They came into her office or met up with her in the halls and they'd leave the encounter looking lighter, happier.

Surprisingly normal didn't go far enough.

"Thanks, Kat," Grace said, shuffling the papers around, "You were a big help on this."

The assistant beamed. "I'll make the changes now."

"Don't worry. It's past six. Let's all go home." Grace's eyes shifted to him and then she looked away quickly.

"Well, I'm in no hurry," Kat said.

"Don't tell me. Another date ?" Grace's eyes were sympathetic.

"Just drinks. He's an IT guy. I'm hoping we'll talk about something other than Java programming or the Sims." Kat picked up the document and walked over to the door. "Goodnight, Mr. Smith."

Smith nodded without looking in the girl's direction. Grace glanced over at him and then looked back at the girl.

"Good night, Kat," she said softly, her expression growing concerned.

When the door was closed, her eyes narrowed at him. "You could be a little warmer with her."

"With who?"

"Kat."

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I think she has a little crush on you."

Smith shrugged and began gathering the papers he'd been reviewing. He was consulting on a fraud case for a friend of his. "That's not my fault."

Grace rose to her feet. "True. But it isn't hers, either. When you ignore her like you do, I think you hurt her feelings."

Neither her eyes or her tone were combative but he felt defensive. The idea that his behavior hadn't lived up to her standards galled him for a reason he didn't want to examine closely.

Because he shouldn't care what she thought of him.

Smith smiled grimly. "You want me to take her out on a date or something?"

"Why don't you just shoot for being polite?"

His first instinct was to make a cutting comment to get her to drop the subject but the bravado faded as he realized she wasn't trying to control him. She was honestly concerned about the girl's feelings.

Smith wanted to curse. It was easier to light against something than to give in to a thoughtful request and he'd have preferred the former, especially in his current frame of mind. His attraction to her, in addition to frustrating the hell out of him, was making him more aggressive than usual.

Which was saying something.

"Fine," he said darkly.

She smiled. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

As if he were a child in need of soothing.

The gently chiding comment was all it took to spark his temper. Smith got up and marched across the room. Her smile faded.

What he wanted to do, as he towered over her, was kiss her.

Instead, he said, "I'm willing to make allowances. I'm not too interested in being patronized, though."

Her startled eyes traced over his face and then bounced down to the span of his chest, as if she was remembering the feel of him against her. Her lips parted.

Sweet Jesus.

All he wanted to do was kiss her.

So before he did something stupid, Smith took his bad mood and his desire for her and went back to where he'd been sitting at the conference table. He packed up his things and used the time to berate himself.

Christ, of all women. Why did he have to be so damn hung up on her? He hated complications and there was nothing more complicated than a beautiful, rich woman who was a client. And why couldn't he just let it go? He'd forgotten plenty of women over the years. Nearly every one he'd ever been with, as a matter of fact.

But this one? She just wouldn't get out of his mind.

Every night, when he was at the height of his insanity, he convinced himself that they could jump into bed as soon as the job was over and everything would be fine. They'd spend a couple of athletic hours together, maybe a day or two. And then he'd move along.

Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it sounded like a good plan, but in the daylight, he knew it was a terrible idea. If she was going to sleep with a man, she'd no doubt want all the things Smith couldn't give her. She'd want more than hours, more than days. She'd want a relationship. Some sense of security. A little stability.

And then there were the bells and whistles she'd expect. According to the papers, she'd been wooed by some of the most eligible bachelors in the world. Men who had nothing better to do than worry about pleasing her. Men who, no doubt, showed up on her doorstep in suits and wing tips with diamonds and pearls. They were men capable of whispering sweet nothings into a gentle ear and making the bullshit seem halfway believable.

Smith couldn't pull off that kind of act to save his soul, even if it was to get her into bed so he could get her out of his blood.

