What kind of ring would he give her? It'd be nothing like the carats and carats of sapphire he was holding. It would be simple. A band, maybe—
He shook his head. He wasn't buying rings for anyone.
And certainly not for her.
He was a reformed juvenile delinquent, an ex-military man, a former spy. He sure as hell wasn't the right guy to become the second husband of Grace Woodward Hall, previously known as the Countess von Sharone.
Period, end of story.
He let the sapphire slip out of his fingers and watched as it bounced and then wobbled to a standstill.
He was surprised he'd even thought about marriage at all, even if it was just hypothetical. Wives were even more of a no-no than girlfriends in his line of work, because families were the ultimate threat to clear thinking. The more ties you had to people, the more stability you courted, the more chances you had to be vulnerable.
He'd always thought it was a mistake for people to assume that if they had a home and a wife and a couple of kids that somehow the world was a safe place. A lot of them figured that just because they had a cup of coffee sitting across the table from the same person every morning they were somehow secure. Smith knew otherwise. Like everyone else, those folks were bargaining with fate; they just didn't know they were at the negotiating table.
He knew he was better off alone, because as long as he was a solo operator, all he had to worry about was death.
And that was one force of nature that didn't scare him. Once you were dead, nothing mattered.
His clarity of thinking about the pitfalls of families had always been a source of pride but now, he wasn't feeling quite so self-satisfied. Meeting Grace was changing what he thought about having a home. For the first time, he could understand the attraction of dependents. The truth was, he liked hearing her move around at night. He liked seeing her in her bathrobe in the morning with her hair a mess. He liked the way she snored softly when she slept on her back. He liked her warmth next to him—
Smith's instincts pricked to attention.
He listened carefully to the silence of the penthouse for only a moment and then he ran down the hall. He looked in the living room, the dining room, and then pushed his way into the kitchen. When he burst out into the front hall, a voice inside of his head had started screaming.
* * *
As Grace stared up at the woman, she blinked away the rain that was falling into her eyes. She felt the hard pavement under her butt, the cold, wet sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders, a hot stinging pain in her leg.
So this had to be real, she thought.
“I don't have a sister," she whispered even though her eyes were telling her otherwise. The resemblance to her father was subtle but undeniable and a feeling of betrayal came over her in a sickening rush.
"How do you know about Starfish?" she demanded roughly.
The reply was soft and full of pauses, as if the woman wasn't sure how Grace would react.
"When I was little, I saw a picture of you and him in the newspaper and I asked who you were. He said you were his other daughter and I wanted to know what your name was. He told me it was Starfish. I've always thought of you as that. Even when I learned your real name."
Grace felt a sting of jealousy go through her, that this other person, this stranger, knew the special name her father had given her.
How dare he be dead when this all comes out, she thought, irrationally.
As she struggled to her feet, the woman put out her hand hut Grace refused the gesture.
The woman's arm slowly fell to her side. "I should have written to you first but I figured you'd think I was some kind of crook. You probably do, anyway. I just needed to meet you in person. I've seen you in pictures for so many years. It was like you weren't real. So beautiful and glamorous. I used to pretend..." A sad smile stretched her lips. "I just wanted to meet the other part of him. The bigger part... of my father."
Grace stared at the woman. Rain was darkening her red hair, laying it flat and wet on her scalp. Her blue eyes seemed to have old shadows behind them.
"What's your name again?" Grace asked.
"Callie. Actually, it's Calla Lily."
A shiver went through Grace. The name. The name she'd heard her father say in the dream.
She shook her head, feeling reality shift and spin as her brain struggled to reorder her life.
Grace refocused on the woman. "You look like him."
"I know. It's the red hair, I think."
"Your eyes, too." Grace heard the anger in her own voice.
She wanted to tell the woman to go to hell, to accuse her of lying. At the very least, she wanted to have never gone out for the run, as if that would have somehow magically prevented their meeting.
"I know this must be a shock."
Now there was an understatement.