Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

"But I need some sort of-" The dial tone hummed in her ears.

Jed set the portable phone on the nightstand, then reached out and took the receiver from Grace's death grip and returned it to the cradle. He wrapped his big hand around her small wrist.

"We'll get those taps put on the phones here and at Sheffield Media ASAP," he told her. "Our guy isn't wasting any time. Looks like he needs that money fast. He's desperate to get his hands on it and leave the country before Booth Fortier finds out what he's done."

"So, do I believe him? Should I get him the money?"

Jed nodded. "Call your banker. Tonight. Start the ball rolling. Whether we give this guy any money or not, we need to make it look as if we intend to."

"Do you think he has proof of-"

Jed caressed her wrist, causing her tight fist to relax. "Yeah. Maybe. Probably." He paused, then looked directly into her eyes. "Be sure you want to go through with this, with all of it-the money exchange, the investigation. Booth Fortier is a formidable opponent. He plays dirty. And he plays for keeps."

"Four years ago my life ended," Grace said. "If Booth Fortier was responsible for my husband's and father's deaths, then he killed me, too, that very night. Don't you see, Jed, I have nothing to lose. I've been dead inside all these years. If Fortier was behind the hit-and-run driver's actions, if it was murder and not an accident, then I want him to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer. I want him…" Grace hadn't realized she was crying until her tears hit Jed's hand that held hers.

Jed pulled her into his arms. She went willingly. The feel of his strength surrounding her comforted in a way nothing else ever had, not since she'd been a child and her father had consoled her after all her little girl crises. Although her reaction to him confounded her, she couldn't help but give in to his protective embrace.

"Nothing will ever bring back your father and your husband, but you're alive, Grace, very much alive. And you'll love again. You'll marry again."

She clung to him as the silent tears trickled down her cheek lying against his hard chest. "I lost more than my husband and father that night. I lost my baby. I lost Emma Lynn. God didn't spare her life. He didn't give me even that much."

"You lost a child?" Jed asked, gazing down at her.

"My little Emma Lynn died before she had a chance to live. I was almost six months pregnant."

"Damn! Grace, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pulled her closer to him.

"I don't believe in happiness anymore. I don't trust God. I will never-ever-care for anyone that much. I'd rather be dead inside than know that kind of pain again."

Grace doubted that Jed understood her reasoning, doubted that anyone who had not experienced the kind of losses she had could possibly comprehend the extent of her torment. Numbness was preferable to agony. Existing was better than risking being hurt if she took a chance by truly living again.

The telephone rang at eleven o'clock, waking Oliver Neville with its insistent clamor. He roused from sleep, blinked his eyes and yawned. Who the hell would be phoning him at this time of night? he wondered, and could think of no one other than his most notorious client-Booth Fortier. By the fourth ring, Oliver managed to rise from the overstuffed lounge chair in his den, where he'd fallen asleep tonight as he did almost every night. Between the fifth and sixth ring, he lifted the receiver.

"Hello."

"Did I wake you?"

It took Oliver half a second to realize his caller wasn't Fortier. "You shouldn't be calling me. There mustn't be any record of contact between the two of us."

"I'm at a pay phone near a gas station off Interstate 10. Believe me, I don't want anyone to know that there's a connection between the two of us. Now or in the past."

"Is there a problem?"

"Well, Ollie, now that you ask…" Self-satisfied chuckles hummed through the phone line. "Yeah, there's a problem. A big problem."

"Concerning?"

"What the hell do you think it's concerning-it's about Grace Beaumont."

"Any problems you're having with Ms. Beaumont are yours-not mine."

"Oh, they're your problems all right. Aren't all of Booth Fortier's troubles your troubles, too?"

"And just how is Ms. Beaumont Booth's problem?"

"Tell Fortier he'd better start looking for a traitor in his midst. Somebody in his organization or in the Miller camp sent Grace a very informative letter."

Ollie's stomach knotted painfully. "Just how informative?"

"The message stated plainly that Dean Beaumont and Byram Sheffield's accident had been murder, ordered by Fortier because Beaumont had discovered Fortier's connection to our esteemed governor."

"God damn!"

"Grace has hired a private investigator to look into the matter. She's determined to unearth the truth-the whole truth."

"We've got ourselves a mess… a holy mess. Booth will have conniptions. He'll be fit to be tied when I tell him." Oliver knew exactly what Booth would do after he exploded-he'd give Grace Beaumont a couple of warnings, then he'd eliminate her, just as he had gotten rid of her husband and father nearly four years ago. "By the way, who's the P.I.? Is he local?"

"Not local. He's out of Atlanta. From the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency. His name is Jed Tyree and he's originally from Louisiana."

"Tyree." Jed Tyree. Oliver turned the name over in his mind several times. It sounded familiar. He knew he'd heard it before… somewhere, sometime. He couldn't recall right this minute, but it would come to him. Sooner or later. "So far, what's he done in the way of investigating?"

"I'm not sure. He took a look at the accident report and he's set up an office at Sheffield Media. And he has the entire Dundee Agency network at his disposal. I figure you can find out more. Make a few phone calls. Hell, call the governor."

Oliver heard more smug chuckles, the kind that said I'm amused with myself . Damn infuriating bastard. Dealing with self-serving amateurs was always a pain in the butt.

"Don't call again unless you have invaluable information," Oliver said. "It's safer for both of us."

"I understand. The ball is definitely in your court. And I don't envy you the task of reporting this news to Fortier."

"Good night." Oliver placed the receiver in its cradle, then walked across the den to the bar set up on a rolling cart in the corner. He undid the lid on the Crown Royal, lifted the bottle and poured the whiskey into a glass.

He wondered if Grace Beaumont realized that by her actions she had probably signed her own death warrant. Hell, no probably about it. He'd heard she was a smart lady, that to everyone's surprise she'd turned out to be as shrewd in business as her father had been. So did her life mean so little to her that she'd risk death to seek revenge on Booth Fortier?

Damn! He didn't want to make that call to Booth. And he wouldn't. Not tonight. Booth was in New Orleans at an exclusive brothel, his sickest, most vile pleasures being catered to around the clock. Tonight he was probably drunk or drugged and sated from hours of S &M titillation.

Oliver knew it was best to wait for morning to call Booth. Wait until he'd had a good night's sleep, eaten breakfast and was thinking clearly. Even at his best, Booth was a real son-of-a-bitch.

The earth glistened with morning dew, and puddles of rainwater, only partially evaporated from last night's thundershower, rippled ever so slightly in the morning breeze. As Jed paced himself to Grace's fast walk, he observed everything around them: the tall, ancient trees that lined the long, winding driveway to Belle Foret; the thick, verdant springtime grass, not yet dried out by summer's relentless heat; the quiet approach of daylight as the sun began its daily climb over the eastern horizon. At six o'clock there was no more than a hint of the day's upcoming humidity and high temperature.