Unable to help himself, he stepped closer.
Chapter Seven
Touched that Declan appreciated what Mama and her social set had always criticized, Grace thought that she could care about this man. She already felt more connected to him than anyone in her past. The visions had to be responsible—she hadn’t known him long enough to form real feelings. Had she? She simply knew she wanted his arms around her, wanted to feel protected for once in her life.
Without thinking, she slipped her hands up his chest and around his neck and swayed into him. And for a moment, she went still as her heart fluttered and her belly knotted. Then she felt his hand on her spine, rubbing her soothingly, like he would a cat. Nothing sexual there.
Only she was seeing it…
He bends over and she feels the warmth of his mouth on her flesh. Wet kisses trail over her shoulders and down the length of her spine.
Her flesh pebbled.
Grace didn’t understand how this could be happening. How did she keep seeing these sexual videos of the two of them inside her head? Maybe it was because she wanted—no, needed—Declan. He was not only desirable, but a man a woman could count on for help. She was certain he would do everything in his power to make this horrible situation go away for her.
Besides, she was the woman in the secret photograph.
No matter how humiliated she would be if the photo got out, Grace knew the blackmailer had captured a small part of the real her, the part that mostly played inside her own head. She hadn’t been with a man for so long that she yearned for it. Yearned for Declan McKenna.
Maybe if she gave way to her want, she would stop having these visions. Maybe they were simply echoes of desire rather than psychic encounters.
When Declan lowered his head, she raised hers for his kiss.
His teeth catch her lower lip and worry it until she gasps with pleasure. Then he covers her mouth and she feels herself drown in his kiss.
Grace took a deep breath. She didn’t know which was better—reality or the visions playing havoc with her senses.
On top, she rocks, his hands splayed over her hips. Then one moves down toward the center, and suddenly his fingers play with what his erection can’t reach.
He kissed her again. Vision and reality blended as he stroked her through the dress. Her breasts responded instantly. It had been too long and she was too ready to be with a man to protest. Breathless, she was on fire.
Maybe Declan could stop her from remembering the photograph, remembering she was being stalked and blackmailed.
Wanting that more than anything, she urged, “Take me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t talk.” She led him to the edge of the sofa. “Just make everything else go away.”
Declan turned her and ran his lips up her spine…just like in the first vision.
He slipped the dress from her shoulders, then turned her again and as the material flowed downward, caught one nipple and drew it deep into his mouth until she felt a warm, thick flood between her thighs. His touch there was soft and all too seductive.
Shuddering with desire, Grace undid his belt and opened the front of his trousers. He was long and heavy and hot in her hand. He groaned and kissed her, pushing her back on the couch so they lay length to length, never once stopping the friction that was threatening to spill her over the edge. Then he slipped inside her…she arched and pulled him closer.
Forehead to forehead, they quickened their rhythm. Remembering fantasizing about him in the dressing room, Grace hung on only by a thread. She reveled in the moment, the feel of male flesh—of Declan. His heat was comforting. She felt as if he could shelter her from anything. From bad memories.
Even from a blackmailer.
SO THE PHOTOGRAPHS HAD revealed the truth: Grace Broussard really was a slut.
Watching the action from a window across the street through the French doors of her apartment was like having a wet dream…hot and steamy if not exactly real.
Too bad there was no concealed camera in the apartment to get all the details. To record her in action. But who could have guessed?
Next time.
If Grace thought she could get out of paying, she’d better think again. How dare she say she wasn’t going to cooperate and give over the money?
There was more than one way to punish someone who refused.
When all was said and done, when the money was in more worthy hands, the Broussards would be destroyed.
Every one of them.
IT WAS SOMETIME LATER when Declan’s head cleared enough that he questioned what had happened between him and Grace. A frisson of guilt slid through him. She was a client, he reminded himself again, not his woman. That’s all that was bothering him. It had nothing to do with the witch’s prophecy. It couldn’t unless he had deeper feelings for her, which he didn’t.
“I probably should leave,” he told her, slipping off the sofa and pulling on his pants.
“Right. I have a couple of appointments tomorrow, the first fairly early.” Pulling a coverlet around herself, Grace seemed ready to get rid of him. “I could use some sleep. I probably won’t be free until late afternoon.”
Declan knew it was for the best. He needed a clear head to run this investigation, and it would be easier to get back on track if he had some alone time himself. Maybe she felt the same, the reason her nerves fluttered around him. He finished dressing in record time.
“I’ll work on the e-mail, see if there is any way we can trace it back to the source.”
“Is that likely?”
“I won’t know until I try. I’ll also start digging into the lives of our suspects, see what I can get on them.”
“Good.” Grace was avoiding looking at him directly.
The awkwardness between them grew. He studied her for a moment—took in every detail of her inviting, disheveled appearance, so like her inviting, disheveled apartment. She really was lovely. Warm. Appealing. He had to tear himself from the room. She trailed after him to the front door, the cover wrapped tightly around her. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he could feel her mentally pushing him away. She was putting up barriers. Ones he wouldn’t cross.
