Kitabı oku: «Saving Grace»
Saving Grace
Patricia Rosemoor
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
About the Author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Copyright
Thanks as always to the members of my critique
group—Sherrill Bodine, Rosemary Paulas, Cheryl
Jefferson, Jude Mandell and Laurie DeMarino—who
brainstormed with me through the tough spots.
June 22, 1919
Donal McKenna,
Ye might have found happiness with another woman, but your progeny will pay for ths betrayal of me. I call on my faerie blood and my powers as a witch to give yers only sorrow in love, for should they act on their feelings, they will put their loved ones in mortal danger.
So be it,
Sheelin O’Keefe
About the Author
PATRICIA ROSEMOOR has always had a fascination with dangerous love. She loves bringing a mix of thrills and chills and romance to Intrigue readers. She’s won a Golden Heart from Romance Writers of America and Reviewers’ Choice and Career Achievement Awards from RT Book Reviews. She teaches courses on writing popular fiction and suspense thriller writing in the fiction writing department of Columbia College Chicago. Check out her website, www.PatriciaRosemoor. com. You can contact Patricia via e-mail at Patricia@ PatriciaRosemoor.com.
Chapter One
She was the most stunning creature he’d ever seen.
The raven-haired woman entered through a door that should have been locked. It was well after ten. Behind her, the street was muted with fog that curled over the pavement and up the streetlights. Declan McKenna stood frozen at the front desk of Vieux Carré Investigations and let the stapler he’d just picked up tumble from his fingers back to the desktop.
“I need you,” she said, her low, throaty voice sizzling down his spine.
“Then have me. I’m yours.”
A perfectly arched brow revealed her annoyance with his attempt at humor. “I need your services,” she amended. “Your professional services. You are a private investigator?”
“Forgive me. You took me by surprise.” He straightened. “Declan McKenna, one of the owners of Vieux Carre Investigations.” His cousin and partner, Ian, was out of town, the reason Declan had spent all night wrestling with paperwork. They didn’t have any other employees, not while they were working to get the business in the black, so they had to do everything from footwork to accounting.
“I’m Grace Broussard.”
Declan moved to his office door and held out an arm to invite her in. “Please.”
Closing the outside door, she stepped forward.
What an eyeful she was in a sleek black dress, both sides slitted to reveal glimpses of long, long legs. Her raven hair dusted her shoulders and came to a peak at her waist. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen her before. Mesmerized by the length of Grace’s spine as she moved into the office before him, Declan removed his jacket.
She was making him sweat.
Grace took a seat, and Declan rounded his desk, one of the many antiques adorning the office. Not Declan’s taste. Not Ian’s, either. They’d bought the business, lock, stock and furniture, from the previous owner. The decor was appropriate for a business situated in the French Quarter, so they hadn’t changed anything, not even the dark green paint on the walls.
Declan hung his jacket on the back of his chair and sat. “What can I do for you, Ms. Broussard?”
“Grace, please. I need you to find out who’s been following me.”
“What makes you think you’re being followed?”
Not that he disbelieved her. Most likely more than one man had followed her at some time or other.
“Let’s say my senses are sharp, in tune with my surroundings. I’ve been aware of someone following me several times in the past two weeks.”
“Did you see who?”
“No, but I’m not imagining it. I thought perhaps it was a fan. But then there are these.” She opened her purse and pulled out several folded sheets of cream-colored paper. “The first came in the mail at work.”
Unfolding one of the missives, she placed it on the desk and slid it toward him. He stared at the words printed in caps.
I’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU
She placed the second sheet on top of the first. There was a little hitch in her voice when she said, “The second message was delivered to me at a social gathering. A charity dinner. I found it under my plate.”
I SEE EVERYTHING YOU DO
“And now there’s this, pushed under my apartment door sometime during the night. Or maybe that’s what woke me up so early this morning.”
Her hand was shaking now as she smoothed out the final note. Declan stared at the four words printed neatly in the middle of the third missive.
I CAN EXPOSE YOU
“Do you know what the threat means?” he asked. “It must have something to do with my work.” “Which is …?”
