Patricia Rosemoor: Saving Grace

“So far people haven’t actually come up to me and told me so.”

“Just followed you.”

“Which would be scarier,” she said.

“What happens when Raphael Duhon goes really big? Will you follow him to New York? Paris?”

“I never thought that far ahead. I like things as they are now. New Orleans is my home. I have a great job and I’m close to Mama and my brother, Corbett.” Just considering losing all that made Grace uneasy. She was happy now. “I can’t see wanting any of that to change.”

“You can’t control fate.”

Grace didn’t miss the serious note in Declan’s tone. She wondered what had happened to him to make him such a cynic.

As they walked through the French Quarter, her native city called to her, stirring her blood. Music and the seductive voices of entrepreneurs floated on the air along with the smell of Cajun and Creole cooking. New Orleans was a city of the senses and Grace was in love with her hometown, grateful its heart had survived disaster. It had taken years, but finally it was coming back from Hurricane Katrina.

They walked up past Esplanade and then away from the river. Grace lived in an old apartment complex in Faubourg Marigny, a neighborhood bordering the French Quarter. Her third-floor apartment had a balcony with black wrought-iron railings that wrapped around the corner from living room to bedroom.

“Not what you would call a secure building,” Declan said when they found the downstairs door unlocked.

“Some people think they’re bulletproof,” she muttered, releasing the latch so not just anyone could get in.

“That door needs a dead bolt.”

Grace knew he was correct, but she didn’t know what it would take to convince her landlord. They headed for the third floor. Her newspaper lay outside her apartment door. When she picked it up, she saw what it had been hiding.

“What’s this?” she muttered, stooping again to pick up a large brown envelope.

Her name and nothing else was typed on the label stuck on the front. No postage. Someone had hand-delivered it—an easy task since someone had left the downstairs door unlocked. Her pulse thudded. Or maybe whoever had left it had picked the lock and that’s why the door was open.

“Something wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Grace stared at the envelope as if she could guess its contents—something she wasn’t going to like. “Let’s get inside.”

She was barely through the door when she moved around the counter in the kitchen area to keep distance between her and Declan. Wanting to see what was inside the envelope before he did, she ripped it open, then tilted it to spill the contents into her hand. A glossy photograph of her.

Shocked, Grace went still and wide-eyed.

The woman in the photograph was and was not her. She managed to appear seductive in the ads modeling Raphael’s designs, but this woman was wanton.

Her eyes were closed, her head thrown back, her breasts half-spilled out of the bustier. The facial expression got to Grace, tied her stomach in a knot. This woman looked like she was in the throes of passion. Her face left nothing to the imagination.

She’d been warned—I CAN EXPOSE YOU—and now the threat was a reality.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, wondering how the photo had been taken without her knowledge.

She’d done a lot of crazy things, but basically her march to freedom from the Broussards had been innocent stuff. Posing for pornography hadn’t been anything she’d ever contemplated.

She looked in the envelope and found a note still clinging to the side.

THERE ARE MORE WHERE THIS CAME FROM. HOW MUCH IS THE DISK WORTH TO YOUR FAMILY? CHECK YOUR E-MAIL AT MIDNIGHT TONIGHT FOR INSTRUCTIONS.

Grace sounded appalled when she said, “This looks like I posed for an adult magazine!”

Her horror washed over Declan and he was hard pressed not to step forward and take her in his arms to bring her down. “I take it you didn’t pose for whatever is there.”

“Of course not. This was taken in the dressing room this morning when I was getting ready for the shoot. What if it gets out? It could ruin Mama’s chances at the judgeship. And Corbett could lose the upcoming election. There must have been a hidden camera. Who could have done this? Why does someone want to blackmail me?”

“Can I see?” Declan asked, holding out a hand.

She flipped the photograph to her breast. “No!”

“How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with?”

“Use your imagination.”

He doubted anything she’d done in front of a camera could be as racy as where his mind took him. “It’s probably not as bad as you think.”

“It’s worse.”

Declan fell silent. He couldn’t force her to show him the photograph. Her escalating emotions bombarded him—fear,

hurt, panic—and he stared at her hard enough to make her squirm visibly.

“All right.” She set everything down on the counter between them. “Go ahead. Look.”

The moment she gave him permission, Grace turned her back on him as if she didn’t want to see his reaction. Her tension was palpable and quickly spread to him.

Declan flipped the photograph over. She was right—it was a lot worse than he’d thought. And better. He couldn’t help his appreciation as his imagination put the woman in the photograph right into his bed.

Reading the note, he knew he needed to play it cool, to hide what he was really feeling. “Blackmail,” he murmured. “This is serious, Grace. Time to take this to the authorities.”

“Are you out of your mind? I go to the police and those photos become public knowledge. I can’t do that to Mama and Corbett—their careers will be destroyed.”

But he suspected a photo like this would probably give her career a boost. Even so, Declan figured she had to be upset at the violation of her own privacy.

“Come on, sit.” He led her into the living area and waited until she threw herself into a chair. “Perhaps the police could be persuaded to keep the case low-key.”

Grace forced a laugh. “I don’t want anyone seeing me like this. Maybe Raphael can help us catch the creep.”

“If this Raphael is on the up-and-up.” He paused a minute before asking, “How do you know he’s not the one who put the camera in your dressing room?”

“No, not Raphael. That doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t want to ruin the connection I have with the public.”

“Or he could think a little scandal will up sales.”

“No,” she said again, her chest tightening. “How will I get out of this? What do you propose I do now?” she asked Declan. “Other than going to the police.”

“You say Raphael and Max are the only ones with access to the photography studio on a regular basis?”

“Right. Raphael occupies the whole third floor for both Voodoo offices and his living quarters.”

Declan took the chair opposite her. “Offices. Do a lot of people work for him?”

“He has a personal assistant, a design assistant, a cutter and sewer to execute the early incarnations of his designs, a saleswoman and a receptionist.”

“Lots of possible suspects.”

“I guess. He has an office at another location. That’s where the marketing and financial people are located. He also owns two other buildings in the French Quarter and a few in the Commercial District. One of those didn’t fare too well when Hurricane Katrina hit. I understand there was a problem with the insurance. As far as I know, he still doesn’t have it ready for rental.”

“Not in all this time?” Declan mused. “Sounds like Raphael might have some money troubles.”