They were from different worlds. He lived on the fringes of society, in the dim stretch between criminals and civilians. She was an idol, a romantic dream to a whole country of people. She spent her days in the skyscraper her family owned, her nights in ballrooms, her weekends in Newport. He negotiated with low-life kidnappers and traded bullets with fascists and whack-jobs for a living.

She was satin and platinum. He was leather and gunmetal.

Oh, hell. Now he was starting to sound like a country singer.

He looked across the room. Grace had stood up and was staring out at the view as the sun went down. His eyes traveled from the crown of her head, where her blond hair was tightly pinned, all the way down to the pointed tips of her high heels.

Lust, hot and carnal, pumped through him.

Smith put on his leather jacket and smiled tightly, thinking they were both goddamn lucky he could control himself.

Because if it weren't for his years of military training, and the fact that his mind was stronger than his body, he'd be inside her this very moment.

 

* * *

 

Grace had the dream again a few nights later. The one of her father coming back to her.

She stirred from sleep, becoming aware that he was standing in the doorway to her room. In the dim light, she could see that his lips were moving but she couldn't hear his voice. It kept fading in and out, as if through a bad connection.

What, she asked him in her mind. What are you telling me?

His face had an urgency to it and she watched as he talked faster.

I can't hear you.

And, then for the first time since he died, she heard his voice.

Calla lily.

Grace shot upright, her heart pounding, her breath stuck somewhere in her chest. Pushing the covers away, she put her feet to the floor and braced herself before turning around. She looked toward the door to her room. He was gone.

He'd never been there, she corrected herself.

Stumbling over to the bathroom, she felt around in the dark for her water glass. Turning the tap on, she held her hand under the faucet waiting for the rush to get cool. She told herself that the sink was real, the marble under her feet was real, the pale glow coming through the windows was real.

But her father had not been.

She filled up the glass, took a couple of big gulps and tasted the familiar metal tang in the water. After putting it under the tap again, she took a deep breath and froze.

The smell of tobacco smoke tickled her nose, making her want to sneeze. As it always had when her father had lit up one of his pipes.

And the glass, like her sanity, slipped from her grasp.

 

* * *

 

Smith had just lit a cheroot and was staring out into the night when he heard the crash. Pitching the thing into an ashtray, he grabbed his gun and ran down the hall.

As he burst through Grace's door, he heard her voice from the bathroom.

"I'm in here."

When he flipped on the light, he saw her on her tiptoes surrounded by broken glass.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," she said, blinking against the glare. "I just dropped a glass and it shattered."

When she was able to focus on him, she stared at his bare chest and that was when he realized he was only wearing a pair of boxers. Her eyes widened and he knew she was looking at his scars.

"You sure you aren't hurt?" he said harshly, running his eyes down her body, trying to keep it clinical.

He failed. Like an answer to his fantasies, she wasn't wearing much, just a thin wisp of silk that was trimmed in lace. The sight of her breasts pushing against fragile cups made him want to fall on his knees and to hell with the glass shards.

"I really am fine. And I'm sorry I woke you." She started to look around the floor as if for a way out.

"Don't even think about moving. You're going to get cut." Smith put his gun on the counter.

She eyed the weapon warily. "I think I'll be fine if I just—"

"Stand still," he said sharply. "There's glass all around you. Give me a minute."

He went to his room and threw on a shirt and his boots. When he got back to the bathroom, he walked over the glass and grabbed her.

"What are you doing!" she yelped as he swung her up into his arms. He didn't reply. The glass crackling beneath his thick soles said enough.

As soon as he hit the carpet, he released her abruptly and she stumbled a little. He knew he'd better let her go fast or something was going to happen. Something like him pushing her down on the bed and covering her with his body.

In a rotten mood, Smith stalked into the kitchen, came back with a broom and cleaned up. the mess. He was on his way out when he paused and looked at her.

She was wearing the thick bathrobe and sitting on the edge of her bed in the shallow pool of light cast by her reading lamp. Her back was to him and she seemed to be staring out at the darkness of Central Park.

