Grace Under Fire

by Beverly Barton

  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22

  Epilogue

  © 2003

  * * *

  Prologue

  ^ »

  Grace watched Dean bouncing their baby daughter on his knee. Emma Lynn's soft blond curls peeked out from beneath her pale pink bonnet and her big blue eyes sparkled with laughter. Emma Lynn loved her daddy. Grace's heart swelled with pride. She had given this precious gift to the man she loved, and in the years to come, perhaps a brother and a sister would join their perfect family. Life was so incredibly wonderful, so rich and full and delicious. Grace thanked the good Lord every day for her many blessings.

  When Dean set his daughter on her feet, she toddled precariously across the green lawn, moving directly toward the tall, elegant, silver-haired man who held his arms open for her.

  "Pa…aa," Emma Lynn said as her grandfather swept her up into his big, strong arms, the same masterful arms that had held and protected Grace all her life.

  "How's my big girl, my little moonbeam?" Byram Sheffield planted a kiss on his granddaughter's forehead.

  Emma Lynn began jabbering, some of her words quite distinct while others only mimicked the English language.

  Grace lifted a glass of lemonade from the wicker table beside her ornate white wicker rocker. She loved this time of day, early evening on the back veranda. The day's hot, humid swelter had faded into a warm, moist twilight. She'd been born and raised in this old Louisiana mansion that had once ruled a thousand acres of the Belle Foret plantation. Six generations of her family had lived and died in La Durantaye parish and she and both her parents had been born right here in St. Camille. Her roots ran deep in this rich, fertile earth. Dean and she would raise Emma Lynn to cherish her heritage, yet teach her to become her own woman, with a vision for the future.

  Grace closed her eyes and savored the moment, storing it for future reference.

  Suddenly the warmth disappeared. Cold air surrounded her. Had a summer storm cropped up, bringing rain with it? she wondered. She opened her eyes, intending to suggest to Dean they go inside before the storm hit, but Dean wasn't there. Where had he gone?

  "Daddy?" she called, but received no answer.

  She couldn't see her father. Couldn't see Emma Lynn. And where was Belle Foret? Where had her family and her home gone? What was happening? She cried Dean's name repeatedly, but he didn't respond.

  Had she fallen asleep and was now dreaming? Surely that was it. Wake up, Grace, she told herself. End this nightmare. End it right this minute, do you hear me?

  "Mrs. Beaumont?" a pleasant voice spoke to her and a gentle hand touched her face.

  Grace's eyelids fluttered open. She looked up at a middle-aged woman with a kind face. When Grace opened her mouth to speak, she realized she couldn't. Something prevented her from fully opening her mouth. She tried to lift her hand to touch her face, but her arm felt as if it weighed a ton.

  "It's all right, Mrs. Beaumont. You can't speak because your mouth is wired shut, but you'll be able to speak again soon. For now, just blink your eyes once for the word yes and twice for the word no. Do you understand?"

  She blinked twice. No, she did not understand at all. Only a few minutes ago she had been at home with Dean and Emma Lynn and her father. Where was she now? How had she gotten here? And where was her family?

  "You understood to blink," the woman said. "What is it that you don't understand? Are you confused about where you are?"

  Grace blinked once.

  "You're in St. Camille Hospital. You were in an automobile accident. Don't you remember?"

  Grace blinked twice.

  The woman sighed. "I'm Andrea Woods, your special duty nurse. Your cousin Joy Loring hired me. You've been in the hospital for two weeks now and just this morning they moved you from intensive care and I came on duty. You've been coming in and out of consciousness for several days now. Don't you remember Dr. Drummond explaining to you what happened?"

  Grace started to blink twice for no, but stopped herself. Dr. Drummond? The image of a stocky, bald man wearing a white shirt, blue tie and cream-yellow suspenders flashed through her mind. And she could hear his baritone voice speaking to her slowly and softly. As she recalled what he'd said, she tried to block the words, not wanting to hear the truth. With every ounce of her fragile strength she fought against remembering.

  "Oh, you poor thing," Nurse Andrea said, then tenderly wiped away the tears cascading down Grace's cheeks. "Your body will heal in time and someday you'll be able to rebuild your life. For now, you must rest and let me take good care of you."

