Книга - Saving Grace

Saving Grace
Patricia Rosemoor






Saving Grace

Patricia Rosemoor






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u9a0a54e8-51e7-55b9-98f3-972ef5754fc5)

Title Page (#u9a18e099-c462-56b6-b39c-a99686a35c4d)

About the Author (#ulink_5801f530-5e6c-5099-b2d3-9d21feabfdbc)

Chapter One (#ulink_2e208da4-464f-5276-b705-0955812fed7b)

Chapter Two (#ulink_1f1af0da-b6f8-5ff9-86c0-a899b5e538c0)

Chapter Three (#ulink_2507b5ee-26ab-5f03-8dd4-e2d634bb1911)

Chapter Four (#ulink_b6ca5bdd-a868-5385-a8d6-8ba779b644f4)

Chapter Five (#ulink_55739f89-9503-55d9-8a64-0c84705d199a)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Thanks as always to the members of my critique

group—Sherrill Bodine, Rosemary Paulas, Cheryl

Jefferson, Jude Mandell and Laurie DeMarino—who

brainstormed with me through the tough spots.


June 22, 1919

Donal McKenna,

Ye might have found happiness with another woman, but your progeny will pay for ths betrayal of me. I call on my faerie blood and my powers as a witch to give yers only sorrow in love, for should they act on their feelings, they will put their loved ones in mortal danger.

So be it,

Sheelin O’Keefe




About the Author (#ulink_b3e5745a-13e5-5ae7-b787-bb80ad514296)


PATRICIA ROSEMOOR has always had a fascination with dangerous love. She loves bringing a mix of thrills and chills and romance to Intrigue readers. She’s won a Golden Heart from Romance Writers of America and Reviewers’ Choice and Career Achievement Awards from RT Book Reviews. She teaches courses on writing popular fiction and suspense thriller writing in the fiction writing department of Columbia College Chicago. Check out her website, www.PatriciaRosemoor. com. You can contact Patricia via e-mail at Patricia@ PatriciaRosemoor.com.




Chapter One (#ulink_b89e91ea-70da-5899-9acd-4a846c89231d)


She was the most stunning creature he’d ever seen.

The raven-haired woman entered through a door that should have been locked. It was well after ten. Behind her, the street was muted with fog that curled over the pavement and up the streetlights. Declan McKenna stood frozen at the front desk of Vieux Carré Investigations and let the stapler he’d just picked up tumble from his fingers back to the desktop.

“I need you,” she said, her low, throaty voice sizzling down his spine.

“Then have me. I’m yours.”

A perfectly arched brow revealed her annoyance with his attempt at humor. “I need your services,” she amended. “Your professional services. You are a private investigator?”

“Forgive me. You took me by surprise.” He straightened. “Declan McKenna, one of the owners of Vieux Carre Investigations.” His cousin and partner, Ian, was out of town, the reason Declan had spent all night wrestling with paperwork. They didn’t have any other employees, not while they were working to get the business in the black, so they had to do everything from footwork to accounting.

“I’m Grace Broussard.”

Declan moved to his office door and held out an arm to invite her in. “Please.”

Closing the outside door, she stepped forward.

What an eyeful she was in a sleek black dress, both sides slitted to reveal glimpses of long, long legs. Her raven hair dusted her shoulders and came to a peak at her waist. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen her before. Mesmerized by the length of Grace’s spine as she moved into the office before him, Declan removed his jacket.

She was making him sweat.

Grace took a seat, and Declan rounded his desk, one of the many antiques adorning the office. Not Declan’s taste. Not Ian’s, either. They’d bought the business, lock, stock and furniture, from the previous owner. The decor was appropriate for a business situated in the French Quarter, so they hadn’t changed anything, not even the dark green paint on the walls.

Declan hung his jacket on the back of his chair and sat. “What can I do for you, Ms. Broussard?”

“Grace, please. I need you to find out who’s been following me.”

“What makes you think you’re being followed?”

Not that he disbelieved her. Most likely more than one man had followed her at some time or other.

“Let’s say my senses are sharp, in tune with my surroundings. I’ve been aware of someone following me several times in the past two weeks.”

“Did you see who?”

“No, but I’m not imagining it. I thought perhaps it was a fan. But then there are these.” She opened her purse and pulled out several folded sheets of cream-colored paper. “The first came in the mail at work.”

Unfolding one of the missives, she placed it on the desk and slid it toward him. He stared at the words printed in caps.

I’VE BEEN WATCHING YOU

She placed the second sheet on top of the first. There was a little hitch in her voice when she said, “The second message was delivered to me at a social gathering. A charity dinner. I found it under my plate.”