“I represent a new line of designer clothing called Voodoo.”
Declan snapped to and felt a flush creep up his neck as he placed her—that ad in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Her lying across a red satin-covered bed, back arched, arm lazily thrown over her head, the words under the photo: Voodoo … Put A Spell On Him Tonight….
He’d wanted the woman in that ad to put a spell on him!
Clearing his throat, he said, “Sounds like this could be a stalker. Have you been to the police?”
“No police,” she said. “Not unless absolutely necessary.”
“Tell me why.”
Grace took a big breath. “Bad publicity could be devastating to my mother’s career. She’s an assistant district attorney and slated to fill a judicial vacancy. And then there’s my brother, a city council member up for re-election. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if I somehow ruined the lives of the people I love.”
As a man who believed in family loyalty, Declan was impressed. Grace’s emotions were raw, right on the surface. A person didn’t have to be an empath to read her. But as a McKenna, he could do so more quickly and more deeply than the average person. All the members of his family had some native ability—his being able to read anyone’s emotions.
“So, I gather you’d like us to provide you with a bodyguard.”
“No!” Her depthless gray eyes widened. “I can’t have someone following me around every moment. I want you to figure out who this pervert is and help me find a way to dissuade him from doing anything I would regret.”
“To find him, I would have to dig into your life. You need to realize an investigation sometimes brings to light things people would rather see stay buried.”
“I have no skeletons in my closet,” she said firmly, but suddenly she couldn’t seem to meet his gaze.
“And your family?”
“Of course not!” she snapped.
Making him certain she was hiding something. Well, that made two of them. Not that either his McKenna gift or the McKenna curse had any bearing on the case. He’d abandoned the woman he’d fallen for before anything serious could happen between them. The last time he’d seen Lila Soto, one of the serious artists his sister Aislinn represented in her gallery, her spirit had been crushed, and her dark eyes had been deep pools of pain—pain that he’d caused even though he’d left his home in New Mexico to protect her.
Grace Broussard was exactly the kind of woman he used to go for. Grace was gorgeous and sexy, but she was no Lila. Not soft and shy and funny and generous. Not the type of woman to whom he would ever give his heart.
“So you would be comfortable with whatever background information I learn about you or your family.”
“As long as you keep to a confidentiality agreement.”
Declan nodded. “Of course. All right, I’ll take the case. We charge eight hundred a day plus expenses.”
“Agreed.”
Declan had Grace fill out some paperwork and sign a waiver so that he had permission to dig where he saw fit. When she was done, a rush of something he couldn’t quite name shot through him as he held out his hand to shake on the deal.
A FEELING OF HELPLESSNESS—as though she were rushing to some inexplicable destiny—came over Grace. A sound like white noise filled her head and she found herself staring into thick-lashed green eyes with deep lids at half-mast. Bedroom eyes.
Forcing herself to concentrate, she stretched out her hand. Declan’s long fingers wrapping around hers shot a rush of heat through her and sizzled along her nerves. Shocked, she felt the room narrow as an image quickly flipped through her mind….
Declan tears off his tie … catches her by the hips and runs his lips along her naked spine….
Spine tingling from neck to hips, Grace smothered a gasp and tried to look natural as she freed her hand. It couldn’t be happening to her again. not after all these years. Good Lord, what had she just done?
Her imagination was playing tricks on her. She hadn’t really seen what she’d thought upon touching him. Not possible, because she didn’t have visions anymore.
Not even by accident!
“I’ll need you to leave the notes,” Declan said. “And I would like to get your fingerprints so I can eliminate them when I run my tests on the paper.”
His stare was so intense she could feel it all the way down to her toes. As if he’d read her mind, his full mouth quirked into a grin, stretching the faint scar on his chin.
“Fingerprints … but that would only incriminate someone who’d already had their fingerprints taken. A criminal.”
“Chances are, that’s exactly who we’re dealing with.”
“Right.”
“Don’t worry, we won’t have to mess up your fingers with ink. My cousin is an electronic junkie. Even though we’re a small business, he has to have the latest tools, including one for electronic fingerprinting. I’ll be just a moment,” he said, leaving the room.
