Saving Grace

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “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 horn-rimmed 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.”

  Dipping her, Declan made her catch her breath. Concentrating on keeping any visions at bay, she was relieved when he pulled her upright.

  Then she said, “But you were thinking it.”

  “How do you know? Are you psychic?”

  Ignoring the question, she said, “When you came in, I was about to get better acquainted with Larry Laroche, the man running against my brother for the city council seat.”

  “Now we can do it together.”

  He put a protective arm around her back and started her through the crowd toward the bar where Laroche held court. They didn’t get very far before Mama appeared, beautiful and dignified as always in a navy dress and long-sleeved jacket with crystal buttons that left little uncovered.

  “Why, Grace, darlin’, aren’t you going to introduce me to your young man?”

  “He’s not mine, Mama. We just met.”

  Mama’s gaze went to Declan’s hand at her waist and her eyebrows lifted a notch.

  “Declan McKenna,” he said, holding out his free hand for a shake. “So nice to meet you, Mrs. Broussard. Or should that be Judge Broussard?”

  Mama took his hand, saying, “Why, surely it should be and perhaps it shall. Aren’t you sweet to make note of my ambition.”

  “I keep abreast of what’s going on in my city.”

  “Ooh, a potential politician.”

  “Now you’re flattering me.”

  “What is it you do, darlin’?” Mama asked Declan.

  Grace cut in. “Oh, look, Mama. There’s Bitsy Halloway.” They hadn’t agreed on Declan’s cover story and she was anxious to distract her mother. “I think she’s looking for you.”

  Mama turned and waved to the society woman who was staring vacantly their way, then said, “All right, I understand you don’t need your mama playing chaperone. You two enjoy yourselves tonight.”

  With that, Mama headed straight for Bitsy.

  “I sense that didn’t go well for you.”

  Clenching her jaw at Declan’s amused tone, Grace said, “Mama sees what she wants to see.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Me settled down in an imitation of her.”

  Grace turned her gaze back to the bar where she spotted both politicians in question. Larry Laroche and Helen Emerson seemed to be in the middle of a disagreement.

  “I wo
nder what they’re arguing about.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Declan said, guiding her through the crowd, “but I can’t eavesdrop from this distance.”

  Grace let Declan lead her to the other side of the room. “So how do we do this?” she asked.

  “Be yourself. Or better yet…be Voodoo Woman.”

  Thinking Declan was mocking her with the comment, she glared at him but got a blank look in response.

  “Did I speak out of turn?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You just surprised me is all.” No one had ever told her to be wild and free in quite that way before. Or in any way, come to think of it. Warmth regenerated her. Her spine straightened, her head tilted, her lips curved. She was ready.

  As they approached the politicians, Grace concentrated on the heated discussion between Laroche and Emerson.

  “Why waste good money on the rug rats?” Laroche was saying. His thin lips were turned down, his beady, dark eyes flashed, his narrow nostrils flared. “High school is soon enough to buy computer equipment.”

  “I beg to differ.” Helen Emerson’s face was flushed to the roots of her red hair. “Grammar schools need the newest technology if the poorer children are going to keep up with the ones who have access at home!”

  “More’n half of ’em won’t finish high school anyhow.”

  “Not if they’re left technologically behind, they won’t. That’s why it’s so important to start them on computers while they’re young.”

  “I’m officially bored by this conversation,” Laroche suddenly announced. “I’m bored with this so-called party. We need something to liven it up. I know some very lovely Bourbon Street talent that could do the trick.”

  So his mind went to the lowest level, Grace thought, more than halfway convinced he was the blackmailer.

  “You’re inappropriate, as usual,” Helen told him. “If your potential constituents heard you, you wouldn’t get elected to dogcatcher.”

  “You don’t really think elections are won on the level of appropriateness, do you?” Laroche snorted. “If so, then you’d better look to the skeletons in your own closet. I could ruin you and you know it.”

  Helen sputtered, “Y-you’re mad! If you dare spread rumors about me, Larry Laroche, you will rue the day you were born!”

  “A pretty big threat. Be sure you’re up to the truth being disseminated in the most public of ways. Have no doubt I know where the bodies are buried.”

  Grace was trying not to react to that—did he mean real bodies or was that a metaphor for some other scandal?—when Jill Westerfield entered the fray.

  “Larry, there’s someone I want you to meet,” she said smoothly. “A man of influence, who is interested in supporting you. You’ll excuse us, won’t you?” she asked Helen.

  “By all means,” the older woman said. “Go meet the spawn of Satan. That’s the only support you’ll get in this city.”

  Just then, Declan grabbed a couple of champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray and handed one to Grace.

  “To your success as Voodoo Woman,” he said loud enough that both politicians turned to look.

  Aware that he’d done it on purpose to see what reaction he would get, Grace steeled herself.

  “Well, well, look who we have here,” Laroche crooned in a sickening voice. “A real in-the-buff celebrity.”

  The way he worded it made Grace want to toss the expensive champagne in his face and then tell him off. Sensing Declan was about to make a move on Laroche, Grace grasped his arm and gave him a look meant to tell him she could handle this.

  “And I’ll use my celebrity to make sure my brother beats you at the polls hands down,” she said, turning his slur on him.

  “Why, you bi—”

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head!” Helen interrupted. “You are speaking to a lady.”

  “Lady? Where?”

