Patricia Rosemoor: Saving Grace

“And you’re sure this information is accurate?”

“As sure as I can be of my sources. So don’t go getting yourself into some big scandal before the election or Laroche will use it against me.”

Grace swallowed hard. Corbett was dead serious. Knowing his temper, she hoped she could keep word of those photographs from getting to him forever.

“I’ll try to contain myself for your sake.”

Corbett grinned at her. “Good, and if you have the chance, chat up Jill Westerfield. See what you can find out about her.”

“Is that the woman new to the game?”

“One and the same.”

Grace followed her brother’s gaze to a woman who was tall, curvaceous and wore her blond hair short, scraped back from her face. Something about the blonde ticked at Grace, but she couldn’t place her. A simple black sheath and hornrimmed glasses did little to distract from Jill Westerfield’s attractiveness. The blonde stopped next to Laroche and put a possessive hand on his shoulder. The politician smiled at her and immediately wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Um … looks like she has a date for the evening. With a married man.”

“I can overlook that,” Corbett said, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

Wondering where Laroche’s wife might be, Grace couldn’t fathom why her brother was interested in a woman who would go after the sleazy politician. “Nothing like picking someone totally inappropriate.”

“Perhaps I’ll get her to cross the line, come over to my way of thinking.”

It had been years since her brother had seemed so focused on a woman—Naomi had been pre-Katrina—and Grace didn’t want to discourage him. For years he’d had “safe” dates, none of whom had ever put that particular gleam in his eyes, so she kept her thoughts to herself. Maybe she was just misreading the relationship between the Westerfield woman and Laroche.

“What about Mama?” she asked. “Does she have to be careful of someone, too?”

Corbett gave her his you-should-know-better-than-to-ask expression. “Her name is Helen Emerson. She sells herself as Mrs. Clean. No one is that clean, if you ask me. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, and that isn’t very far.” His gaze strayed back to the Westerfield woman. “This music is inspiring. I think I want to dance.”

Jill Westerfield was just breaking away from her politician date. She disappeared back into the crowd, Corbett following. Grace hoped her brother knew what he was doing, consorting with the enemy so to speak.

The enemy … how far would they go? Had Larry Laroche or Helen Emerson paid to have those photos taken of her? Was one of them planning on blackmailing her brother or mother? Grace couldn’t let their political careers be hurt because of her … but if Laroche or Emerson was behind the blackmail scheme, how could she stop them?

She would look for an opportunity to talk to the two politicians in question in person tonight.

Would they look at her with practiced politician expressions? Would one of them have a secret smile behind his eyes? Knowing she would come face-to-face with the person responsible for those photographs made it hard to take a deep breath.

Approaching Larry Laroche, who still stood at the edge of the dance floor, Grace wondered if she could get him off guard. When she heard him tell a companion, “You just have to find the right weapon, but you can manipulate anyone into doing what you want,” she had to fight back the urge to face off with him, right then, right there. Was his weapon a photograph?

Her mouth went dry and her throat tightened and her feet suddenly felt as if they were filled with lead.

“Excuse me,” came a familiar voice, “but I feel as if we’ve met before.”

Starting, Grace glanced to her right to see Declan dressed in a black tux with a black collarless shirt. He was as stunning a man as any in the room. More so. Her heart beat faster even as she took a quick look around. People were watching, so, taking a calming breath, she went along with him.

“Perhaps we’ve met at another fund-raiser.”

“We’ve met in my dreams—the ones I have after seeing you in those Voodoo ads.” He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Grace lowered her voice. “I don’t want to give Mama any ideas. If she thinks there’s anything going on between us …”

Not that she’d seen Mama yet, but Grace was certain her mother was here somewhere in the crowd.

“Oh, come on, let’s give her something to chew on.”

As Declan smoothly swung her into his arms and onto the dance floor, Grace couldn’t escape his touch without making a scene. She shut down that part of her mind that would seek a vision. Practiced enough at it over the past dozen years, she was relieved when nothing untoward happened. He turned her in his arms, and she glimpsed her brother on the sidelines. No blonde. The Westerfield woman had either gotten away or turned him down. Her loss, Grace thought, as Corbett gave her a thumbs-up.

A moment later, when she was facing her brother again, Mama was next to him. Beaming. Just great.

She would have to explain Declan, only she didn’t know how when she couldn’t explain him to herself. “This isn’t a date,” Grace reminded him. “I never said it was.”

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