Great. Fingerprinting. That meant Declan would touch her again. Ten times. Once for each finger. Ten more chances to flash on some nonexistent future.
But when he came back and set the equipment on the desk before her, he said, “You just need to press each finger to the screen, one at a time. It’ll only take a few moments.”
Relief washed through her when she realized Declan didn’t have to touch her again, after all. As she followed his instructions, Grace knew that she needed to get hold of herself, stop imagining the unthinkable. Get her mind back to the problem at hand.
“I need some basic information,” Declan said. “About your place of business and the people you work with.”
Though she couldn’t imagine the stalker was that close to her, Grace said, “Raphael Duhon is the owner-designer of Voodoo. And Max Babin is the photographer he uses. I really don’t work with anyone else on a regular basis.”
“You’re on good terms with both of them?”
“I am. Raphael actually owns the building where both Voodoo and Gotcha!, the photography studio, are located. It’s at Decatur and Iberville.”
“All your shoots are inside, then?”
“No, not all. I’m also the spokeswoman for Voodoo, so I do a lot of society and charity events. I’m constantly being photographed at them.”
“That complicates things. Some man you met at one of these functions could have targeted you. When’s the next event?”
“As a matter of fact, I have one tomorrow night.”
“Do you have an escort?”
“No—”
“You do now. I can scope out the people around you with a fresh eye. If anyone has taken an unnatural interest in you, I’ll spot him.”
They made plans to talk later—they would pick a place to meet then. Grace left Vieux Carré Investigations and headed for home with a lighter heart than she’d had when she entered.
Even so, as she walked down the street, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder. If some dangerous man lurked behind her, she couldn’t spot him. Declan McKenna would have a better eye for these things than she did, the reason she’d hired him.
Even so, she walked faster.
She’d never been afraid before—not like this, not on so many levels.
For once in her life, she had something she could call her own—an actual career that she loved. She’d done a lot of searching, had gotten off to a lot of bad starts, but finally—finally!—she knew what she was meant to do.
Being photographed wasn’t important to her, though she did enjoy it. Being able to draw on the contacts she’d made all her life to help break out a talented designer and to raise donations for various charities through her appearances meant a great deal to her. It gave her a purpose in life she’d never before had. She could follow family tradition, but in her own unique way. In the past, she’d endured society functions. She hadn’t fit in. Now she saw them as a way to use her celebrity to do good for folks who needed help. It was a win-win situation for everyone involved.
For the first time, she was really happy with her life.
Now someone was trying to ruin that, to take the joy she’d finally discovered from her work. Grace wasn’t about to let that happen, no matter what she had to do.
Or see, she thought, remembering the vision she’d had when touching Declan.
No, no. It wouldn’t happen again, she assured herself, remembering the traumatic incident the last time she’d used her ability.
Never again.
She was so focused on her distraught thoughts that she didn’t realize she’d automatically taken a shortcut down a narrow side street—one that wasn’t well lit. The area seemed deserted … but the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.
Was she being followed?
This time when she turned around, she spotted a dark figure slip into a doorway.
Heart hammering, trying not to panic, she sped up.
Footsteps slap-slapped behind her, quickly drawing closer. Nearly choking on her breath, she pushed herself, now running blindly in her panic. The threatening footfalls echoed through her head and she feared her pursuer was nearly upon her….
A door opened and she ran into a tall, broadly built man exiting and lost her balance.
He caught her before she fell. “Easy, chér.” His expression concerned, he looked behind her. “Is there a problem?”
Grace looked, too, but whoever had been following her had melted into the night.
“Sorry, I got turned around and didn’t know where I was,” she lied. “The hour is so late.” Nearly midnight. “The street’s empty … I just got scared.”
The young man grinned. “Would you like us to walk you home?” He indicated a woman who’d followed him out of the building.
Relief washed through her. “I would be so appreciative. I’m in the Marigny, just the other side of Esplanade.”
“No problem. Anything for a lady.”
Feeling infinitely better, Grace gave the empty street behind her one last searching look.