“Call me when you’re free then,” he said, “and I’ll update you—assuming I have anything.”
He raced down the stairs. They’d barely met, but it was as if they’d known each other for a very long time. At least he felt that way.
He was feeling other things, things he had to deny. He couldn’t care about her, not in that way.
Even so, he couldn’t keep the prophecy out of his head.
…should they act on their feelings, they will put their loved ones in mortal danger…
But he didn’t love Grace, so she was safe, he assured himself, beating back the whisper of guilt that flitted through him. Bad enough that he’d lost his mother to the family curse. He would never take the chance of putting another woman he cared about in that position. He liked Grace, was drawn to her, wanted to protect her, whatever that took. Thankfully, he would never fall in love with her.
If only she wasn’t tying his hands about bringing in the authorities, they could wind up this case fast and go their own ways. Then there would be no chance of feelings between them developing.
His head was whirling with things he needed to do to help Grace as he stepped out into the street. Suddenly his instincts kicked in and he knew he wasn’t alone. It was the middle of the night—some drunk stumbling home from a club? But that’s not what he sensed.
Waves of anger assaulted him. On guard, he stopped and looked around for the source. The area was dark but for pools of light from the streetlamps. The emotions enveloping him seemed to be coming from across the way…from a shadowy doorway. Whoever was hidden there had a direct line of sight to the building, and, he realized when he glanced over his shoulder, to Grace’s apartment.
Just then, Grace stepped onto the balcony, as if she wanted to look for him. He wave
d, then she stiffened and stepped back, closed the door, then the curtain. And in that instant, anger and contempt from the watcher intensified.
“Hey, you!” Declan yelled, realizing this could be Grace’s stalker and blackmailer. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The hidden watcher burst free of the shadows, the dark figure flying down the street. On automatic, Declan followed, but wasn’t fast enough to catch up. The guy turned a corner and, determined not to lose him, Declan forced himself to go faster. Relieved when he picked up the trail, Declan tried to get a better look at the guy. Dressed in dark clothes, he was wearing a billed cap that shadowed his face. He wasn’t a big guy, probably the reason he was so fast.
The guy took the Esplanade like a kamikaze, weaving in and out of traffic as if defying death. Declan hesitated long enough to catch a breath and thankfully the light changed. He lunged across Esplanade and then down Royal Street into the heart of the French Quarter.
Drawing on his reserves to catch up, Declan picked up speed, turned a couple of corners onto Bourbon Street where revelers got between him and his prey—the guy ducked between a musician beating on a drum and a couple coming out of a bar carrying drinks in plastic cups.
And then he simply vanished.
His chest heaving, Declan stood in one spot for a moment and tried to pierce the crowd. No use.
He’d lost him! Damn!
Unsure of what the stalker might do next—whether or not he would return and try to get to Grace—Declan returned to his car. There he hunkered down to wait.
Just in case.
Chapter Eight
After spending half the night thinking about Declan, Grace awoke Sunday morning only to think of him some more. Part of her realized they never should have slept together. She didn’t even know him…and yet part of her felt she did. Still, the action had been foolish, prompted by the need to be comforted, to find safe shelter as her world dissolved around her. In the heat of the moment, what she’d done had seemed natural. She’d been drawn to Declan’s strength and kindness. She had no expectations, no reason to wonder if he might disappoint her in the future.
Her trust was not easily won.
A cold shower couldn’t make her put Declan out of mind. She couldn’t forget about him, couldn’t forget how he’d seemed to really care that she was safe, couldn’t forget the instant connection between them. By the time she was dry, she was perspiring again. Hopefully, her Sunday newspaper and a fresh pot of coffee would set her on the right track. Lots and lots of coffee.
The caffeine would brace her for a few hours with Mama and Corbett.
Since Daddy had died several years ago, Mama had started a family tradition—a monthly Sunday brunch where she caught up with her children’s lives. They couldn’t even meet in neutral territory at a restaurant. Mama insisted her children come to the Garden District family mansion, where they ate in the formal dining room, a reminder for Grace of too many years of repressive living.
She chose a flirty purple number from her new wardrobe, even knowing her mother would be sure to lift an eyebrow. Mama rarely commented anymore, but Grace still imagined her disapproval every time. No doubt Mama would like to see her dressed in a nun’s habit.
As if clothes really made the woman. She guessed that was what bugged her the most—Mama making such a big deal over lifestyle choices that had nothing to do with who she was as a person. She loved her mother and knew Mama loved her equally in return. Maybe all mothers and daughters were at odds. And maybe if Daddy was still alive, Mama would be fussing over him instead of her only daughter.
GRACE ARRIVED at the Broussard family home at a little before nine. The thought of the photograph uppermost on her mind, she dreaded stepping through the white columns of the veranda to the twelve-foot-high double front doors. She feared that somehow, Mama or Corbett would wrest the blackmail scheme from her.
Entering the atrium foyer, she called out, “Where is everyone?” and plastered a smile to her lips.
“In here, darlin’.”
