Patricia Rosemoor: Saving Grace

He could only speculate on the reason—her emotions told him what she was feeling, but they didn’t explain why.

“The room seems to be clear other than the camera we found,” Declan said. “How much time do you think we have before Eula comes looking for us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a bit. She’s pretty relaxed. Usually.”

“Then let’s take advantage of every moment and check out Max’s office.”

Leading the way out the door, she asked, “What do you expect to find there?”

“A Wi-Fi camera can send a signal to a compatible printer or computer.”

“I’m not what you would call a techie.”

“Don’t worry, our firm can high tech along with the best of them. My cousin Ian makes sure we keep up with the latest gadgets.”

“You think Max is the one, don’t you?”

“The people here are the most logical suspects. Cameras are Max’s thing, after all, and this is her business.”

“Seems too easy to me,” she said. “She’d know that I would figure it out and press charges.”

“But if she’s getting big bucks from someone for doing this, she could think it’s worth the risk. You have to know that whoever did this is probably counting on the fact that you love your family too much to see their careers destroyed.”

A quick tour of Max’s office did show that both her printer and her desktop computer had a wireless card. But if there was a file with the explicit photos of Grace stored on the system,

Declan couldn’t identify it. He enjoyed checking out the shots he did find—Grace posing for Voodoo ads. She didn’t need to be exposing herself to have him where it hurt. His imagination set in motion once more, he found it difficult to concentrate, so he shut down the computer and continued on a physical search of the office.

When they reached for the same file drawer, their hands touched. Declan froze. He didn’t know how much temptation he could take. Grace got that weird expression again. Then she blinked and came back and Declan was more tempted than ever to kiss her….

“Hey, Miss Grace, where are you?”

They scrambled away from each other as Eula strode into the office. Luckily the computer was down and no drawers were open so the whole thing looked pretty innocent.

“What you doin’ in here?”

“The invitation,” she said breathlessly, pulling something from her trouser pocket and waving it at the guard. “Look, I just found it.”

“Good for you. Bergeron wants to get in here and clean and I told him to wait a minute so he didn’t disturb you.”

“Tell him the place is his,” Grace said. “And thank you so much. Now I won’t have to make my excuses to Mama.”

“She might put you in jail, eh?” Eula said with a laugh as they all left Max Babin’s office.

“Mama might consider it a crime if I didn’t make it to the fund-raiser, but she might have a hard time putting me behind bars simply for being a no-show.”

“You never know who she might decide to prosecute,” Eula said.

When they stepped out of the studio, Declan saw a man in khakis leaning on a cleaning cart. He didn’t look as anxious to get started as the security guard suggested.

“Hey, Bergeron, we’re out of your way,” Grace called cheerfully.

Giving her a sour look, Bergeron merely grunted in return and shoved his cart through the door.

Sensing a wave of something dark, something he couldn’t quite define, Declan murmured, “Friendly, huh?”

“He’s new. He started working here about a month ago. He’s always like that with everyone.” Grace practically flew down the stairs.

Declan had to work to keep up with her.

“Good thinking,” he said. “Bringing the invitation with you.”

“What invitation? This is a dry-cleaning receipt I forgot to take out of my pocket.”

Declan would laugh, but nothing about this situation was funny. Flagging down a taxi to take them back to Grace’s place, Declan knew that, despite her sophisticated looks, Grace Broussard was an innocent swimming with sharks.

He didn’t need to see outward signs to know what a person was made of. His empathic ability let him read her easily—her warmheartedness, her inner fragility, her uncertainty when it came to herself. Grace was a woman who didn’t deserve to have anything bad happen to her.

Declan was determined that nothing would.

Despite her best intentions, Grace hadn’t been able to avoid touching Declan a few times. And when she’d touched him, she hadn’t been able to avoid seeing them together intimately.

On edge as she dragged herself up the stairs to her apartment, she said, “Well, that certainly was a waste of time and effort.”

“Not a waste. We know where the camera is now.”

“I would rather have ripped it out and ground it under my heel.”

“Destroy evidence?” “Evidence for what?” “To make an arrest.”

Grace shook her head and unlocked her door. “Who said I was having anyone arrested?”

“This is blackmail! Don’t you want to see justice done?”

“I’m thinking in terms of a bonfire.” Entering, she threw her keys on a nearby table. “Camera. All copies of the photographs. The rat responsible.”

“Well, yeah, burning him at the stake might be rewarding, but it’s also illegal.”

“Afraid I might take the law into my own hands?”

Declan closed the door, asking, “You’re serious about not wanting to prosecute anyone?”

“Look, I don’t ever want my family to know about this fiasco. I certainly don’t want it to get out, which it would if I pressed charges.”

“You didn’t pose for those photographs. And it’s not like you’re having sex with anyone in them.”

“Mama is already disapproving of my work. This would give her a great I-told-you-so moment.” She felt him stop behind her so close she imagined his breath ruffling her hair.

“Grace, I can’t believe you would let your mother’s disapproval stop you from doing the right thing.”

“Right thing?” She whirled to face him—too close for comfort, but she stood her ground. “According to Mama, if I wanted to do the right thing, I would have gotten a degree and started a professional career years ago. Preferably in politics. If I wanted to do the right thing, I would have chosen someone suitable to marry. Old money, social register. If I wanted to do the right thing, I wouldn’t embarrass her on a weekly basis because the ads I pose for make the men of New Orleans desire me.”

“You wouldn’t have to pose for ads to be desired.”

“This isn’t the time for jokes, Declan.”

His expression taut, he murmured, “Who’s joking?”

“If we could figure out who put that camera in the dressing room and have him arrested, you can bet the media will have the story within hours if not sooner. I would be lucky if that photograph didn’t make the front page of the Times-Picayune. It would get around. Mama could kiss the bench goodbye. Corbett wouldn’t be able to run for dog-catcher. And I wouldn’t be able to show my face in polite society ever again.”

“I got the idea you didn’t care for polite society.”

“I’m not a snob, Declan. I just wish other people weren’t. But I don’t want to be humiliated again.”

“Again? When was the first time?”

Remembering the way her gift had misled her—the way she’d been laughed at had dogged her footsteps through the years—Grace clenched her jaw. No way was she going to tell Declan about the humiliating incident. No way would she give him the chance to laugh at her, too.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”