SO NOW WHAT WAS Grace Broussard up to, going to a private investigator? Did she really think she was going to get out of this? Of course she did.
Privileged people never thought bad things could happen to them. They assumed that while they wreaked havoc on other people, they could go through life unscathed. That they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and that they would never have to pay.
Grace Broussard was about to learn different.
The stakes just went up.
Chapter Two
“Minny, what are you doing here?” Grace asked when she arrived early for her shoot the next morning and found her cousin wandering around Gotcha!
The photography studio wasn’t open this early. There was no one currently on hand to stop anyone from coming through. The last receptionist had been let go the week before—Max said Eva just wasn’t working out, but Grace had overheard an argument between Max and a supplier about cost, making Grace wonder if finances were the real reason.
Minny had made herself at home.
“I was looking for you, of course, Grace. So what do you think?”
Minny was posed in front of the scrim, lit with a pale lavender—the only soft thing about the scene. Minny’s hair glowed red. Not auburn, not mahogany, but a stoplight red that made her freckles pop. Her floaty blouse was a pattern of red and gold, and she wore gold capris.
Nothing subtle about Cousin Minny.
Wondering where Max had gotten to—since the lights were on, the photographer was obviously in the middle of setting up for the shoot—Grace echoed, “What do I think? It all depends on what you want to advertise.”
“My business, of course.” Minny waved red-tipped fingers heavy with rings of garnets and topaz. “I was thinking of running a big ad in the Times-Picayune.”
For the past several years, Minny had run a shop in the French Quarter where she read palms and auras and tarot. Of course she used her gift to get the goods on the customers, so her predictions always rang true.
Grace thought to tell Minny about the spooky notes—about someone following her the night before and about her hiring a private investigator—then thought again. She trusted Minny implicitly—perhaps the only person she could say that about. While normally her cousin would keep her confidence, Grace wasn’t sure she would when it came to her being threatened. The last thing she wanted was for Mama or Corbett to know that someone was stalking her and that she’d hired a professional to resolve the situation.
Scrubbing the situation from her mind so Minny couldn’t use her psychic abilities to catch on, Grace said, “If you’re serious about needing a professional photo, I’ll talk to Max—”
“Nah, I’m just thinking about it. Don’t know if I’ll ever do it. I’m the shy type, not like you, Grace.”
“Yeah, sure,” Grace said with a laugh.
Minny had always put herself right out there, ever since Grace could remember. Her cousin had never had the trouble using the family gift.
“Why don’t you come back to the dressing room with me? I have a shoot scheduled in an hour—a new line of Raphael’s lingerie.”
“Ooh, let’s see. I just know it’ll be the real me.”
One of the few people who knew the real Minny Broussard—her cousin acted her way through life—Grace laughed and led the way back to the dressing room. Even though the woman used to babysit her, they’d gotten along as contemporaries for years.
“So what do you need from me?” Grace asked, as she shed her clothing for a filmy robe.
“Need?” Minny echoed. “Can’t I simply stop by to see my favorite little cousin?” Minny touched the side of Grace’s face and looked deep into her eyes.
Grace ducked and started on her makeup. “Don’t be coy,” Grace said, using the mirror to watch Minny check out the skimpy lingerie hanging on the clothing rack. “You’re up to something. What happened?” Wanting to distract her cousin if she’d somehow sensed the stalker issue, Grace asked, “You somehow got the S-O-S on my psychic slip?”
“You slipped? Well, isn’t this an interesting development.”
Grace stopped what she was doing and turned to face Minny, who was studying the first thing Grace would model—a delicate black bustier laced with magenta ribbons.
“Declan McKenna isn’t my type, Minny,” Grace said, believing it even as she saw him in her mind’s eye and her pulse picked up a beat. “So don’t make this into a thing.”
Minny pulled the hanger holding the corset from the rack. Seeming extra-intent, she gazed at the garment, then used her free hand to touch it. For a moment, Minny’s expression deepened into a frown that made the flesh along Grace’s spine crawl.
“What?” Grace demanded, her voice strained, knowing her talented cousin could get psychic readings from objects, as well as from people.
