Читать книгу Saving Grace - Patricia Rosemoor - Страница 10

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.”

“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.

“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.