  “Now, Larry, we are in public,” the Westerfield woman murmured even as she gave Grace a once-over with an expression that made her skin crawl.

  Just then a flash went off.

  “Gotcha!” Max Babin was on the move, taking candid shots of the partygoers. The photographer was dressed in a black sequin-trimmed man’s tux. “One more time,” she said, zeroing in on Laroche. “Everyone smile.”

  Was that a significant look that passed between the photographer and Laroche? Grace wondered. Did they have some kind of relationship? How many women did he have other than his wife? Her pulse threaded unevenly. What if it wasn’t a sexual thing? What if Laroche had paid Max to get those photographs for his blackmail scheme?

  As if he could sense her disquiet, Declan found her free hand and squeezed encouragingly.

  Unprepared for the unexpected contact, Grace moaned.…

  He kisses the arch of her bare foot…makes his way up her calf…laves her inner thigh. He hesitates at her entrance, his warmth breath teasing her.

  She throws back her head…invites him in…

  Another camera flash snapped Grace out of the sensual vision.

  “Better be prepared to give your brother a shoulder to cry on when he loses.” Laroche barked a laugh. “I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve.”

  “Mr. Porter is waiting,” Jill said, this time physically pulling Laroche away.

  “I apologize if you were at all offended,” Helen said, smiling at Grace. “Helen Emerson.”

  “Yes, I know who you are, as well.”

  And she was put off by the way the other woman was looking at her…something odd in her gaze…She was known as Mrs. Clean according to Corbett. But what if that was all for show as he’d suggested?

  Grace asked, “So are you as confident as your sparring partner?”

  “One can never be too confident in politics. We just have to trust that the people will take a hard look at the candidates, weed out the unacceptable and elect the right people.”

  Her emphasis on unacceptable didn’t get by Grace. “Yes, we have to trust that the voters can see through the facade to the real person.”

  Helen’s face started turning red again, but rather than arguing, she backed away. “If you’ll excuse me, I see someone else I need to charm.”

  Someone else? Grace was anything but charmed.

  Declan gave her hand another encouraging squeeze, but this time she kept herself grounded in the present. “I have questions about both of them,” he said.

  “Me, too. It’s a toss-up as to which one wouldn’t resort to blackmail.” Seeing Raphael headed her way with one of his wealthiest clients in tow, Grace smiled and murmured, “Work time.”

  “Grace,” the designer said, “Mrs. Bichoux would like to see you model Raphael’s exquisite design.”

  For some reason, the designer liked to refer to himself by name as if he were speaking of another person. Suddenly she realized Raphael was staring at Declan, who quietly excused himself and melted into the crowd.

  Grace nodded at the woman. “Mrs. Bichoux.”

  “Oh, the gown is so lovely. I can almost see myself dancing in it.”

  The older woman’s face was lit with expectation, so Grace turned slowly and showed off the little details that made one of Raphael’s gowns so special.

  Then he snapped to and turned his attention back to his client. “You like Raphael’s newest treasure?”

  “It’s wonderful, as all your creations are, of course, dear Raphael.”

  “It will be wonderful on you.”

  “Maybe…”

  Mrs. Bichoux didn’t sound as convinced that it was for her as she had at first. And it really wasn’t. Way too much skin showing for the mature, well-rounded client. Grace couldn’t believe Raphael would allow a client to wear something that wouldn’t accentuate the positive. What was the designer thinking?

  “Raphael, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  Her employer turned to face her and annoyance quickly crossed his features. “But of course.” He grasped her elbow and pulled her away from Mrs. Bichoux
. “What is it?”

  “Mrs. Bichoux is a lovely woman, but this particular gown won’t flatter her rather mature figure. What about the pale blue—”

  “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “I know you want your clients to be happy—”

  “So if Mrs. Bichoux wants this gown, she shall have it.”

  Raphael’s tone was clipped, making Grace take a step back. “Yes, of course.”

  Grace stared at him. He’d never spoken to her like this before. As a matter of fact, in the past, he’d sought out and had valued her opinion.

  What was going on with him? Was he so desperate to make a big sale that he’d intentionally foist an unsuitable gown on a wealthy client?

  What else would Raphael do to make some fast money?

  Chapter Six

  More than an hour later, Grace entered Declan’s apartment, wondering if she’d made a mistake in letting him talk her into waiting there for the e-mail to come through.

  Raphael had exhausted her by making her show the gown off for one woman at a time. It seemed every one of his local clients had been at the fund-raiser. A lot of potentials, too. And Raphael had seemed determined to sell the gown to every one of them. Grace had remained gracious when she’d wanted more than anything to leave. She still couldn’t figure out where Raphael’s antagonism had come from.

  Now she was simply wiped out. And tense.

  She tried distracting herself by taking a good look around. The living area was huge, the kitchen separated from the rest of the room by a black granite-topped breakfast bar. The kitchen cabinetry was black, the appliances stainless steel. In the living area, the leather seating was black as was a baby grand piano. Declan’s place was so neat and orderly, obviously like him and unlike her.

  Running her fingers lightly over the piano keys, she asked, “You play?”

  “Not nearly well enough. I noodle around once in a while, but I haven’t actually had a lesson since I was a kid.”

  “But you bought the piano.”

  “Actually, my grandmother left it to me. She always hoped I would take up music again. Not enough time. It’s the only thing I brought with me when I moved from New Mexico.”