Minny shook her head, but her expression didn’t lighten. “Something strange … bad vibes … can’t quite get it. Maybe you shouldn’t wear this.”
As if she didn’t want to touch the bad vibe bustier any more than necessary, Minny set the hanger back on the garment rack and separated it from the other designs.
“A fancy bustier is giving you bad vibes?” The tension drained out of Grace. “Oh, come on, Minny, you have to do better than that if you want to scare me.”
Something her cousin used to take delight in when she’d been a teenager and in charge of Grace and Corbett.
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
A chill ran through Grace, but she chased it away. Minny had always used her psychic abilities to make herself seem more mysterious and all-knowing.
“I really do need to get ready for my shoot,” Grace said, all business now.
Tension made it impossible to get her lipstick on just right—Minny wasn’t taking the hint and leaving!
“Uh-uh, Grace. You haven’t told me about the psychic incident yet. Did you touch this Declan?”
“What does it matter?” Grace asked, even as what she’d seen flitted through her mind. “I don’t have the ability anymore. I don’t want to be psychic.”
“You don’t have any say in the matter. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. So what was it? A real live look into the future? Or were you simply reading what was on his mind?”
She hadn’t really thought about it before. Maybe Declan had been the one on the hormonal overload and she’d merely been picking that up. Not that the possibility made her feel any better. Psychic was psychic and she didn’t want any part of the supposed gift. Or maybe her imagination had simply been engaged. Declan was someone she’d hired to work for her, and that was that.
“You encouraged me to use my touch before, Minny, and look where it got me,” Grace reminded her. “Humiliated in front of my classmates.”
The last time she’d read anyone’s thoughts, she’d been fifteen. Years of predictions had made her a pariah amongst her peers because kids didn’t like anyone who was different. That last time, she’d made such a muddle interpreting what she’d seen that she’d sworn never to succumb to that particular temptation again. Her decision to abstain from mind-reading had relieved her family—all but Cousin Minny, of course. Minny understood Grace’s gift because she’d been the only other person in the family who’d had the touch since their grandmama had passed.
“It takes maturity and practice to get things right,” Minny said. “It’s not like listening to a radio. Lots of times you have to untangle what you hear to make sense of it.” Minny leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Try to chill, would you? And let me know when you’re ready to expand your mind again.”
Which would be never.
Still, Grace hugged Minny in return. She loved her cousin even if she didn’t want to be like her.
“Remember what I said about the bustier,” Minny reminded her. “Bad vibes.”
“I’ll remember.”
But Grace meant to wear it anyway. It was her job.
After putting on the bustier, she stood in front of the mirror and aligned it on her body.
The garment really was sexy, pushing her full breasts up over the delicate material so that her flesh looked ready to spill out of the top. As she adjusted the shallow lacy cups, she couldn’t help but wonder how Declan would react if he saw her wearing this.
Grace struck a sultry pose as she would in front of the camera and gave her imagination free rein.
Suddenly it came to her again—that image she’d gotten when she’d taken Declan’s hand. Unable to help herself, she cupped her breasts as he might do. Her neck arched and her breathing changed and her breasts swelled until her nipples peaked over the top of the lace.
She licked her lips and closed her eyes for a moment and indulged herself in a moment of fantasy about a sexy man.
Suddenly, she got the weirdest sensation, almost feeling as if Declan were watching her. Her eyes whipped open and she stared at herself in the mirror.
No, not Declan …
Someone else.
Having the same feeling she’d had several times in the past weeks, she tugged the bustier in place and gave the room a paranoid once-over, expecting to see a peephole in the wall somewhere. Nothing. Of course not. Her imagination was simply running wild.
Thank you, Minny, she thought as she slipped into a robe.
Shaking off the creepy feeling only with difficulty, Grace quickly finished getting ready for the shoot, all the while wondering what Declan might have found out.
“IS MS. BROUSSARD EXPECTIN’ you?” the hefty woman in the gray uniform asked.
“No, actually not …” Declan quickly looked at the uniform’s pocket where the woman’s name was scrolled. “Eula. But I have business with Ms. Broussard.”
