Patricia Rosemoor: Saving Grace

“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.

“Do you always work on Saturdays?” Declan asked.

“No. We just had to finish up shooting the new designs for a series of ads Raphael intends to run.”

“Very provocative.”

She slashed him a look. “You don’t approve?”

“I was simply making an observation,” Declan said, his demeanor professional. He moved his gaze constantly over the crowd as if searching it for a potential stalker. “So do people recognize you when you walk down the street?”