I SEE EVERYTHING YOU DO

“And now there’s this, pushed under my apartment door sometime during the night. Or maybe that’s what woke me up so early this morning.”

Her hand was shaking now as she smoothed out the final note. Declan stared at the four words printed neatly in the middle of the third missive.

I CAN EXPOSE YOU

“Do you know what the threat means?” he asked. “It must have something to do with my work.” “Which is …?”

“I represent a new line of designer clothing called Voodoo.”

Declan snapped to and felt a flush creep up his neck as he placed her—that ad in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Her lying across a red satin-covered bed, back arched, arm lazily thrown over her head, the words under the photo: Voodoo … Put A Spell On Him Tonight….

He’d wanted the woman in that ad to put a spell on him!

Clearing his throat, he said, “Sounds like this could be a stalker. Have you been to the police?”

“No police,” she said. “Not unless absolutely necessary.”

“Tell me why.”

Grace took a big breath. “Bad publicity could be devastating to my mother’s career. She’s an assistant district attorney and slated to fill a judicial vacancy. And then there’s my brother, a city council member up for re-election. I wouldn’t be able to bear it if I somehow ruined the lives of the people I love.”

As a man who believed in family loyalty, Declan was impressed. Grace’s emotions were raw, right on the surface. A person didn’t have to be an empath to read her. But as a McKenna, he could do so more quickly and more deeply than the average person. All the members of his family had some native ability—his being able to read anyone’s emotions.

“So, I gather you’d like us to provide you with a bodyguard.”

“No!” Her depthless gray eyes widened. “I can’t have someone following me around every moment. I want you to figure out who this pervert is and help me find a way to dissuade him from doing anything I would regret.”

“To find him, I would have to dig into your life. You need to realize an investigation sometimes brings to light things people would rather see stay buried.”

“I have no skeletons in my closet,” she said firmly, but suddenly she couldn’t seem to meet his gaze.

“And your family?”

“Of course not!” she snapped.

Making him certain she was hiding something. Well, that made two of them. Not that either his McKenna gift or the McKenna curse had any bearing on the case. He’d abandoned the woman he’d fallen for before anything serious could happen between them. The last time he’d seen Lila Soto, one of the serious artists his sister Aislinn represented in her gallery, her spirit had been crushed, and her dark eyes had been deep pools of pain—pain that he’d caused even though he’d left his home in New Mexico to protect her.

Grace Broussard was exactly the kind of woman he used to go for. Grace was gorgeous and sexy, but she was no Lila. Not soft and shy and funny and generous. Not the type of woman to whom he would ever give his heart.

“So you would be comfortable with whatever background information I learn about you or your family.”

“As long as you keep to a confidentiality agreement.”

Declan nodded. “Of course. All right, I’ll take the case. We charge eight hundred a day plus expenses.”

“Agreed.”

Declan had Grace fill out some paperwork and sign a waiver so that he had permission to dig where he saw fit. When she was done, a rush of something he couldn’t quite name shot through him as he held out his hand to shake on the deal.

A FEELING OF HELPLESSNESS—as though she were rushing to some inexplicable destiny—came over Grace. A sound like white noise filled her head and she found herself staring into thick-lashed green eyes with deep lids at half-mast. Bedroom eyes.

Forcing herself to concentrate, she stretched out her hand. Declan’s long fingers wrapping around hers shot a rush of heat through her and sizzled along her nerves. Shocked, she felt the room narrow as an image quickly flipped through her mind….

Declan tears off his tie … catches her by the hips and runs his lips along her naked spine….

Spine tingling from neck to hips, Grace smothered a gasp and tried to look natural as she freed her hand. It couldn’t be happening to her again. not after all these years. Good Lord, what had she just done?

Her imagination was playing tricks on her. She hadn’t really seen what she’d thought upon touching him. Not possible, because she didn’t have visions anymore.

Not even by accident!

“I’ll need you to leave the notes,” Declan said. “And I would like to get your fingerprints so I can eliminate them when I run my tests on the paper.”

His stare was so intense she could feel it all the way down to her toes. As if he’d read her mind, his full mouth quirked into a grin, stretching the faint scar on his chin.

“Fingerprints … but that would only incriminate someone who’d already had their fingerprints taken. A criminal.”

“Chances are, that’s exactly who we’re dealing with.”

“Right.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t have to mess up your fingers with ink. My cousin is an electronic junkie. Even though we’re a small business, he has to have the latest tools, including one for electronic fingerprinting. I’ll be just a moment,” he said, leaving the room.

Great. Fingerprinting. That meant Declan would touch her again. Ten times. Once for each finger. Ten more chances to flash on some nonexistent future.