The guard narrowed her gaze at Declan before nodding. “All right, go on in. But if Ms. Broussard ain’t pleased to see you, you’ll answer to me.”
“Absolutely,” Declan said, as he headed for the door with the Gotcha! sign.
Declan entered the photography studio office and noted the unoccupied desk set in the middle of an empty and none-too-lovingly decorated room. The place was at best functional, though no receptionist guarded the gates to the inner sanctum.
Music drifted from an open doorway to the right. Declan stepped inside the studio, following the strains of a sexy tune—a woman with a low, throbbing voice warbling in French. He stood back in the dark.
Before him, in a pool of hazy lavender light, lying across a chaise lounge, Grace Broussard made love to the camera in time to the sensual music. And as she did, another woman with spiked, magenta-streaked brown hair, wearing shortshorts and a tube top, photographed her. This was Max? For a moment, Declan watched her work. Max Babin was a total professional and he got no bad vibes from her, so he turned back to the woman she was photographing.
Dressed in a cream-colored bustier, lace cheeky panties, thigh-high stockings and sling-back sandals, Grace was every man’s dream. And what she did with her body as the camera whirled softly! Max barely had to encourage her to adopt poses that made Declan physically uncomfortable.
This was work, he reminded himself. Not play.
On her knees, she stretched like a cat….
She turned on her side and lifted one leg in a seemingly impossible pose….
Then she was on her back, both legs drawn over the top of the chaise, her upper body dangling, head down….
The very atmosphere was charged with Grace’s sexuality, and Declan was a mere man, one who’d been without female companionship for too long. He wondered how he was going to work for Grace without getting himself in a knot around her.
“That should do it,” Max said none-too-soon.
“Good. I’m exhausted.”
Grace stood and walked out of the pool of light where she slipped into a silky robe. Declan cleared his throat to make his presence known.
The photographer immediately whipped around, her eyes squinting into the dark. “Who’s there?”
“Declan McKenna,” he said, stepping into the light. “I’m a friend of Grace’s.”
Grace’s eyes went wide. “Uh, Declan …” Her voice throbbed, sounding thick and undeniably sexy. “Let’s go to my dressing room.”
“Yes, let’s,” he said agreeably.
When they entered the cramped room, which was little bigger than a closet, she asked, “What brings you here, Declan? The fingerprints? Did you get the results back already?”
“On the weekend? No such luck. I simply thought it would be a good idea for me to see where you work. Where you live.”
“You want to come home with me?”
“Don’t you want me to make sure your place is safe? If you really do have a stalker—”
“If? You don’t believe me, after all. For your information, I’m pretty sure someone was following me last night after I left your office.”
“What happened?”
“I’m fine, aren’t I? Part of me thinks I was imagining things.”
“Even so, the possibility gives me more reason to check out your place—to make sure that if someone is doing more than just sending you notes, he can’t get at you.”
“Fine. You can come home with me and check things out, then. But I would appreciate your waiting in the outer office while I change.”
“No problem.”
While he would rather remain right where he was, Declan knew that would lead to nothing but trouble.
Though he hadn’t yet gotten a report on the fingerprints, he’d called Ian to see if his cousin knew anything about their client. Declan hadn’t been in New Orleans long enough to get more than the feel of the place, but Ian had lived here all his life. Indeed, Ian had known that Grace Broussard was a trust-fund baby and something of a free spirit in a political, driven family.
Obviously, she’d found her niche, Declan thought, and a perfect one for her, at that.
And now someone was threatening to use it against her.
Not on his watch.
GRACE’S NERVES WERE already on edge. She’d been occupied for every moment since she’d had that bizarre feeling in her dressing room that morning, but once she stopped working, she couldn’t forget about it. She found herself changing in the powder room, as if she were safe in the smaller space. But safe from what?
The scariest thing she had to face was touching Declan again. The mere thought of which sent a shiver down her spine, all the way to her toes.
So a few minutes later, as they walked along Decatur and its shops filled with tourist trinkets and other souvenirs of New Orleans, Grace made certain she kept a safe distance between them.
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