Anywhere You Are (2 page)

“Do you always argue with people when they're trying to help you?” he said to her upturned face.

“Do you always wear suits when you go hiking?” she retorted.

“Actually, yes,” he snapped, well past his breaking point.

She simply stared at him and for a moment he thought she was going to either give him sass or balk once again, but she did neither. Instead, she slid those sunglasses back up on top of her head, a look of wonder on her face.

“Where did you come from?”

“Manhattan,” he said brusquely. “Now if you don't mind, I have a meeting at two.”

Unsurprisingly, she didn't take the hint to get a move on, and instead gave him a smile—a slow, brilliant smile that transformed her face and revealed a small gap between her two front teeth—and
holy hell,
that perfect imperfection took his breath away.

She wasn't just beautiful.

She was gorgeous—the kind of natural, real gorgeous that brought you to your knees. The kind of gorgeous that erased the pain of the day and made you want to be a better man. A different man.

Give me more.

“What's your name?” he rasped.

She hesitated just a fraction before she spoke. “Grace.”

The name didn't fit, but then again, nothing about her did. And he found that he didn't just like it, he
loved
it—a mystery that he wanted to unravel, piece by glorious piece. A wild challenge, and
Christ,
this was Kiera all over again.

He was slowly coming undone, and nothing he could do was going to stop it. Not until he'd ruined himself all over again.

There was a reason he didn't deviate from the norm, from the careful, stiff women he usually dated. To do so caused pain. Hurt. Emotions he never wanted to revisit.

He shook his head to clear it and bent down. “Just wrap your arms around my neck,” he said gruffly.

Fortunately, she didn't put up any more of a fight, but did as he asked. He got his arms under her legs and around her back. Her big skirt masked just how small she was, since he was able to lift her easily and tuck her against his body, close enough to feel her heart hammering against his ribs, close enough to smell her scent—lightly floral and delicately feminine.

She shivered a little, and damned if that didn't crack his armor all over again. He gave her a squeeze of reassurance. “It's okay,” he said. “Safe, remember?”

“I remember,” she said, and offered him a little smile.

She trusts me.

He fought back against the shocking surge of pleasure.

He was an idiot. A masochist who needed his head examined. Except he didn't have the time or the patience to visit a shrink. He needed a plan, and fast.

He'd already committed to taking her to the hospital, and he never went back on his word. So he'd take her there and then get those friends of hers—wherever they were—to come fetch her. Because he knew with the utmost certainty that no matter how fun or intelligent or bohemian or beautiful she was, sticking around was only going to end badly for him.

And he wouldn't let that happen.

Not ever again.

“Here you go,” the sweet-faced hostess said as she deposited their menus in their waiting hands. “A server will be with you shortly.”

Grace Davingham eyed the woman's back as she returned to her stand, willing her not to turn around and take another look. Her voodoo magic must have worked, since the hostess simply went to help a group of middle-aged men who were waiting to be seated.

Satisfied, Grace swiveled her gaze to Marc, who sat stiffly across the table, his head buried in his menu, his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, a little open at the collar, silver cuff links glinting at his wrists. Good-looking men abounded in her world—her old world, anyway—but there were none who carried themselves the way Marcus Colby did.

Self-assured, but not cocky. Confident, but not smug. In other words, a man who knew who he was and didn't feel the need to explain it to anyone.

He was tall, and being tucked into a snug booth made him look even larger. His thick, dark hair lay perfectly across his forehead, his expression was serious, and a tiny muscle ticked in his jaw. He wasn't smiling—no surprises there, given that she hadn't seen a smile from him yet—and he kept sneaking peeks at his very large, very expensive-looking watch. His skin was a lovely golden brown, and given that she doubted he took frequent vacations, he probably spent time in the sun for his job.

He wasn't perfect. There was that perpetually severe expression, for one thing. And he had a scar—a small one that shot across his cheekbone like the tail of a shooting star, a half-inch line of white against his skin.

Marc glanced over at her, frowned slightly at her casual perusal of his form, then went back to his menu.

She continued to eye him, wanting to muss his perfect dark hair and rumple his immaculately pressed shirt—still creaseless, despite the trek through the woods—to see if underneath his serious clothes his skin was as golden brown as the skin on his face and hands. In other words, dirty him up a little.

He'd look good dirty.

He'd feel good dirty, too. From the way he'd carried her, his absolute fluidity indicated he knew how to move. How to handle her.

A small shiver coursed through her. But she was getting ahead of herself. Way, way ahead of herself.

She racked her brain for what she knew about him. Admittedly, it wasn't much. Carolyn Rivington, a friend who worked at Briarwood as their events manager, had told her that he was the most serious of the three Briarwood partners. He was a little older, too—in his late thirties—and he hadn't recognized her, probably because he didn't waste time watching reality TV.