But when he came back and set the equipment on the desk before her, he said, “You just need to press each finger to the screen, one at a time. It’ll only take a few moments.”

Relief washed through her when she realized Declan didn’t have to touch her again, after all. As she followed his instructions, Grace knew that she needed to get hold of herself, stop imagining the unthinkable. Get her mind back to the problem at hand.

“I need some basic information,” Declan said. “About your place of business and the people you work with.”

Though she couldn’t imagine the stalker was that close to her, Grace said, “Raphael Duhon is the owner-designer of Voodoo. And Max Babin is the photographer he uses. I really don’t work with anyone else on a regular basis.”

“You’re on good terms with both of them?”

“I am. Raphael actually owns the building where both Voodoo and Gotcha!, the photography studio, are located. It’s at Decatur and Iberville.”

“All your shoots are inside, then?”

“No, not all. I’m also the spokeswoman for Voodoo, so I do a lot of society and charity events. I’m constantly being photographed at them.”

“That complicates things. Some man you met at one of these functions could have targeted you. When’s the next event?”

“As a matter of fact, I have one tomorrow night.”

“Do you have an escort?”

“No—”

“You do now. I can scope out the people around you with a fresh eye. If anyone has taken an unnatural interest in you, I’ll spot him.”

They made plans to talk later—they would pick a place to meet then. Grace left Vieux Carré Investigations and headed for home with a lighter heart than she’d had when she entered.

Even so, as she walked down the street, she couldn’t help but look over her shoulder. If some dangerous man lurked behind her, she couldn’t spot him. Declan McKenna would have a better eye for these things than she did, the reason she’d hired him.

Even so, she walked faster.

She’d never been afraid before—not like this, not on so many levels.

For once in her life, she had something she could call her own—an actual career that she loved. She’d done a lot of searching, had gotten off to a lot of bad starts, but finally—finally!—she knew what she was meant to do.

Being photographed wasn’t important to her, though she did enjoy it. Being able to draw on the contacts she’d made all her life to help break out a talented designer and to raise donations for various charities through her appearances meant a great deal to her. It gave her a purpose in life she’d never before had. She could follow family tradition, but in her own unique way. In the past, she’d endured society functions. She hadn’t fit in. Now she saw them as a way to use her celebrity to do good for folks who needed help. It was a win-win situation for everyone involved.

For the first time, she was really happy with her life.

Now someone was trying to ruin that, to take the joy she’d finally discovered from her work. Grace wasn’t about to let that happen, no matter what she had to do.

Or see, she thought, remembering the vision she’d had when touching Declan.

No, no. It wouldn’t happen again, she assured herself, remembering the traumatic incident the last time she’d used her ability.

Never again.

She was so focused on her distraught thoughts that she didn’t realize she’d automatically taken a shortcut down a narrow side street—one that wasn’t well lit. The area seemed deserted … but the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.

Was she being followed?

This time when she turned around, she spotted a dark figure slip into a doorway.

Heart hammering, trying not to panic, she sped up.

Footsteps slap-slapped behind her, quickly drawing closer. Nearly choking on her breath, she pushed herself, now running blindly in her panic. The threatening footfalls echoed through her head and she feared her pursuer was nearly upon her….

A door opened and she ran into a tall, broadly built man exiting and lost her balance.

He caught her before she fell. “Easy, chér.” His expression concerned, he looked behind her. “Is there a problem?”

Grace looked, too, but whoever had been following her had melted into the night.

“Sorry, I got turned around and didn’t know where I was,” she lied. “The hour is so late.” Nearly midnight. “The street’s empty … I just got scared.”

The young man grinned. “Would you like us to walk you home?” He indicated a woman who’d followed him out of the building.

Relief washed through her. “I would be so appreciative. I’m in the Marigny, just the other side of Esplanade.”

“No problem. Anything for a lady.”

Feeling infinitely better, Grace gave the empty street behind her one last searching look.

SO NOW WHAT WAS Grace Broussard up to, going to a private investigator? Did she really think she was going to get out of this? Of course she did.

Privileged people never thought bad things could happen to them. They assumed that while they wreaked havoc on other people, they could go through life unscathed. That they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and that they would never have to pay.

Grace Broussard was about to learn different.

The stakes just went up.




Chapter Two (#ulink_440661f4-1dc5-5368-8e62-6efb96e54497)


“Minny, what are you doing here?” Grace asked when she arrived early for her shoot the next morning and found her cousin wandering around Gotcha!

The photography studio wasn’t open this early. There was no one currently on hand to stop anyone from coming through. The last receptionist had been let go the week before—Max said Eva just wasn’t working out, but Grace had overheard an argument between Max and a supplier about cost, making Grace wonder if finances were the real reason.

