She bristled at his tone and the expression. She could tell he didn't think much of her. So why had he come? As a favor to Nick?
"And I apologize for any inconvenience."
"How polite of you."
Silence stretched between them.
"I just don't think I'm in sufficient danger to justify a bodyguard."
"That so."
"Yes. Nick insisted on calling you. It wasn't my idea."
"Oh really."
Grace glared at him. He sent her a bored look in return.
He could at least pretend to be interested, she thought.
She crossed her arms over her chest, realized she was mimicking his pose and put her hands back in her lap. She had an absurd urge to yell at him because he was getting under her skin with all his terse silence, making her feel foolish and frivolous.
She narrowed her eyes and gave in to a childish urge to talk at him. Just to prove she could.
"I live in New York City and I work there, too. Have you ever heard of the Hall Foundation?" Before he could respond, she kept going, feeling like words were a way to burn off a little anxiety. A little frustration. Maybe of the sexual variety. She almost cringed. "My family started it in the late 1800s. We give grants to scholars, art historians, archaeologists, anyone who is seriously studying American history—"
He held his hand up to cut her off. There was a scar in the middle of his palm and she wondered how it got there. Hand-to-hand combat?
"I'll pass on the infomercial. Tell me something I don't know. You can leave out anything in the public domain."
Grace frowned at the curt words. "I live on Park Avenue—"
"I know."
"My office is at—"
A dark eyebrow arched. j
Grace shot him a level stare. "I hate musicals and Mexican food makes me gassy. I eat it anyway, though."
To her surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched.
So Mr. Tough Guy could lighten up after all, she thought with a flare of triumph.
"You didn't know either of those?" she challenged.
John Smith's eyes didn't waver from hers. “No.”
"Good. Let's see, I'm a fan of romance novels. Gaelen Foley writes these fabulous historicals—"
"I don't want to know what you read," he interrupted sardonically, "and I could care less about your intestinal tract. Why don't you get to the point."
Grace tightened her lips. Any chance of dismissing him in a polite, thoughtful way was fading fast. Her temper was starting to rear its thorny head and he seemed perfectly content to watch her boil while being the model of calm restraint.
Well, two could play at the cool, haughty routine. Thanks to her mother's arctic example, Grace was a master of the deep freeze.
She cleared her throat. "Tell you what, why don't you share what you've dug up about me? So I don't keep boring you."
Their eyes clashed as she waited for him to speak.
chapter
3
Sitting across from the countess, Smith could feel his temperature rising. As improbable as it seemed, the pristine woman perched on the sofa was managing to get under his skin again.
She was so damn beautiful sitting on that fancy piece of furniture. She'd arranged herself with precision, her legs crossed at the knees, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. With her hair coiled up on her head, and wearing that expensive, modestly cut suit, she was every bit the lady. Poised, graceful, elegant.
The countess shifted, recrossing her long legs.
His eyes traced her delicate ankles and her shapely calves and he felt a stab of pure, unfettered lust. He wondered what she'd look like without all those expensive clothes on and decided she'd probably fall over in a heap if someone asked her to put on sweatpants.
When he'd gotten the call from Farrell, he'd been tempted to turn the invitation down. His instincts told him that taking the Countess von Sharone on as a client would be a complicated affair and not just because of their kiss. She was world-renowned. An icon, for Chrissakes. And someone who, most likely, was a diva of the highest order, capable of making actors or opera singers look meek and self-deprecating.
But he'd come anyway. He was curious to see her in person one last time, if for no other reason than to prove that she was just a woman. A woman prettier than most maybe, but she was first and foremost a living, breathing person who would one day get liver spots and gray hair, just like everyone else. Nothing special.
Trying to find something unattractive, he scanned her closely, but only ended up focusing on the color of her eyes. They were a very icy green now that she was upset with him.
Damn fine color, he thought. Like a Granny Smith apple.
"Cat got your tongue," she prompted.
He frowned, thinking she was trying to bait him. It wasn't going to work this time. "You can't honestly be offended that I investigated your background?"