Carolyn had also mentioned that Marc didn't put up with any of Jake Gaffney's attitude, and from what she'd heard, Jake Gaffney had a
lot
of attitude. That meant Marc was tough, too.

She already knew that.

But although he'd been a little brusque, he'd been gentle with her since he'd carried her out of the woods. And he'd waited with her at the hospital and taken her to lunch—despite the fact that it had been obvious he hadn't truly wanted to.

Grace frowned. He wouldn't be happy when he realized she hadn't been exactly forthcoming about who she was. Not a bit.

Adapting an air of insouciance, Grace slouched in the booth, strategically holding the menu so as to guard her face from the rest of the restaurant. Despite the crowds, she hadn't been recognized—yet. If she played her cards right, she wouldn't be at all, especially by Marc.

Because how did you explain to a virtual stranger…to anyone, really…that Jerry Davingham—
the
Jerry Davingham—was your dad? That your mom was a supermodel whose legs were insured by Lloyds of London for millions of dollars? That your two younger brothers ran around doing nothing of substance except allow themselves to be filmed for fame?

You didn't.

Because then you couldn't trust him.

For a while, Grace had played the game. After art school, she'd tooled around with her family, appeared in all the right places at the right times—vacations, fashion shows, parties—and smiled at all the right people. Until she realized that in chasing fame, she'd lost herself.

She'd learned the hard way that the glare from a flashbulb was soul-sucking, that sometimes even seemingly ordinary people wanted a taste of fame, and that finding love—true love—wasn't really possible when everybody knew your name.

So she'd bowed out of the game, the race, the life.

She was much happier in Eastbridge than she'd ever been in Manhattan or London. In her refurbished farmhouse out in the woods, she worked on her art and her projects, grew flowers in her hothouse, and relaxed with the few friends who truly
got
her, away from the insanity of her in-your-face family.

Not that her parents and brothers didn't try to drag her back into their crazy, especially when it came to their show,
The Evergood Life.
They did. Weekly. But so far, she'd resisted.

Over time, she hoped she'd be known for her art rather than for her name or, worse, her face. Her disappearance from the limelight a few years ago was helping her regain some anonymity, and she wanted to keep it that way. Maybe someday, things might even be
normal.

She could only dream.

Because even her normal wasn't normal. Case in point: the hike that had gone to hell in a handbasket faster than she could say
Grammy Award.
She prayed that lunch wouldn't follow suit because despite his dour attitude, she was starting to like Marc.

He was frowning now. Oh, he definitely would rather be somewhere else, but no—he was the perfect gentleman, helping her out of the woods and into urgent care, and even offering to feed her after she'd been cleared. He was a little stiff—okay, make that a lot stiff—but honestly, it was refreshing.

Most of the guys she'd dated were just as messed up as she was. Like the film producer who took her to the Empire State Building—and tried to climb the security gate on the observation deck in a misguided publicity stunt. A trip to the Midtown South Precinct? Not sexy.

Or the extreme athlete who took her racing through the streets of Manhattan after dark with a rabid pack of screaming die-hard in-line skaters…without asking her if she knew how to skate beforehand? More than Grace's pride had been bruised that night.

And don't get her started on the dozens of groupies, fame-mongers, and rock star wannabes, wanting to get a piece of her and her parents.

Marc finally seemed to have made up his mind about his order, since he very decisively closed the menu and pushed it toward the center of the table. His clear, cool gaze met hers.

“Do you know what you want?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” she said, not really having studied the menu. “Maybe the turkey club?” Every diner had a turkey club. She hoped.

He nodded approvingly, but then frowned. “I'm amazed you could read with those sunglasses on.”

“It's my eyes,” she lied, shoving them more firmly on her face. “Very sensitive.”

“Right. Your eyes,” he said in a tone that indicated he believed her not at all. He glanced at his watch again.

“Are you sure you have time for this?” she asked, her tone arch.

“Yes,” he said, seemingly oblivious to her subtext. “My appointment is in an hour.”

“My place would have been faster.” She'd tried—and failed—to convince Marc to join her at her house, away from prying eyes and anyone who might recognize her.

“But this place is closer to where I ultimately need to be.” He glanced around, as if looking for someone—the server, maybe?—and then focused his gaze back on her. “I still don't know how you managed to get out of urgent care that quickly,” he said, his gray eyes sharp behind his glasses, as if he already knew all her secrets. “There must have been forty people waiting to be seen before us.”

Grace shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess. My injuries weren't that serious. Bruising and a tendon tear, but no broken bones. They say everything should heal up in a month or so if I wear the supportive braces and use the crutches they gave me.”