Just leave her, he told himself. It's none of your business what's banging around that head of hers. You're paid to keep her body safe, not be her shrink.

"You okay?" he asked, anyway.

"Yes," she answered in a small voice. When he didn't leave, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Really."

"You want me to leave the light on?"

She nodded.

"Goodnight," he said, and got a mumble in return.

Smith went to the kitchen, put the broom away, and was on his way to his room when he heard a soft sound. It was barely audible and he waited to see if it came again. When it did, he realized it was a sob.

He walked silently down the dark hall until he stood on the brink of her doorway. She'd wrapped her arms around herself and was rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed.

"Grace?" he said quietly. It was the first time he'd called her by her name.

She jumped and hastily wiped her eyes. "What?"

"Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying." He watched as her shoulders set like concrete.

"Tell me what woke you up earlier."

She waved him away. "I'm fine."

Smith took a deep breath. Sniveling women had never had much power over him. Any power, actually. He was attracted to strength, not weakness.

But he couldn't turn away from the sight of her so alone on that big bed, trying so hard to look composed.

"You're not fine."

When she turned to him, her green eyes were hostile.

He almost smiled, thinking he knew all about that kind of reaction. All about pushing people away.

"I thought we weren't supposed to get to know each other," she said hotly.

He shrugged. "Maybe I was wrong."

No, he was right. But, even though his instincts were screaming for him to go back to his bedroom, he was going to stay with her until she calmed down.

She regarded him steadily. "Okay, then you can go first."

With a determined sniffle, she crossed her arms over her chest. When he remained silent, she gave him a sharp look.

"What? There's nothing you want to share? No deep dark secrets you want to talk about?"

"This isn't about me," he said gruffly.

"Do you ever let it be about you? "

Not in a million years, he thought.

"Look," he said reasonably, "you're under incredible stress right now. Letting some of it out might help."

"Screw. You." She flashed him a glittering stare. "How's that?"

He smiled at her, relishing her backbone. "Pretty strong words for a countess."

"Well, I'm not feeling real royal right now. I'm tired of falling apart inside and having to pretend I'm—I'm fine." She took a deep breath. "The stiff upper lip routine can be an exhausting bore when your life is a mess."

He watched as she climbed in between the sheets and pulled the lace coverlet up to her chin. "Now do you mind? I'd like to get some sleep."

Smith approached the bed and watched her eyes widen as he sat down next to her.

"Tell you what," he drawled. "I'll do you an eye for an eye."

"What?"

"I tell you something about me but then you've got to talk. I'll even let you pick. You want to hear about the hell of Ranger school? How about the dry heat of the Gulf War ? You want to know what gives me indigestion? It's not Mexican food."

She looked at his face for the longest time. "You're serious?"

Dammit to hell, it appeared he was.

"Yes, I am."

She pushed herself up so she was sitting against the padded headboard. She was, he thought, temptation personified. Her hair, which was flowing around her shoulders in loose waves, glowed with blond highlights. Her beauty was classic as always, but with her parted lips and her nose a little red from crying, there was an enticing vulnerability to her.

He forced himself not to assess what the bodice of her nightgown might or might not be revealing.

"I want to know about the scars," she said abruptly.

Smith had to physically restrain himself from recoiling.

Shit. That wasn't what he'd had in mind.

He'd been prepared to give her a short take on how to handle a hard-ass battalion commander. Maybe a little wartime story with a happy ending, like when he'd saved that old man and his family. And being lactose intolerant was no big deal.

But the scars? He didn't talk to anyone about them, not even his boys like Tiny and Eddie.

Not all of the wounds had been inflicted on him as an adult.

"You said I could pick," she whispered. "And I have."

Smith cleared his throat, searched his mind for words and came up with a whole lot of nothing.

