“My other clients don’t buy me clothing.” She’d had some bring gifts, the kind that had made her feel awkward and—
“What sizes do you wear?”
The close confines of the darkened interior of the back of the limo felt entirely too intimate without him asking personal questions about her clothing.
She shifted to another seat to make room and redirected the conversation. “Turn sideways on the seat so you can stretch your leg out there. Any elevation will help with the swelling.” Ice would have been more helpful, but she hadn’t brought any.
A few seconds ticked by and she heard, “You’re ignoring me?” Incredulity rang in his voice, making her want to turn and look at him.
Then again, everything made her want to look at him. He was singularly the most attractive person she’d ever seen in person—even years later and working at The Hollywood Hills Clinic, which was peopled daily with the beautiful and glamorous.
And her reaction to him was precisely the reason she needed to avoid looking at him excessively or, as it would probably be called, staring in a starstruck and creepy fashion. Though, admittedly, the more he banged this shopping drum, the less she felt like gazing at him like a lovesick cow, and more like smacking him in the back of the head.
Precisely why she needed to keep all talking strictly professional.
“I’m pretending you didn’t just ask a c—” The word creepy nearly sprang out of her mouth, but she managed to stomp the sound down before she used unprofessional language. “It’s really not workplace etiquette to ask those kinds of questions. So, just let me handle any clothing needs I may have on my own.”
“We don’t have time for this, Grace. I’d really rather you blend in, and the clinic logo and your name on your shirt do not help you blend in.” A pause and he repeated into the phone, “I’d like her to blend in with the group.”
His group—she was going to assume that meant his people, in the ol’ I’ll Have My People Call You scenario. So Liam called them his group.
“Right. Slacks. Blouses. Shoes. Accessories...”
Accessories. Of course, how could she forget accessories? She had accessories. She just hadn’t thought to mention them.
“No. She’s tall, but not six feet. Probably about a head shorter than me. Compact and slim, but not so much skinny as athletic. She’s...”
He wasn’t going to stop. Next thing he would be trying to describe her curves or ask her cup size, which would just bring that stupid trench-coat situation back to his mind. This was worse than just giving the fool her sizes. “Please, Liam.” She tried his name again.
“I’ll snap a photo of her and send it to you when we get to the hotel.”
“For goodness’ sake, stop!” Exasperated, she turned to look at him, holding out her hand for the phone. “Stop and I will text her my sizes.”
“Him.”
“Him! Whatever!” She held out her hand for his phone, her voice rising with her blood pressure. “I will text him my sizes if it will get you off this and get your foot up on that seat. Every minute it is down on the floor like that, it’s swelling more. You know that, right, Superman?”
“Text coming,” he said into the phone. “And the picture in a little bit. If you can have them at the hotel in the morning, we’re leaving for New York at seven.” He hung up before handing her the phone and turning to prop his foot up, as she’d all but shrieked at him.
Good thing she wasn’t interested in seducing him. There was probably a reason that the low, velvety voice analogous with seduction was the opposite of a shriek.
A minute later, she double-checked the details she’d sent to Shopper Tom, as he was known to Liam’s phone. If he picked clothing she hated, she’d wear it the one time and then find someone at work who wanted the clothes. They were temporary, just like this assignment.
The thought failed to comfort her, and she returned her attention to the window, thrusting the phone at him and settling back into her not-speaking routine. She couldn’t display her freak-out voice if she wasn’t talking.
* * *
In order to maintain security, and probably so Liam wouldn’t be seen traveling with a woman whose shirt announced her position as physical therapist, the limo had gone around to the rear, private entrance of the hotel, where his group had met them.
Now, with him limping down the marble hallway in front of her—which no doubt led to the supremely classy yet neutral color-schemed heaven on the top floor—there was no room to doubt how bad an idea it was for him to be on the carpet tonight.
His three assistants bustled along with him, informing him how they’d set up the interviews. More walking, him making rounds to meet with reporters in different areas of the suite...
“That’s not going to work,” Grace cut in, and three sets of eyes turned to her. Liam’s didn’t, but his people had no idea she’d been complaining about him walking on it for at least ninety-seven percent of the time since she’d seen him. Mostly because it was a bad idea, and partly because she couldn’t complain about what she really wanted to complain about...
“What would you like us to do?” Liam asked, stopping at a nondescript elevator and pressing the call button. Maybe he came this way all the time?
“One, you need to be off your feet as much as possible if you’re going to have any hope of getting through the red carpet tonight. Two, you said you don’t want this advertised. Which? You’re limping like you’ve just suffered a back-alley amputation and are walking on a bloody stump.”
He smiled at her description and then nodded to his people. “She’s right. I don’t want to walk any more than I absolutely have to.”
Despite the smile he’d put on, there was a white ring around his mouth and his forehead glistened, though it was far from hot outside. Concealed pain. Ridiculous that he was so driven to conceal it.
But at least he wasn’t arguing.
Their elevator stopped again at the very top of the hotel. “A suite, I’m guessing?”
“The whole floor.” Liam nodded.
Naturally.
“Okay.” The door opened to a tiny room with an ornate fancy door. One of the assistants handled the lock.
“Here.” She thrust the rather large bag of medical supplies to the closest assistant, a pretty, petite thing who made Grace feel the antithesis of her name, and didn’t pause to see if she could bear the weight.
“I’m helping you, Liam,” Grace said, in what she hoped was a tone that brooked no argument. Even if she had to come back for the bag, she wouldn’t have the thing smacking into him and upsetting his already precarious balance. A second later and she had his arm over her shoulders and her own around his waist, “If you have the whole floor, no one is going to see me helping.”
A nod and he leaned, letting her take some of his weight, confirming