Truth was, the triage nurse had known exactly who she was and had insisted she be seen more quickly—
to avoid any security issues,
she'd said. Given that everything about Marc screamed
order,
Grace guessed that telling him about skipping the line wouldn't go over so well.

“Is your leg feeling better with the braces on?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He made a little noise of approval in his throat. “Good.”

Forget stiff. He was warm when he wanted to be. And he was real, too. Case in point: almost everyone else around them had their noses buried in their cellphones, whereas Marc looked her straight in the eye when he talked to her. He'd done that in the hospital waiting room, too. Kept the focus on her when she was there, and read a newspaper—an actual, physical newspaper—when she'd gone back to get checked out by the doctor.

Guilt suddenly swamped her. She'd ruined his hike, disrupted his whole day, and here he was, sitting here, about to eat lunch with her—a lunch he probably didn't even want.

“I'm so sorry for all of…well,
this,
” she told him. “I know you're anxious to get to your meeting, so please take off. I'll be fine. I can easily get a cab home from here.”

“Absolutely not,” he said with a frown. “I promised you lunch and a ride home, and that's what you're going to get.”

“I really appreciate you helping me,” she said softly. “I don't know how I would have made it out of the woods otherwise.”

For a moment, he looked as though he were going to say something else. Then he shook his head ever so slightly. “Your friends know where you are, right?”

She nodded. “Yes. I called them when you stepped out to take that phone call. We're cool.” Okay, not really. They'd freaked out, but that was a mess she'd have to fix later with lots of apologies and even more wine.

The hike with Carolyn and Jane Pringle was supposed to have been fun, the kind of normal thing friends did with one another on a summer weekend. She'd met the two women by chance at Jane's bakery last month, and they'd hit it off immediately. And they hadn't been judgy or weird—not even when they found out who she was.

Now they'd probably think she was certifiable.

“Do you go on hikes often?” he asked.

“I'm in the woods a lot for work, but no, I don't go on formal hikes. Today was my first in a while, hence the new shoes and the tripping.”

“What do you do that your work is in the woods?”

“I'm an artist,” she told him, waiting for his reaction.

He didn't even blink. “Fascinating. What medium?”

“Painting,” she said, shocked that he even knew what kind of question to ask. “Oil and watercolor, mostly. I just completed a set of ten prints for an article on plants of New England for
Nature
and I'm currently doing a series of local fauna for the Audubon Society. I'm also starting work on a new project—a book about endangered birds in Connecticut. I'm extremely excited about that one.”

“Why? That is, if you don't mind my asking.”

He seemed genuinely interested and not at all dismissive of her choice of career, so she rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “Not at all. It'd be my first book, which is amazing and a great professional opportunity, but really it's about raising awareness for conservation. I want to help shine light on the depletion of our natural resources and the destruction of habitats and species.”

“I take it you don't think too highly of
my
profession, then,” he said, his tone wry.

“Human beings are organisms, too. They need food, water, and shelter, just like every other animal. It's when that shelter encroaches on the environment in an unsustainable way that I take issue.”

Marc blinked twice, very fast. “I have to say,” he started slowly, “you are definitely not what I expected to find when I went for my walk this morning.”

“Same,” she said honestly. “I mean, it's not every day that I meet a man who looks like he should be on the cover of
Esquire
traipsing through a nature preserve.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she saw just a hint of mirth in those gray eyes, the slightest crack in his armor as his gaze went from cool to warm. “I don't traipse.”

“Fine. You weren't traipsing,” she conceded. “But I'm still a little thrown that you were hiking in a suit. Or maybe you really like to hike in something even more formal? A tux, perhaps? I'm sure you have one of those old things lying around somewhere.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Two, actually,” he said, his voice deadpan. So Marcus Colby
did
have a sense of humor—a dry one she liked very much.

She raised an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“That's all a man needs, really. A winter-weight wool tux for higher-altitude hiking, and a cotton silk for lower altitudes.”

“I see,” she said, trying to sound as serious as he did. “What about for sea level?”

He leaned forward, just a fraction, and she leaned forward too, waiting. The color of his eyes had gone smoky, warm and unbelievably inviting. “You'll just have to come hiking with me to find out.” There was nothing cool or proper about the way he was looking at her—hungrily. Possessively.

She shuddered in the most delicious way and licked her lips. “Are—are you asking me out?”

Before he had a chance to respond, the server came over.

“Welcome to the Sherwood Diner. Can I get you started with some drinks?”

Grace glanced over to Marc, but he had leaned back, his gaze once again cool. “I think we're ready to order,” he said, back to business as usual. “The lady will have the…” He looked expectantly at her.