Minny had made herself at home.

“I was looking for you, of course, Grace. So what do you think?”

Minny was posed in front of the scrim, lit with a pale lavender—the only soft thing about the scene. Minny’s hair glowed red. Not auburn, not mahogany, but a stoplight red that made her freckles pop. Her floaty blouse was a pattern of red and gold, and she wore gold capris.

Nothing subtle about Cousin Minny.

Wondering where Max had gotten to—since the lights were on, the photographer was obviously in the middle of setting up for the shoot—Grace echoed, “What do I think? It all depends on what you want to advertise.”

“My business, of course.” Minny waved red-tipped fingers heavy with rings of garnets and topaz. “I was thinking of running a big ad in the Times-Picayune.”

For the past several years, Minny had run a shop in the French Quarter where she read palms and auras and tarot. Of course she used her gift to get the goods on the customers, so her predictions always rang true.

Grace thought to tell Minny about the spooky notes—about someone following her the night before and about her hiring a private investigator—then thought again. She trusted Minny implicitly—perhaps the only person she could say that about. While normally her cousin would keep her confidence, Grace wasn’t sure she would when it came to her being threatened. The last thing she wanted was for Mama or Corbett to know that someone was stalking her and that she’d hired a professional to resolve the situation.

Scrubbing the situation from her mind so Minny couldn’t use her psychic abilities to catch on, Grace said, “If you’re serious about needing a professional photo, I’ll talk to Max—”

“Nah, I’m just thinking about it. Don’t know if I’ll ever do it. I’m the shy type, not like you, Grace.”

“Yeah, sure,” Grace said with a laugh.

Minny had always put herself right out there, ever since Grace could remember. Her cousin had never had the trouble using the family gift.

“Why don’t you come back to the dressing room with me? I have a shoot scheduled in an hour—a new line of Raphael’s lingerie.”

“Ooh, let’s see. I just know it’ll be the real me.”

One of the few people who knew the real Minny Broussard—her cousin acted her way through life—Grace laughed and led the way back to the dressing room. Even though the woman used to babysit her, they’d gotten along as contemporaries for years.

“So what do you need from me?” Grace asked, as she shed her clothing for a filmy robe.

“Need?” Minny echoed. “Can’t I simply stop by to see my favorite little cousin?” Minny touched the side of Grace’s face and looked deep into her eyes.

Grace ducked and started on her makeup. “Don’t be coy,” Grace said, using the mirror to watch Minny check out the skimpy lingerie hanging on the clothing rack. “You’re up to something. What happened?” Wanting to distract her cousin if she’d somehow sensed the stalker issue, Grace asked, “You somehow got the S-O-S on my psychic slip?”

“You slipped? Well, isn’t this an interesting development.”

Grace stopped what she was doing and turned to face Minny, who was studying the first thing Grace would model—a delicate black bustier laced with magenta ribbons.

“Declan McKenna isn’t my type, Minny,” Grace said, believing it even as she saw him in her mind’s eye and her pulse picked up a beat. “So don’t make this into a thing.”

Minny pulled the hanger holding the corset from the rack. Seeming extra-intent, she gazed at the garment, then used her free hand to touch it. For a moment, Minny’s expression deepened into a frown that made the flesh along Grace’s spine crawl.

“What?” Grace demanded, her voice strained, knowing her talented cousin could get psychic readings from objects, as well as from people.

Minny shook her head, but her expression didn’t lighten. “Something strange … bad vibes… can’t quite get it. Maybe you shouldn’t wear this.”

As if she didn’t want to touch the bad vibe bustier any more than necessary, Minny set the hanger back on the garment rack and separated it from the other designs.

“A fancy bustier is giving you bad vibes?” The tension drained out of Grace. “Oh, come on, Minny, you have to do better than that if you want to scare me.”

Something her cousin used to take delight in when she’d been a teenager and in charge of Grace and Corbett.

“I’m not trying to scare you.”

A chill ran through Grace, but she chased it away. Minny had always used her psychic abilities to make herself seem more mysterious and all-knowing.

“I really do need to get ready for my shoot,” Grace said, all business now.

Tension made it impossible to get her lipstick on just right—Minny wasn’t taking the hint and leaving!

“Uh-uh, Grace. You haven’t told me about the psychic incident yet. Did you touch this Declan?”

“What does it matter?” Grace asked, even as what she’d seen flitted through her mind. “I don’t have the ability anymore. I don’t want to be psychic.”

“You don’t have any say in the matter. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. So what was it? A real live look into the future? Or were you simply reading what was on his mind?”