  Grace lay there on the cold, sterile bed in her private room at St. Camille Hospital and prayed to die. She had absolutely nothing to live for now. Dean was dead. Daddy was dead. With a strength born of determination, she lifted her hand and laid it on her flat stomach. And the child she and Dean had longed for—the little girl Grace had envisioned many times since the moment she found out she was pregnant—would never be born. She had even chosen her unborn baby's name, Emma Lynn, in honor of her two grandmothers.

  She could hear Dr. Drummond saying, "I'm sorry, Grace, but you miscarried the baby."

  Grace pleaded with the Almighty. Please, God, please, take me, too. I want to be with Dean and Daddy … and with my little Emma Lynn, who never had the chance to live.

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  « ^ »

  Elsa Leone placed the morning mail on the ornate Jacobean desk, then hurried into the adjoining kitchenette to prepare her employer's morning beverage, a rich cinnamon-flavored cappuccino. She loved her job as the personal assistant to the owner and CEO of Sheffield Media, Inc. The pay was above average for such a position, the personal benefits were excellent and her working relationship with Grace Beaumont couldn't be better. Elsa had worked for the company the past ten years, as a receptionist for seven of those years; but during that time she had been attending night classes at St. Camille Junior College, hoping to improve her chances for a promotion. Then miraculously three years ago when Grace had taken charge of her father's media empire, she had looked within the company for a replacement for her father's middle-aged assistant who had retired shortly after Byram Sheffield's death four years ago.

  Elsa worked busily, wanting everything to be perfect when Grace arrived. Although professionally and socially they were worlds apart, Grace insisted Elsa call her by her given name. Being allowed that privilege, along with receiving fair and courteous treatment, Elsa had grown to not only admire her boss, but to care for her. She would even go so far as to say they were good friends.

  "She's not here?" Hudson Prentice, the senior vice-president of Sheffield Media, Inc. stood in the open doorway.

  "No, sir." Elsa glanced at the carved mahogany antique wall clock. "It's five till."

  "So it is. And our Grace is seldom early and never late."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Buzz me when she arrives. I've made reservations for Dumon's for lunch and I don't want her making other plans." Hudson stared quizzically at Elsa. "She doesn't have a prior lunch date, does she?"

  Elsa liked Hudson Prentice well enough, but thought him a bit of a stuffed shirt. Somewhere in his late thirties, with brown eyes, brown hair and of medium build, he was a rather nondescript-looking man, despite his expensive suits, weekly manicures and salon-styled hair.

  "Not that I know of, Mr. Prentice, but she doesn't always inform me when she has a personal lunch date."

  Lifting his brows, he stared at her, contradiction in his eyes. "Grace doesn't have lunch dates unless you count her outings with that silly cousin of hers." When Elsa didn't respond, he asked, "There isn't someone that I don't know about,
is there?" He shook his head. "No, of course not. She would have told me."

  "I'm sure she would have, sir."

  Hudson Prentice wanted Grace. Everyone who worked for Sheffield Media, Inc. knew it. Elsa smiled. Probably two-thirds of La Durantaye Parish knew it. The poor man had done everything but get down on one knee and beg Grace to marry him, but she gave the impression of being oblivious to his unrequited love. Elsa figured it was easier for Grace that way. She was less likely to hurt Mr. Prentice's feelings if she feigned ignorance.

  Of course, she wasn't sure which the man loved more—Grace or her money. The curse of every wealthy woman.

  Mr. Prentice backed out of the doorway. "Yes … well … buzz me when she—"

  "Good morning." Grace Beaumont arrived at precisely one minute till nine, and looking like a breath of springtime in her white linen suit and pale yellow blouse. Grace was a classically beautiful woman, with natural blond hair and vivid blue eyes. Tall and slender, with an aura of elegance and fine breeding, she exuded cool sophistication.

  Hudson turned and smiled. "Don't you look lovely this morning."

  "Good morning, Grace." Elsa brought the cappuccino over to Grace's desk and placed the mug on a monogrammed earthenware coaster.

  Grace entered her office, put her dark-green leather briefcase on the right side of her desk, then pulled out her large, hunter-green, tufted-leather swivel chair and picked up her coffee cup.

  Hudson Prentice hovered in the doorway. Grace glanced at him.

