"What's so funny?" Smith reached over and hit the button to summon the elevator. His blue eyes moved over to her lazily, as if he might not really care what was amusing her.
So she made sure to tell him.
"I'm wondering what you're going to think when you take a shower tomorrow morning and have to use my lavender-scented soap." She smothered another fit of laughter born out of tension. "Are you sure you don't need anything? A razor? A comb? Or do you roll out of bed looking like your bad-ass self?"
"Well, what do you know. The countess knows a curse word," Smith remarked as the elevator arrived.
"I'm quite well-versed in the use of slang," she said. "Just the other day, I dropped a jar on my foot and swore a blue streak."
"Was it caviar?"
"No, shoe polish."
"Now that's another surprise." He bowed slightly at the waist as he held the door. "Your Highness."
She frowned. He was mocking her again and, stupidly, it hurt her feelings.
Because he was, after all, going to be living with her. Even if they were never going to be friends, surely they could both make an effort to be respectful of each other? She was certainly willing to work on getting along with him. Even if she vacillated between wanting to yell at him and ...
She wasn't going to let herself think about kissing him again.
"Just call me Grace, would you," she muttered while stepping inside. "That royal title nonsense is grating."
* * *
In the tight confines of the elevator, Smith was itching for the doors to reopen.
Grace was standing in front of him so he had a good look at the back of her neck, which was the last thing he needed. All the way up the building, he kept picturing his hands sliding around her waist and pulling her back against his body, tilting her head around so he could kiss her long and hard.
If the damn elevator was going up any slower, it'd be heading for the basement, he thought with a curse.
Working with the countess was going to be difficult. While riding in the limo with her, he'd had to stare out the window so he didn't linger on the generous expanse of leg revealed by her dress. And when he'd sensed her looking at him, he had been damn tempted to give her exactly what those eyes of hers had been asking for.
Hell, he'd even been annoyed to learn she'd been faithful to her husband. As if that aristocrat deserved it after the way he'd looked at her father's funeral.
When the doors finally slid open, he felt a surge of release as they stepped out into a hallway.
There were two unmarked doors at either end of the short corridor as well as a third that had a glowing red exit sign over it.
He heard the ringing sound of keys as she opened the door to the left. As soon as she stepped inside, she kicked off her high heels and sighed before padding around, flipping on lights.
Smith was impressed by her home but not surprised. He figured she'd live in one hell of a place. The penthouse had twelve-foot ceilings, a spectacular view, and period details from the turn of the century. The woodwork alone, from the moldings to the hardwood floor, was worth a mint, and it didn't hurt that her antique furniture and paintings were museum-quality.
"I suppose I should give you a tour," she said without much enthusiasm.
It was late and she must be exhausted but he needed to know the layout and he doubted she'd feel comfortable with him snooping around by himself.
“Lead on," he said, nodding.
As he followed her into the living room, he noted several sets of double doors that opened out onto a terrace, which was lit up. There was a lot of silk-covered furniture, antique side tables, and oriental lamps. A grand piano took up one corner.
He walked over to an impressive, marbled fireplace. Over the ornate mantel was an oil painting of a mountain scene. In it, a British redcoat was bathed in a shaft of light breaking through a dark and troubled sky.
"Nice picture," he said idly.
"Thank you, I just bought it. It's a Thomas Cole. I collect Hudson River School works."
Smith got the distinct impression she was eager to get the tour over with but he wasn't going to be rushed. While he was looking at her decor, he was noting the motion sensors in the room, which were no doubt wired into a security system. She obviously hadn't bothered to turn the thing on, however, because she hadn't deactivated it when they'd walked into her home.
He paused next to a table with a series of photographs on it. She was in many of them, looking happy next to all sorts of people, some of whom he recognized as powerful or famous. One picture interested him most. It was a candid black-and-white of her and her father in a thick silver frame. Their smiles were radiant, her eyes full of love and affection as she looked at the man. There wasn't anything staged about it, nothing glamorous. Just a father and a daughter, enjoying each other's company.