She hadn’t really thought about it before. Maybe Declan had been the one on the hormonal overload and she’d merely been picking that up. Not that the possibility made her feel any better. Psychic was psychic and she didn’t want any part of the supposed gift. Or maybe her imagination had simply been engaged. Declan was someone she’d hired to work for her, and that was that.

“You encouraged me to use my touch before, Minny, and look where it got me,” Grace reminded her. “Humiliated in front of my classmates.”

The last time she’d read anyone’s thoughts, she’d been fifteen. Years of predictions had made her a pariah amongst her peers because kids didn’t like anyone who was different. That last time, she’d made such a muddle interpreting what she’d seen that she’d sworn never to succumb to that particular temptation again. Her decision to abstain from mind-reading had relieved her family—all but Cousin Minny, of course. Minny understood Grace’s gift because she’d been the only other person in the family who’d had the touch since their grandmama had passed.

“It takes maturity and practice to get things right,” Minny said. “It’s not like listening to a radio. Lots of times you have to untangle what you hear to make sense of it.” Minny leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Try to chill, would you? And let me know when you’re ready to expand your mind again.”

Which would be never.

Still, Grace hugged Minny in return. She loved her cousin even if she didn’t want to be like her.

“Remember what I said about the bustier,” Minny reminded her. “Bad vibes.”

“I’ll remember.”

But Grace meant to wear it anyway. It was her job.

After putting on the bustier, she stood in front of the mirror and aligned it on her body.

The garment really was sexy, pushing her full breasts up over the delicate material so that her flesh looked ready to spill out of the top. As she adjusted the shallow lacy cups, she couldn’t help but wonder how Declan would react if he saw her wearing this.

Grace struck a sultry pose as she would in front of the camera and gave her imagination free rein.

Suddenly it came to her again—that image she’d gotten when she’d taken Declan’s hand. Unable to help herself, she cupped her breasts as he might do. Her neck arched and her breathing changed and her breasts swelled until her nipples peaked over the top of the lace.

She licked her lips and closed her eyes for a moment and indulged herself in a moment of fantasy about a sexy man.

Suddenly, she got the weirdest sensation, almost feeling as if Declan were watching her. Her eyes whipped open and she stared at herself in the mirror.

No, not Declan …

Someone else.

Having the same feeling she’d had several times in the past weeks, she tugged the bustier in place and gave the room a paranoid once-over, expecting to see a peephole in the wall somewhere. Nothing. Of course not. Her imagination was simply running wild.

Thank you, Minny, she thought as she slipped into a robe.

Shaking off the creepy feeling only with difficulty, Grace quickly finished getting ready for the shoot, all the while wondering what Declan might have found out.

“IS MS. BROUSSARD EXPECTIN’ you?” the hefty woman in the gray uniform asked.

“No, actually not …” Declan quickly looked at the uniform’s pocket where the woman’s name was scrolled. “Eula. But I have business with Ms. Broussard.”

The guard narrowed her gaze at Declan before nodding. “All right, go on in. But if Ms. Broussard ain’t pleased to see you, you’ll answer to me.”

“Absolutely,” Declan said, as he headed for the door with the Gotcha! sign.

Declan entered the photography studio office and noted the unoccupied desk set in the middle of an empty and none-too-lovingly decorated room. The place was at best functional, though no receptionist guarded the gates to the inner sanctum.

Music drifted from an open doorway to the right. Declan stepped inside the studio, following the strains of a sexy tune—a woman with a low, throbbing voice warbling in French. He stood back in the dark.

Before him, in a pool of hazy lavender light, lying across a chaise lounge, Grace Broussard made love to the camera in time to the sensual music. And as she did, another woman with spiked, magenta-streaked brown hair, wearing shortshorts and a tube top, photographed her. This was Max? For a moment, Declan watched her work. Max Babin was a total professional and he got no bad vibes from her, so he turned back to the woman she was photographing.

Dressed in a cream-colored bustier, lace cheeky panties, thigh-high stockings and sling-back sandals, Grace was every man’s dream. And what she did with her body as the camera whirled softly! Max barely had to encourage her to adopt poses that made Declan physically uncomfortable.

This was work, he reminded himself. Not play.

On her knees, she stretched like a cat….

She turned on her side and lifted one leg in a seemingly impossible pose….

Then she was on her back, both legs drawn over the top of the chaise, her upper body dangling, head down….

The very atmosphere was charged with Grace’s sexuality, and Declan was a mere man, one who’d been without female companionship for too long. He wondered how he was going to work for Grace without getting himself in a knot around her.

“That should do it,” Max said none-too-soon.

