Patricia Rosemoor - Saving Grace

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Ian said. “There are McKennas very happily married.”

“But not without overcoming danger … and some of them aren’t married to their true loves,” Declan countered, wondering if Grace had ever found hers and had her heart broken. Thinking of the woman, he said, “Back to the new case I took on last night. I’m going to a charity event tonight where I’ll meet with Grace Broussard.”

“Lucky man.”

“It’s business, Ian.”

“She is single.”

“And a client.” Though a very beautiful, very desirable, very vulnerable woman.

“Which means you need to act in her best interests. whatever that entails.” Ian winked.

Sensing a surge of unadulterated lust wash over him from his cousin, Declan said, “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I appreciate the package, but she’s not my type. I want a woman with drive and big appetites for everything.”

Despite himself, Declan asked, “How do you know Grace doesn’t qualify?”

“I might not know Grace Broussard personally, but I know of her. At least enough to read her.”

Having grown up in New Orleans, having worked for a major private investigations firm before they started their own, his cousin had the pulse of the rich and famous, knew where the bodies were buried, so to speak.

“There’s more to her than you give her credit for,” Declan said.

Ian shrugged. “Grace Broussard has gone through life without goals. She went from school to school, job to job, never earning a degree, never settling down to a career, never developing a long-lasting relationship with a man.”

“Until Voodoo.”

“If you call that a career.”

“What would you call it?”

“A distraction. It won’t last, Declan. Nothing with Ms. Broussard ever does.”

“I didn’t get that from her.”

“Using your abilities to read her, are you?”

“You have an argument against my using another tool to help my client?”

“If that’s your story …”

“It’s not a story. Grace Broussard came to me for help. She thought it was an annoyance—a stalker—but there’s more to it. Someone is trying to blackmail her.”

“That’s a new turn. For doing what?”

“For doing her job.”

“You mean photographs?”

“Someone installed a hidden camera in her dressing room.”

Ian whistled. “What does the blackmailer want?”

“Don’t know yet. The demand will be e-mailed at midnight. I might need some of your expertise to track the e-mail back to the sender.”

“No problem. Let me know what you need.”

“I will. In the meantime, I’d better get out of here and change.”

Checking his watch, Declan realized he had to hurry. Luckily his apartment was a quick walk from the office. Once inside, he was showered and dressed in ten minutes. And in another five, he was on his way to the hotel.

Declan couldn’t help but mull over what he’d learned from his cousin about Grace. A woman who didn’t get herself involved in long-term relationships. Perfect. She might be a client now, but that would change when he solved the case. He was already looking forward to the possibilities.

CARS AND TAXIS LINED UP outside the Hotel Monteleone. Declan looked for Grace as he went inside. No luck there, either. Not that she couldn’t be in the ballroom. It was already swarming with guests.

Declan wandered through the crowd, his intent not only to find her, but also to read the guests, as well. Empathic impressions weren’t as accurate an ability as telepathy, for example, but taking the pulse of the room had always served him well, perhaps the reason he’d had such a good arrest and conviction record as a cop.

As he walked through the crowd, Declan opened himself to the people around him who didn’t even notice he was there. Most people were into themselves, projecting a particular face to the room—success, interest, openness—while casting out vibes at odds with those facades.

He sensed uncertainty … contempt … awe … remorse.

Unfortunately he could only take the crowd’s pulse. It would demand a face-to-face to get a clearer picture of how any particular emotion played out in a given situation.

Suddenly the tenor of the room changed, lust being the overriding emotion sizzling off the men around him. Declan turned, his gaze fixed on the entrance where he caught a glimpse of a gown that shimmered and glowed as brightly as the crystal chandeliers overhead.

Dressed in a backless tight column of red sequins, Grace Broussard entered the ballroom alone. She looked poised … relaxed … in charge.

All an illusion.

Declan wasn’t close enough to read her as accurately as he might like, but even at a distance, he sensed her anxiety and an underlying fear that, under the circumstances, was totally understandable.

Grace felt rather than saw heads turn when she entered the hotel ballroom. She was posing, pretending—not that she was someone else, but that she was as confident as she appeared. Inside, she was a trembling, pitiful mess. She probably should have had Declan escort her here.

Gazing around the room for the private investigator, she couldn’t miss the attention she was getting. For once she wished she could leave again, so she could go find a place to hide where she didn’t have to think about suggestive photographs and someone’s evil intent.

Was the blackmailer in the room now?

Would she be able to tell if she saw him?

How would she know when she couldn’t even look anyone in the eyes?

Spotting Raphael was a relief. As usual, her employer was dressed in black. And as usual, he wore ruby studs in his ears and a gold snake with ruby eyes on the middle finger of his right hand. His slicked, long, black hair accentuated chiseled features and slightly slanted brown eyes.

Raphael gave her a high sign before turning back to his young male companion.

Then she spotted Corbett and made straight for her brother.

As usual, his tux was perfectly tailored and not a strand of his golden-brown hair was out of place. His eyebrows shot up and his hazel eyes widened appreciatively.

“Grace, won’t you kick up Mama’s ulcer tonight.”

“If she actually had an ulcer, this dress might do it,” she agreed. “So, are you here alone?”

“I am. Although I have my eye on an interesting woman new to the political game in this town. What about you?”

Thinking of Declan again, Grace felt her pulse rush, but she said, “Alone for the moment, as well.”

“Well, this little event might be interesting, after all.”

“I’m hoping.” Grace tried to keep her tone casual so she wouldn’t warn Corbett something was wrong. “Anyone I should know to be careful around? Someone with a grudge against you or Mama?”

“Grudge? Not exactly. But there is Larry Laroche. He’ll be running against me for my seat on the city council.”

“Sounds as if you have reason to not like the man.”

“I don’t have proof of anything of course, but rumor has it he’ll do anything to win.”

“Anything?” Grace’s interest picked up. Like hiring someone to take questionable photos of his opponent’s sister?

“He smeared his last opponent, Tommy Ryan, the other candidate in his own party. His colleagues weren’t too happy with him, but he just shrugged off the censure.”

“Smeared Ryan how?”

“Sent a reporter to the bordello where Ryan was … well, occupied.”

“A sex scandal? How did I miss it?”

“Because it never hit the media. Tommy bought off the reporter. But word got around, courtesy of Laroche, and the next thing you know, Tommy is no longer in the running. He concedes and the victory goes to Laroche.”