Her hand landed softly on his shoulder and he flinched. Through the undershirt, he could feel her fingers move slowly down his back as she explored his skin, lingering here and there.

Smith would have run, if he could have. But his body felt like lead.

When she got to a round scar on his side, one of the oldest, she went no farther. "Tell me about this one."

An image cut through his mind with the gruesome precision of a knife and he saw clearly events that were decades old. Feeling nauseous, he told himself to keep quiet.

"Please."

The soft word was a promise of comfort that he'd never had. That he'd never wanted before.

He responded to it before he could stop himself.

"Cigarette burn." Smith didn't recognize his own voice. Stiff and a little hoarse, he heard it from a far distance. "My father liked to smoke. He could always find a match. Ashtrays were a different story. Eventually, I got so I could outrun him but it took a long time."

He heard a hiss and realized it had been from her.

Smith didn't go further. She didn't need to know any more details.

"I'm so very sorry."

This was totally wrong, a voice inside of him yelled.

With all the women he had had, whose hands he'd allowed to touch him, he had never, never, let the subject come up. Even the ones who had had a few lacerations of their own had known not to speak of his map of horrors. And now, this achingly beautiful woman, this lady, who could know nothing about what had been done to him, about the kind of places he'd been and the people he'd dealt with, this delicate woman, wanted in on the nightmare.

"Are they all from..." She didn't finish her question.

A muscle began jerking in his jaw.

He forced his shoulders into a shrug. "Let's just say, I've been around the block a few times."

"I want to see them. All of them."

With a lurch, he pulled away from her. "This has gone far enough."

"I don't think it has," she said, moving toward him.

Smith was completely incapable of anything rational as her fingers went to the bottom of his shirt. He grabbed her hands in a brutal grip.

"You don't want to do that."

"Yes, I do. I'm not afraid of your past."

"You should be."

"I'm not. And I'm not afraid of you, either."

Gently, she removed his hands and slowly inched up the thin fabric. His breath began coming out in bursts and his body, caught between her will and his, begin to quake in the conflict.

When the air hit his skin, he couldn't take it anymore. He exploded up from the bed and wrenched the goddamn thing off. He stretched his arms out wide, feeling his muscles expand.

"Here, I'll give you the whole show," he said ruthlessly. "Front and back."

Her eyes stayed on his face.

"Come on, Countess. You don't want to look now? Too much?" He was sneering at her, lashing out. She'd made him feel weak with her empathy and he resented how exposed he felt.

She shook her head and her eyes were grim, as if she'd taken his past deep down into herself and felt the echoes of pain in her own body.

"Not in such a big hurry to touch me anymore, are you. Now that you can see everything."

He was hoping if he pushed her hard enough, she'd back away. The others who had tried to get close had fled when he'd showed them the same rage.

But Grace didn't run.

Slowly, she rose from the bed and reached out a slender gentle hand. When she touched his stomach delicately, he inhaled with a rasp.

His first instinct was to yell. He was infuriated that she had challenged him and exposed him. That she was near enough so he could smell her. That she was offering him compassion and understanding and warmth when he was battle-scarred and hard and ugly.

"I think you are beautiful," she said softly, looking up at him.

"Then you're fucking blind."

She shook her head slowly. "I see you, all of you. Clearly."

Grace traced a path across his stomach and stopped when she got to the waistband of his boxers. He felt himself swell for her touch and became instantly aware that he was half-naked and she was wearing close to nothing and they were alone in dim light.

He grabbed her upper arms and jerked her against him. Hard. Her only response was to tilt her head back so she could continue to meet his eyes.

"You might want to keep your hands to yourself." He made his words as cold as possible. "You touch me like that and I'm not thinking about what a courageous Florence Nightingale you are."

"So what are you thinking? "

He gave her a shake and watched as her hair swung around her shoulders and caught the light.

"Damn you," he growled. "Don't do this."