“Good. I’m exhausted.”

Grace stood and walked out of the pool of light where she slipped into a silky robe. Declan cleared his throat to make his presence known.

The photographer immediately whipped around, her eyes squinting into the dark. “Who’s there?”

“Declan McKenna,” he said, stepping into the light. “I’m a friend of Grace’s.”

Grace’s eyes went wide. “Uh, Declan …” Her voice throbbed, sounding thick and undeniably sexy. “Let’s go to my dressing room.”

“Yes, let’s,” he said agreeably.

When they entered the cramped room, which was little bigger than a closet, she asked, “What brings you here, Declan? The fingerprints? Did you get the results back already?”

“On the weekend? No such luck. I simply thought it would be a good idea for me to see where you work. Where you live.”

“You want to come home with me?”

“Don’t you want me to make sure your place is safe? If you really do have a stalker—”

“If? You don’t believe me, after all. For your information, I’m pretty sure someone was following me last night after I left your office.”

“What happened?”

“I’m fine, aren’t I? Part of me thinks I was imagining things.”

“Even so, the possibility gives me more reason to check out your place—to make sure that if someone is doing more than just sending you notes, he can’t get at you.”

“Fine. You can come home with me and check things out, then. But I would appreciate your waiting in the outer office while I change.”

“No problem.”

While he would rather remain right where he was, Declan knew that would lead to nothing but trouble.

Though he hadn’t yet gotten a report on the fingerprints, he’d called Ian to see if his cousin knew anything about their client. Declan hadn’t been in New Orleans long enough to get more than the feel of the place, but Ian had lived here all his life. Indeed, Ian had known that Grace Broussard was a trust-fund baby and something of a free spirit in a political, driven family.

Obviously, she’d found her niche, Declan thought, and a perfect one for her, at that.

And now someone was threatening to use it against her.

Not on his watch.

GRACE’S NERVES WERE already on edge. She’d been occupied for every moment since she’d had that bizarre feeling in her dressing room that morning, but once she stopped working, she couldn’t forget about it. She found herself changing in the powder room, as if she were safe in the smaller space. But safe from what?

The scariest thing she had to face was touching Declan again. The mere thought of which sent a shiver down her spine, all the way to her toes.

So a few minutes later, as they walked along Decatur and its shops filled with tourist trinkets and other souvenirs of New Orleans, Grace made certain she kept a safe distance between them.

“Do you always work on Saturdays?” Declan asked.

“No. We just had to finish up shooting the new designs for a series of ads Raphael intends to run.”

“Very provocative.”

She slashed him a look. “You don’t approve?”

“I was simply making an observation,” Declan said, his demeanor professional. He moved his gaze constantly over the crowd as if searching it for a potential stalker. “So do people recognize you when you walk down the street?”

“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.




Chapter Three (#ulink_6ee8cc85-be83-55af-b18e-5db3fab4179e)


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.”

“Well, he’s put a lot into Voodoo, which is his real love,” Grace said. “He’s been working for other people for years and finally got his own business off the ground. You don’t really believe a man suddenly shooting to the top of his profession would involve himself in blackmail, do you?”

Thinking blackmail money might be just the thing to get that commercial building up and running—not to mention Voodoo, possibly the reason Raphael gave a trust-fund baby work—Declan said, “Hard to say what anyone would do where money is involved. I’ll be checking on his other properties, see what’s going on. Who else works in your building?”

“There are a couple other businesses, but I don’t know any of those people—I can’t imagine they even know I’m around.

As to Max,” Grace went on evenly, “she has a part-time photography assistant who sets up the set. She works when needed and that’s it. Usually Max has a full-time employee who does some of everything—reception, billing, secretarial—but she let Eva go and hasn’t talked about replacing her. I don’t think it was Eva’s work. I suspect Max couldn’t afford to keep her.”

Making the photographer another suspect, Declan thought. “I’m going to need a list of everyone who works in the building so I can run security checks on them.”

“Okay, I can put that together for you.”

“Good. If you add the building employees, that offers more variables to the situation. Lots of people who have access to the studio and therefore the dressing room.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“How about we start by finding the camera—assuming it’s still in place. If we’re lucky we can track it back to its source.”

Grace shuddered. “The studio isn’t open.”

“Even better.”

“You want to break in?”

“The security guard—will it be the one who was on duty earlier?”

“Eula? I’m not sure.”

“Well, hope she is. She seemed to like you.”

“She’s always been friendly to me.”

“Then chances are you can talk our way back into the place.”

On the way back to the studio, Declan couldn’t erase the photograph in his mind. He tried—really—but his libido was stronger than his will, at least in this case. He kept seeing Grace in undergarments that begged to be removed.