  "Is there something you need?" Grace asked pleasantly.

  He cleared his throat. "I've made reservations for us at Dumon's for lunch."

  "Is there a special occasion I don't know about?"

  "Have you actually forgotten?"

  "Forgotten what?"

  "This is your anniversary," he said.

  She looked at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

  He sighed dramatically. "Three years ago today you took over the reins of Sheffield Media, Inc."

  "Oh." Grace offered him a wavering smile. "How sweet of you to remember. Then, yes, of course, a celebratory lunch would be nice. We'll include Elsa, of course."

  Hudson Prentice looked as if he'd been slapped. Elsa couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He'd wanted an intimate lunch for two, and any third party would alter his well-made plans.

  "No, really, I don't want to intrude," Elsa said.

  "Nonsense," Grace insisted. "She won't be intruding, will she, Hudson? After all, I couldn't manage without the two of you. You're both indispensable to me and to Sheffield Media."

  "Yes. Certainly, Elsa, you must join us." Hudson backed out of the office again, like a commoner respectfully easing away from a queen. "I'll call Dumon's and make that lunch for three."

  "Make it for four," Grace told him.

  He stopped abruptly and looked directly at her. "For four?"

  "Yes, Joy mentioned stopping by to pick me up for lunch today. She phoned last night. She's been to New Orleans on a shopping spree and is dying to tell me all about it."

  He swallowed, then nodded, a rather pitiful disappointment evident in his fading smile and sagging shoulders. "Lunch for four then."

  Grace didn't even seem to notice when he left. She put the crystal glass mug to her lips and sipped the frothy cinnamon coffee.

  "There seems to be quite a bit of mail this morning," Elsa said. "I've set aside an extra thirty minutes for you to take care of it before your appointment with Mr. Carruth."

  The phone rang. On the second ring, Elsa lifted the receiver. "Ms. Beaumont's office. Elsa Leone speaking."

  "This is Orson Sidney down in Bayou Cuvier. We've got us a big problem here at WBCL. Our biggest advertiser is threatening to walk. They got all upset over a political ad that we started running a couple of days ago. All the sweet-talking and ass kissing I've done hasn't calmed them down. I think it's something Ms. Beaumont is going to have to handle."

  Grace flipped through the assortment of envelopes stacked on the blotter in the center of her desk.

  "Oh, dear," Elsa said. "Hold one moment, Mr. Sidney."

  Grace glanced at Elsa. "Orson Sidney?"

  "Yes, ma'am. It seems he has a problem with an advertiser. I'm afraid the mail will have to wait until later." Elsa handed her the telephone. "This will probably take awhile."

  Grace shoved the morning mail aside, took the phone from Elsa and said, "Good morning, Orson, I hear we have a problem."

  Elsa excused herself quietly, closing the door behind her as she left Grace's office and went into her own. Grace would probably be tied up on the phone for the next couple of hours—maybe longer. But in the end, she would find a compromise that would suit everyone. The woman had a knack for diplomacy. One might say a true gift. Of course it didn't hurt that she was beautiful, charming, intelligent and had become quite business-savvy in the past three years.

  Elsa had watched the transformation and was sometimes awestruck by Grace's abilities. Her being an astute businesswoman had been a trait she'd come by honestly. After all, her father had created an empire for himself that spread out all over Louisiana, and parts of Mississippi, Arkansas and Texas. Elsa hadn't really known Grace before Mr. Sheffield's death, but she'd seen her a few times in person and numerous times in the society pages of the St. Camille Herald. Everybody in La Durantaye Parish knew who Grace Sheffield Beaumont was. The daughter of one of the richest men in the South and the wife of the state's attorney general, Dean Beaumont. Both from prestigious old-money families, they'd been called the golden couple. Dean and Grace Beaumont had had it all. And in the tragic events of one summer night almost four years ago, they had lost it all.

  Not once in the three years Elsa had worked at Grace's side, day in and day out, had Grace ever mentioned the accident or the fact rumors abounded afterward that Grace had suffered a nervous breakdown. Whether the rumors were true or not, Grace showed no signs of whatever torment she'd suffered. She was, at least outwardly, highly competent, unemotional and always in control. But Elsa suspected that beneath that dispassionately calm, serene exterior, she was still in mourning.

