Patricia Rosemoor - Saving Grace

“It’s not you. It just comes with the territory.” “What territory?”

“Being me” was all she would admit to. “It’s almost time to put on my game face.” When he appeared confused, she clarified. “The fund-raiser tonight? I’m going to have to make my appearance and then like Cinderella, do a disappearing act so I can be in front of a computer screen at midnight.”

“Is that going to be doable?”

“That’s where you come in—make it happen.”

“So what time should I pick you up?”

“I was thinking about that.” Grabbing a notepad and pen, she scribbled down the information he needed. “Meet me there about nine.”

“You don’t want to be seen with me?”

“Once you’re there I do. Make it seem like we ran into each other. And figure out a cover story for what you do. If the blackmailer is at the party, I don’t want to give him a heads-up that I hired a P.I.”

“You’re the boss.”

Declan left to get ready for the party, and Grace had to admit she was interested in him more than she wanted to be. Certain that he was interested in return, she wondered for how long. Experience told her that eventually Declan McKenna would be the same as the other men she knew and would expect her to change.

And if he found out about her gift of touch …

Declan was a wild card. Why had he resurrected her latent psychic ability? No matter that she kept trying to talk herself out of the fact, there it was. Either she was projecting into their future or she was reading what was on his mind. Whichever didn’t really matter. She didn’t trust the visions. She didn’t trust Declan, not personally.

Stopping in front of a table with gilt edging, she looked at the photos on display. The one of her with Mama and Daddy and Corbett had been taken when she was eight. Against the almost Gothic-looking dark clothing the entire family wore, she posed stiffly in bright pink shoes that Cousin Minny had bought for her at the French Market. Grace remembered wearing only those shoes for months no matter what threat Mama made. A small defiance.

The other photo was of her in her first Voodoo ad, looking comfortably sensual and happy, as if she’d finally found herself—which she had. She was more than a Broussard, Grace thought. She was Voodoo Woman. Wearing these clothes, posing for the camera, she could be and do anything she wanted. Donning Raphael’s designs were magic—they transformed her.

Grace never had felt like she fit in with her immediate family. While Daddy had had something of a relaxed attitude, he was gone now. And Mama was Mama. Old New Orleans blue blood, social register. Corbett wasn’t much better. Her brother might do what he wanted, but in secret, careful of appearances. Only once had he gotten careless. Reporter Naomi Larkin had proven to have a reputation for sleeping with men to get a juicy story, and Corbett had been one of her marks.

Mama never let Corbett forget about Naomi. Grace wasn’t about to let Mama get any ammunition on her, not if she could help it.

Always knowing she stuck out like a sore thumb as had her pink shoes in the early photo, Grace had searched for someplace, something that would define her. Raphael had given her that chance when he’d hired her to be the spokeswoman for his company and she’d started wearing his clothes almost exclusively. She’d come to terms with a new and pleasing image of herself.

And then someone had gone and destroyed that comfort zone by hiding a camera in the dressing room.

Thinking about the photograph taken without permission depressed her. In some strange way, Grace felt it was a judgment against her personal choices. Something essential to her mental well-being—something she’d gained only in the past year—had been stolen from her.

The thing was, she knew how to hide what she was really feeling. She’d learned from the best. No matter the situation, she could breathe and smile and pretend whatever someone did to her didn’t matter. She would project the image necessary for the evening as well as any other woman present.

Determined to forget about Declan and the blackmail scheme for the moment and put her mind to the cause of the evening, Grace stepped into the shower.

DECLAN DECIDED to stop by the office before heading home and was surprised to find his cousin Ian had returned from his field trip and was sitting at the receptionist’s desk at the computer. Ian was McKenna through and through—tall and broad-shouldered, with the black Irish good looks of all the men in their family. The one thing to set him apart was the color of his eyes.

Ian had forever taken a bashing over their muddy-violet hue, never as evident as when he looked up at Declan. “I finished earlier than expected.”

“Did you get what you needed?” Declan asked him.

“More than enough to convince Mrs. Randolph that her husband is not only having an affair, but also that he’s giving away marital monies. He bought the blonde an estate in the Lake Charles area worth upwards of a million dollars.”

“Does it ever bother you? Breaking up marriages?”

“I would say hold Mr. Randolph responsible for that, not me. I’m just reporting the truth of the matter. You need to loosen up, Declan. What private investigators do is a lot less structured than police work.”

“And usually less rewarding.”

Declan had worked for several years as a detective in the Criminal Investigation Division in Santa Fe. He wished he could say being a private investigator was equally fulfilling, but more often than not, his cases in the past six months since they’d opened their own investigation agency had been simple, bordering on boring. So far, Declan had avoided marriage disputes—Ian didn’t mind them—but he figured it was only a matter of time before his number came up.

“The thought of getting in the middle of someone else’s love life doesn’t appeal to me,” Declan said.

“You’ll get used to it.”

“No one could ever accuse you of being a romantic.”

Ian snorted. “You’re romantic enough for the both of us. Turning in your resignation on a job that was your life and leaving town all because of a supposed curse by some jealous witch of a woman.” He shook his head.

“Hey, it affects you, too, Ian.”

“If I believed in curses.”

“How can you not when you’ve seen the things that have happened to other McKennas who were descendants of Donal?” Declan asked. “Or what happened to my mother? Nothing like a scorned witch good at casting spells.”

Should Donal McKenna’s descendants find love and act on their feelings, they would put their loved ones in mortal danger. McKenna loves had died from illness, accident and even murder—and they’d all been young. Considering their McKenna relatives all had abilities that regular people didn’t, how could Ian shut his mind to the possibility that Sheelin O’Keefe had indeed cast a powerful hex on them all?

“As a private investigator, I’ve seen all kinds of terrible things happen in relationships,” Ian said. “Maybe we’re all doomed to heartache and unhappiness and we just aren’t aware of it until it happens to us.”

“Not everyone loses the love of their life to death.”

His mother had died from a mysterious fall before Declan was even born—he’d been taken surgically from her lifeless body. His survival had been a miracle. His father had remarried and Declan had several half siblings, but that relationship had been built on respect, not on romantic love. As an empath, Declan was as aware of that as he was of his father’s limited love for him. Padraig McKenna blamed him for the loss of the love of his life—not that he ever said so. But from the time he was a boy, Declan had sensed it, had sensed the difference in what Da felt for him compared to the others. It was something he had to live with, something he would never pass down to a child of his own.