She was swaying on her feet, cold and wounded, and he snapped out of his reverie. Just being near her seemed to slow his thought processes down, make him clumsy and stupid. He couldn’t stand to see her like this, hurting and sad. She was his responsibility, now. He had to start taking care of her.

“I need to go home,” she whispered, eyes searching his. He didn’t know what she was looking for. Permission? Or was she seeking some sign that he meant her harm?

“Grace,” he said. “May I call you Grace? I heard you telling Ben your name.”

As if he didn’t know her name. As if it weren’t engraved on his mind.

She nodded, eyes huge.

“All right then, Grace.” Slowly, Drake drew in a deep breath, a prelude to what he had to tell her. He was only going to give her a small part of the truth, but even that was going to be hard for her to take. The whole truth would wipe her out. He’d have to portion it out to her over the next few days. “I think you should stay here, with me, for a…while. Until we’re sure it’s safe for you to return.” Her eyes widened. “The men who came after me, they can easily find out where you live. They could come after you and probably will.”

He made it sound like a probability, whereas it was a certainty. No one would have made a move like that without knowing everything about the players. They knew enough to use her as leverage against him. No fucking way they didn’t have her address. No fucking way there wasn’t an army camped out on her doorstep, just waiting to take her down.

What little color Grace had in her face left. She was the color of ice. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” she whispered.

No, she wouldn’t have. This wasn’t her world. Her world was full of beautiful shapes and colors. She swayed again and Drake caught her gently by the elbow.

“Ben,” he said, without taking his eyes from hers, “leave the medicines we should be taking on the table. Thanks.”

Ben understood that for the dismissal it was. A moment later, the door closed quietly behind him.

Drake waited for him to leave his apartment, then opened the door into the corridor. His quarters were seven large rooms making up one side of a skyscraper, all opening out onto a big corridor.

Drake ushered Grace out. This was in many ways a dream come true. All this past year, he’d caught himself wishing he could be with her. Wishing they could eat together, spend time together. And deep down, where no one could possibly know his thoughts, wishing that this beautiful woman could be his.

She was his now, all right. But not for long, because fate had dealt him a cruel, cruel blow. Thanks to him, this gentle, beautiful woman’s life was now over.

Thanks to him, Grace Larsen was a dead woman walking.

Six

Grace was freezing cold. The temperature in the house was normal but she seemed to have a frozen core that simply wouldn’t warm up.

It was all starting to catch up with her and she longed for the comfort and familiarity of home. Yearned for it with all her heart.

But when Drake told her that whoever had come after him would come after her, she’d felt a shock of recognition. She’d seen with her own eyes how ruthless the men who’d come after Drake were. How they hadn’t hesitated to use her to get to him.

Finding her address would be easy. Harold’s office had her address on file. If they knew her name, she was in the phone book. She shook at the thought of being alone in her apartment with killers coming for her.

Drake took her elbow and again, where his skin touched hers, heat bloomed. He bent his head to hers, face still, voice low and courteous.

“Would you like to wash up before eating something? It might make you feel better.”

Oh God, a bath! Right then, Grace wanted a bath more than she wanted food or the oblivion of sleep. Sinking into clean, warm water, soaking her aching muscles—bliss. She nodded, clenching her jaws so her teeth wouldn’t clatter.

“Come with me.” He led her down the enormous corridor. Ben had disappeared and they were alone. She looked around, really noticing her surroundings for the first time.

It was the most…sumptuous home Grace had ever seen. And filled with color. They were walking on antique Persian rugs in the deepest reds and greens and blues she’d ever seen. Huge enameled vases in deep, bold hues held thriving plants as big as trees. They passed an open door that obviously led into the living room, so enormous the other end of it was lost in shadows, with comfortable, masculine-looking furniture arranged in groupings, one around a huge lit fireplace.

Finally, they reached a big wooden door. Drake reached around her to open it, then ushered her in.

It was a bedroom. His bedroom. “The master bathroom’s through there,” he murmured, nodding his head at another door at the end of the huge room. “I’ve had the bath drawn for you.” He looked at her torn and dirty clothes and smiled faintly. “You’ll want to change, but nothing of mine would fit you so I had one of my gis laid out for you. I hope you’ll find it suitable. It’s brand new, I’ve never worn it. It’s the only thing I can think of to give you. At least it will be comfortable and clean.”

“Thank you,” she said politely. “That’s very kind. What’s a gi?”

Again, that little half smile. “A gi is a training uniform for a number of martial arts. It has a kimono-like top and pants with drawstrings, so you can just cinch everything more tightly around you. You’ll find it on top of the towel cabinet, together with everything you’ll need for a bath.”

He obviously had somehow found the time to give instructions to the army of servants he undoubtedly had to run such an enormous household. But when? She’d have sworn that she’d heard every word he’d uttered since arriving here.

“Okay, thanks.”

He nodded his head and, cupping her elbow, led her toward the door on the far side of the room.

It felt like it took half an hour to cross his bedroom. She’d never seen a room so large. It was at least as large as the loft of one of Harold’s sculptors in Tribeca. Only this wasn’t minimalist black-on-white Manhattan décor; it was almost barbaric in its splendor.

There was a huge antique four-poster that could sleep a basketball team, with rich emerald-green sheets made of expensive polished cotton. And they’d definitely have to have been custom-made: no commercially made sheets would fit that huge bed. Her hands itched to touch the material, it looked so thick and soft. With an emerald-green custom-made down comforter on top.

Her own bed was nice. She’d splurged on a big bed with an orthopedic mattress, and she liked pretty sheets, but it was nothing like this.

Plants here, too. Huge and lush and thriving. The air had that freshness only plants could give a room.

Plush carpets in jewel tones were everywhere, and living-room sets were scattered throughout the huge space, creating intimate little corners.

They passed by a hearth made of black marble that was big enough to roast an elephant in. Someone had lit the fire at least an hour ago, because the fire was mature, its smokeless red-orange flames licking greedily upward.

Colors. There were so many rich, deep colors everywhere, and she realized how color starved she was in Manhattan, where everything seemed to be either black or white or—when designers went really wild—taupe and ecru.

Color was a gift from the gods, and how anyone could live in a black-and-white environment puzzled her endlessly. Here there was no dearth of colors. Colors and textures and—she had to keep from gasping—a view to kill for. They were very high up. The lights of Manhattan were spread out like an array of diamonds all across one wall. Thick green curtains hung at the edges of the big windows. At midday, the place must be flooded with light. She could see the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building in the distance, and a deep black square close by that must be Central Park, so they were in a serious money zone. This kind of space in these zip codes was way up there in the mega-rich category.