So when he opened the door of the taxi he’d hailed for her and she sort of ducked so as not to touch him as she slid inside, he was a bit relieved. But when he noticed that Grace was practically huddling against the opposite door leaving two feet of space between them, Declan tried not to take offense.

“So what’s this event we’re going to later?” he asked, thinking talking would relax her.

“It’s a bipartisan fund-raiser for the local schools. Mama was on the committee that put it together.”

“It doesn’t sound like your kind of scene.”

“It isn’t. But I support my family. And the kids. The schools still don’t have everything they need. If I can do something to make it happen, you bet I will.”

The fervor in her voice got to Declan. So Grace was more than a pretty face.

The taxi stopped at the studio. While Declan paid, Grace let herself out. She went inside and raced up the steps to the second floor. Sure enough, Eula was still at the security desk.

“Miss Grace, what you doin’ back here?” she asked. “Don’t tell me Ms. Babin is makin’ you work tonight.”

“Oh, no. I’m not working. I’m going to a party tonight. That’s the problem—I can’t find my invitation. I must have left it in the dressing room.”

“You need an invitation to get in?”

“It’s sort of an invitation-receipt for the school fund-raiser. My mother is on the committee and wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t show up.”

“Your mama’s a smart lady,” Eula said to her while eyeing Declan with suspicion. “I hear she’s gonna be a judge.”

“She’s hoping. At any rate, I was showing the invitation to my cousin and I guess I never put it back in my bag. Can you let me in, Eula?”

“Sure, no problem.” The security guard stepped out from behind her desk. “Follow me.” But when Declan started off, as well, Eula gave him another piercing look. “Where do you think you’re goin'?”

Seeing that Eula’s bristles were up, Declan winked at her. “I can’t let this woman out of my sight. I’m sure you know how that is.”

But Eula didn’t relax until Declan slipped an arm around Grace’s waist. Then it was Grace who became instantly uptight. He felt the tension the moment he touched her. Still, she forced a convincing smile.

“Declan’s helping me will make the search go faster, Eula,” she choked out.

“Okay, okay,” Eula muttered, leading the way to the Gotcha! entrance.

Declan took a quick look at Grace, who wiggled out from the protection of his arm. Tension was evident in her beautiful features.

Just from his touching her?

Stopping in front of the photography studio door, Eula sorted through keys on a heavy ring until she found the right one. Seconds later, the door stood open.

“Okay, there you go now.”

Grace gave the other woman a warm smile. “Thank you,

Eula.”

Declan let Grace take the lead inside, but he made sure to close the door behind them.

Declan reached past her and turned the doorknob. “Ladies first.”

When he pulled back, he brushed her in the process. She practically jumped away from him. For a second, her gaze went blank, as though she were somewhere else. Declan was hit by a sense of panic that didn’t make any sense. Then Grace quickly gathered herself and went inside the dressing room. She flicked on the light, then slowly turned, her gaze furtively darting around the room.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Slow down. Think about the angle from which the photograph was taken. The camera had to be in front of you. So which way were you facing?”

“The mirror.”

“The camera wasn’t straight on—”

“It was up a little,” she finished for him.

They both looked up, over the mirror.

Declan’s gaze settled on the mirror frame itself—about four inches wide with a shiny black finish. Tall enough to reach over, he ran his fingers along the edge of the mirror.

“Got it,” he muttered, “and it’s Wi-Fi.” He ran his fingers over the front of the frame, then tapped the spot where a small chunk of wood had been drilled out. “The lens such as it is lines up right here.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“The shiny black paint presents you with an optical illusion, but there is a peephole. If you look closely, you can see it.”

Grace moved closer so that she was almost touching him. “There it is. Wireless, huh? It’ll make it easier to pull out.”

“We don’t want to do that. If all else fails, we might be able to trap whoever did this with his own camera.”

“In the meantime, there’s an unwanted set of eyes in the dressing room.”

“So don’t dress in front of the mirror.” What he was really thinking was that she shouldn’t play out her fantasies except in the privacy of her own home, but he didn’t think she would appreciate the advice. She’d already learned the hard way. “Just in case, let me check the room over. And the powder room.”

“All right,” Grace conceded, aiming a resentful glare at the hiding place as she sank into a chair.

Declan felt her eyes on him as he searched every nook and cranny. And her emotions. They were in a whirl. Anger mixed with hurt. He realized she couldn’t conceive of anyone betraying her like this. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her that he would catch the creep and stop the blackmail and everything would be all right. Only he wasn’t sure it would be that easy. And, from her attitude toward him, she apparently didn’t want him to touch her.