  * * *

  Jed Tyree had never seen Dundee's office manager Daisy Holbrook as anything less than calm, skillful and confident. But today, as the old saying goes, she was running around like a chicken with her head chopped off. Of course, even Dundee's CEO, Sawyer McNamara, seemed a little nervous. No, on second thought, nervous was the wrong word to ever describe the super-cool former federal agent. Sawyer was anxious. Anxious that he, the office staff and the agents he'd been able to round up on short notice would make a favorable impression on the owner of the agency, Sam Dundee. Having been hired by former Dundee's CEO, Ellen Denby, Jed had never met Sam, but he'd heard all about him. Hell, the guy was legendary around here.

  "Mr. Tyree, didn't you get the memo about dressing appropriately today?" Daisy gave him a disapproving glance as he walked by. "Mr. McNamara requested suits and ties."

  "I don't own a suit," Jed told her.

  "Then at least go put on a tie."

  Always Ms. Efficiency, Jed thought. And never shy about stating her opinion, but usually in a more diplomatic manner. Her sharp tone expressed her nervousness.

  Jed reached out, put his hands on Daisy's plump shoulders to bring her to a standstill. "Slow down, take several deep breaths and—"

  "Is my craziness showing?" Daisy laughed. "It's just that I know how important it is to Mr. McNamara that Mr. Dundee's visit comes off without a hitch. After all, it is the first time Mr. Dundee has come to Atlanta since Mr. McNamara became CEO."

  Jed patted Daisy's shoulders. "I don't own a tie, but I'll see if I can borrow one from Frank or Vic."

  "Thank you." Daisy released a sigh.

  Jed meandered down the hallway until he came to Frank Latimer's office. Frank was a big guy, tall and muscular, but trim. He was wearing a suit today, as usual; and as usual he looked like he'd slept in it. Frank had the unkempt appearance of TV's Detective
Columbo and was every bit as shrewd.

  Jed knocked on the open door. Frank glanced up from where he sat behind his desk.

  "Come on in."

  "You look like you have a fresh haircut," Jed said. "And you even shaved."

  "We're supposed to look our best," Frank replied in his thick South Carolina accent. "The big man's on his way in from the airport."

  "Yeah, so I hear." Jed glanced at Frank's cheap blue-and-red striped tie, and wondered where the guy bought his clothes. "You wouldn't happen to have an extra tie, would you?"

  "I've got two more at home."

  "Ms. Efficiency just told me to find myself a tie."

  "From the way she's been acting this morning, I'd say Daisy missed her calling. She should have been an army drill sergeant."

  Jed chuckled. "So, who around here might have a tie?"

  "Other than Mr. Beau Brummell himself?"

  "Yeah, Sawyer probably keeps a dozen in his office."

  "If Dom were here, he might have one." Frank nodded toward the office next to his. "Try asking Vic."

  "I thought Vic was still in Miami."

  "Got in late last night and Sawyer requested his presence in the office today."

  "Bet he's not too happy about that."

  "About as happy as I would have been."

  Jed grinned, then headed next door. He found Vic Noble standing by the windows overlooking the street below.

  "Got a tie I can borrow?" Jed asked.

  "Sorry, I didn't bring a spare." The tall, lanky former CIA operative turned to face Jed. "Have you ever met Dundee?"

  "Nope."

  "Ellen hired you, didn't she?"

  Jed nodded. "And you came on board right before she retired."

  "Yeah. I believe Rafe Devlin was the first agent Sawyer hired."

  "Never thought I'd say this, but I sure as hell wish I had Devlin's assignment. Overseeing the security for a cotillion ball in Savannah seems preferable to putting on a tie and showing off to the big boss to make Sawyer look good."

  "Ah-hem." Standing in the doorway, Sawyer McNamara cleared his throat. The new CEO of Dundee's looked like a damn model straight off the cover of GQ. Tall, physically fit and almost a pretty boy. Almost, but not quite. There was always an expression in McNamara's eyes that issued a warning: Dangerous. Tread lightly. "Heard you were looking for a tie." He held out a beige silk tie that would coordinate perfectly with the long-sleeved brown shirt and brown slacks Jed wore.