Her eyes were soft, luminous. Heated. He knew what she was thinking about and it didn't have anything to do with talking. In that hooded glance, she was asking for what she wanted. And she wanted him.

In spite of his anger. In spite of the marks on his skin.

The only honorable part in him spoke up.

"Listen to me, Countess. This body of mine is built for fucking. Do you even know what that is? We're talking one-night stands, up against a wall, don't know her name and don't care kind of shit. You don't want that."

She looked downcast, as if he'd robbed her of something.

"Hell." He let out some of his frustration with a deep breath. Everything that he'd been dreaming about was in his arms but the only thing he could do was let it go. "Don't you understand? You deserve better than what I can give you. You need someone who's going to make love to you. Not screw you and then leave you and your bed in a mess."

"You wouldn't do that."

"Oh yes, I would." Smith couldn't turn away but didn't want to kiss her because he knew he'd be lost.

So he pushed his hands into the waves of her hair and pulled them forward. The ends landed below her breasts, which were rising and falling as she breathed through her mouth. He lifted a strand and carried it forward to his nose. Breathing in, he caught the fragrance of jasmine. As he let the hair fall, he watched it settle between her breasts and curl obligingly around one silk-covered nipple.

Sweet Jesus, he wanted her.

He looked at her lips. They were parted, bow-shaped, tender.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said darkly. The truth was a surprise.

"I know." She reached up and touched his face, moving her palm down over the rasp of his beard growth. "But I don't want to be saved. That's not what I want. Not tonight."

Fighting himself was hard. Turning her down was ... impossible.

Smith bent forward and softly he stroked her mouth with his own. When he heard her moan, he put more pressure into the kiss and gathered her into his arms. As his tongue stole out to lick her lower lip, he felt her hands grip on to him. Moving even closer, he explored her mouth, delving deeper and deeper.

His fingers went to the straps of her nightgown. Slowly, he released the satin ribbons from her shoulders until she was bare to his eyes and the silk bodice was a pool around her hips. Blood roared in his ears and he pulled her down to the bed so that she was lying back against the lace covered duvet. He began to kiss the skin at her collarbone and then went lower, ravishing her breasts and then her stomach.

With growing urgency, his hands moved over the swell of her hips and down her thighs. Going under the thin wisp of her nightgown, he stroked her legs, pushing the fragile silk up as he went.

When Smith slid his hand to her inner thigh, he felt the soft skin and the heat coming off of her. As he moved higher, he relished the sensation of her undulating underneath him and he looked up. The image of her with her arched back and her head cocked at an angle so she could watch him was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

He put his mouth on her stomach, just below her belly button, and prayed for self control. As his hands moved ever closer to her core, his mouth followed, kissing her skin through the silk. He had every intention of learning her intimately. With his fingers. His tongue. His body.

Smith's excitement grew to such heights that at first he didn't notice when her hands began to push against his shoulders. She started to thrash around but he assumed it was from the same passion he was feeling.

He was wrong.

"No! Stop!" Grace said, with alarm, jack knifing up straight.

She began to struggle with the nightgown and then gave up, pulling over a pillow to cover her breasts. She was shaking and pale.

Smith shifted to the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. He was fighting to slow down the raging hunger in his body, cursing himself with every ragged breath.

"I'm—I'm sorry," she said softly. She reached out to him, touched his arm.

He yanked back. The last thing he needed was her hand on him. Not while he was trying to convince his inner caveman to get civilized.

"It's not that I don't want to..."

"But the wrong side of the tracks was tougher to visit than you'd thought?" His voice was hoarse.

"Good God, no. It's not that at all. It's just that... my husband—"

"I don't really want to hear about him right now, if you don't mind." Smith got to his feet. He needed to get the hell away from her. "Good night, Countess."

He left in a rush, walking back to his room in long, angry strides. He wanted to close all of the doors between them.

Lock them tight, for Chrissakes. He felt like,he needed something a hell of a lot more sturdy than his will to keep them apart.