Grace made her way back through the antique-laden parlor and dining room to the more modern solarium with its wicker and glass furniture.
“Ah, there you are.”
Dressed in a skirt suit and plain pumps that she might wear in a courtroom while prosecuting a case, Sandra Broussard set down a watering can and stepped out from a forest of plants. There was a small but lush private garden out back—Mama’s personal pride and joy.
Fussing with her already perfectly coifed dark hair, she said, “Your brother arrived half an hour ago. I was wondering if you were still asleep.”
Grace merely smiled, gave her mother a hug and kissed her cheek. “Nice to see you, too, Mama.”
Mama had no clue as to how hard she worked, how little she played, Grace knew. The parties she went to with Raphael were a bit of both, but she had to be “on” every moment to sell whatever design of his that she was wearing that evening. She loved being part of something so exciting, on the threshold of exploding into a national or even international business, but sometimes Grace wished she could relax and simply have a good time.
“If you lived here where you belong,” Mama said, “time wouldn’t be an issue.”
“I’m sure we’d have other issues,” Grace said, turning to Corbett.
“Hey, sis.” He set down his newspaper, then rose from his club chair to give her a hug and to whisper in her ear. “Don’t let her get to you today.”
“About what?” she whispered in return.
Corbett pulled away and just rolled his eyes.
Dear Lord, had they found out about the photographs of her? If so, she would be humiliated, and to make it even worse, would undoubtedly get a lecture on the consequences of what they saw as her wild lifestyle.
But when she glanced at her mother, Sandra Broussard wore an expression like the cat who’d swallowed the cream. Uh-oh, it seemed she was still in trouble, if of a different kind. Grace took a deep breath and waited for it.
“Would you like something cool to refresh you?” Mama asked, drawing out her words. “Sweet tea or freshly squeezed lemonade, same as always, darlin’. Unless you have something to celebrate. Then I might be in mind to have Cornelia open a bottle of champagne and make us all mimosas.”
Grace narrowed her gaze at Mama. “And what might I be celebrating?”
“A suitable new man in your life.”
Grace didn’t miss the emphasis on the word suitable, which meant Mama approved. Even though she knew, Grace asked, “Now who would you be talking about?”
“Declan McKenna, of course. Now, what is it he does for a living?”
Uh-oh, they’d never come up with a cover story for him. Trying not to panic, Grace changed the direction of the conversation.
“Whatever makes you think he’s the new man in my life, Mama? I just met him yesterday.”
“I am not blind, Grace Broussard. I saw the way the two of you danced together.”
“Well, then, send out the wedding announcements.”
Corbett coughed and Grace gave him a wicked glare. She could tell her brother was trying not to laugh.
“If it was just the dance, I might be hopeful but yearning for more.” Mama lifted the pitcher of lemonade and filled a glass. “As it is, Hattie Babineaux said the two of you were together all night. She said his arm was around you…well!… quite possessively. And that you left early.”
Hattie Babbles-a-lot, as Corbett called her, had always seemed to be a font of information on everyone’s activities. The woman had tattled on Grace the first time she’d worn makeup without permission at the age of fourteen. Grace swore the society gossip had spies all over the city.
“Hattie has too much time on her hands.”
“Grace! Are you telling me there is nothing going on between you and Declan?”
Feeling as if someone had put a camera in her apartment and had shared the footage with Mama, Grace gaped at her a moment before grabbing the drink and
turning to her brother who couldn’t quite hide his smirk.
“So how is your love life, Corbett? Seeing anyone suitable that you can bring home to Mama?” she asked, knowing he’d gone gun-shy after the Naomi disaster.
“Now why are you picking on me?”
“Because you think it’s funny.”
“You’ve always had the power to amuse and entertain, Grace.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I surely didn’t.” He grinned openly at her.
And Grace let it go for the moment. If Corbett had succeeded in cornering Jill Westerfield the night before, he kept it to himself. The question was, how would he keep it from Hattie and Mama, much less the media?
As a politician, anything he did was fair game—they would report anyone he was seeing, suitable or not. And considering the woman had some kind of relationship with his friend, the media would have a field day. Though not as big a field day as the press would have if they got hold of those photographs.
“Your brother is too busy working on his next campaign to get involved with anyone,” Mama said.
Corbett nodded vigorously, but Grace noted the same sparkle in his eyes that he’d had when watching the Westerfield woman the night before. Her brother had a secret wild streak of his own that played against his conservative image. He was simply more clever than she at keeping it hidden. He was all about appearances. His. Mama’s. Unfortunately, hers.
He would never have to worry about inappropriate photos of him making the rounds.
Which brought her worry to the surface. Grace simply didn’t believe Raphael was involved, even if he did need money. Or Max. More likely, politics was the catalyst. That meant someone who had it in for Mama or Corbett.
“So, make any new enemies lately?” Grace asked, including both in the direct question. “I mean, other than Larry Laroche or Helen Emerson.”
“Enemies?” Mama sounded a tad shocked.
Saving Grace Page 7