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.




Chapter Four (#ulink_cca3f922-d46b-5a76-a9da-fcf19bed3768)


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.




Chapter Five (#ulink_284ea232-dd65-5ce0-b69b-dbc25f5a0e2a)


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.”

“And you’re sure this information is accurate?”

“As sure as I can be of my sources. So don’t go getting yourself into some big scandal before the election or Laroche will use it against me.”

Grace swallowed hard. Corbett was dead serious. Knowing his temper, she hoped she could keep word of those photographs from getting to him forever.

“I’ll try to contain myself for your sake.”

Corbett grinned at her. “Good, and if you have the chance, chat up Jill Westerfield. See what you can find out about her.”

“Is that the woman new to the game?”

“One and the same.”

Grace followed her brother’s gaze to a woman who was tall, curvaceous and wore her blond hair short, scraped back from her face. Something about the blonde ticked at Grace, but she couldn’t place her. A simple black sheath and hornrimmed glasses did little to distract from Jill Westerfield’s attractiveness. The blonde stopped next to Laroche and put a possessive hand on his shoulder. The politician smiled at her and immediately wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Um … looks like she has a date for the evening. With a married man.”

“I can overlook that,” Corbett said, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

Wondering where Laroche’s wife might be, Grace couldn’t fathom why her brother was interested in a woman who would go after the sleazy politician. “Nothing like picking someone totally inappropriate.”

“Perhaps I’ll get her to cross the line, come over to my way of thinking.”

It had been years since her brother had seemed so focused on a woman—Naomi had been pre-Katrina—and Grace didn’t want to discourage him. For years he’d had “safe” dates, none of whom had ever put that particular gleam in his eyes, so she kept her thoughts to herself. Maybe she was just misreading the relationship between the Westerfield woman and Laroche.

“What about Mama?” she asked. “Does she have to be careful of someone, too?”

Corbett gave her his you-should-know-better-than-to-ask expression. “Her name is Helen Emerson. She sells herself as Mrs. Clean. No one is that clean, if you ask me. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, and that isn’t very far.” His gaze strayed back to the Westerfield woman. “This music is inspiring. I think I want to dance.”

Jill Westerfield was just breaking away from her politician date. She disappeared back into the crowd, Corbett following. Grace hoped her brother knew what he was doing, consorting with the enemy so to speak.

The enemy … how far would they go? Had Larry Laroche or Helen Emerson paid to have those photos taken of her? Was one of them planning on blackmailing her brother or mother? Grace couldn’t let their political careers be hurt because of her … but if Laroche or Emerson was behind the blackmail scheme, how could she stop them?

She would look for an opportunity to talk to the two politicians in question in person tonight.

Would they look at her with practiced politician expressions? Would one of them have a secret smile behind his eyes? Knowing she would come face-to-face with the person responsible for those photographs made it hard to take a deep breath.

Approaching Larry Laroche, who still stood at the edge of the dance floor, Grace wondered if she could get him off guard. When she heard him tell a companion, “You just have to find the right weapon, but you can manipulate anyone into doing what you want,” she had to fight back the urge to face off with him, right then, right there. Was his weapon a photograph?

Her mouth went dry and her throat tightened and her feet suddenly felt as if they were filled with lead.

“Excuse me,” came a familiar voice, “but I feel as if we’ve met before.”

Starting, Grace glanced to her right to see Declan dressed in a black tux with a black collarless shirt. He was as stunning a man as any in the room. More so. Her heart beat faster even as she took a quick look around. People were watching, so, taking a calming breath, she went along with him.

“Perhaps we’ve met at another fund-raiser.”

“We’ve met in my dreams—the ones I have after seeing you in those Voodoo ads.” He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

Grace lowered her voice. “I don’t want to give Mama any ideas. If she thinks there’s anything going on between us …”

Not that she’d seen Mama yet, but Grace was certain her mother was here somewhere in the crowd.

“Oh, come on, let’s give her something to chew on.”

As Declan smoothly swung her into his arms and onto the dance floor, Grace couldn’t escape his touch without making a scene. She shut down that part of her mind that would seek a vision. Practiced enough at it over the past dozen years, she was relieved when nothing untoward happened. He turned her in his arms, and she glimpsed her brother on the sidelines. No blonde. The Westerfield woman had either gotten away or turned him down. Her loss, Grace thought, as Corbett gave her a thumbs-up.

A moment later, when she was facing her brother again, Mama was next to him. Beaming. Just great.

She would have to explain Declan, only she didn’t know how when she couldn’t explain him to herself. “This isn’t a date,” Grace reminded him. “I never said it was.”





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