Grace Under Fire

by Beverly Barton

  "Should I apologize now or should I just wait for my punishment to come later?" Jed asked.

  Sawyer's lips twitched, but he didn't smile.

  Lucie Evans came up beside Sawyer, who glanced at her briefly, frowned and then replied, "No need to apologize, Tyree. I do want the entire staff, including all agents present today, to look and act like professionals … because I want Sam Dundee to know when he chose me to replace Ellen Denby, he made the right choice."

  Lucie expressed herself with a mocking frown and an odd, rumbling groan. Jed couldn't suppress a chuckle. Everybody at Dundee's knew about the ongoing feud between Sawyer and Lucie, both former FBI agents, who mixed like oil and water. What surprised everyone was the fact that Sawyer didn't ask for Lucie's resignation once he became the head honcho. Then of course, maybe he had. And maybe Lucie—being the stubborn, tenacious Lucie they all knew and loved—had told Sawyer to go … well, to go take a flying leap.

  "What is that you're wearing?" Sawyer asked Lucie as he surveyed her from head to toe. Disapprovingly.

  "It's a dress."

  "Yes, so it is. Don't you think a suit would have been more appropriate?"

  "Look, your royal high-muckety-muck, I came in today—on my off day—because you asked me to. I'm attending an afternoon wedding in Smyrna and I won't have time to go home and change."

  The six-foot redhead was built like an Amazon. No model-thin, fragile creature was their Lucie. She filled out to perfection the hot-pink and purple floral dress that hugged her every luscious curve. "I think you look lovely," Jed said.

  "So do I. You look like a flower garden," Frank added.

  "Why, thank you, gentlemen." She smiled at Jed and Frank, then gave Sawyer an eat-dirt-and-die glare.

  Daisy came flying down the hall. "They just rang from downstairs. Mr. Dundee has arrived. He's in the elevator."

  Jed draped Sawyer's expensive beige silk tie around his neck, tied it quickly and followed the others down the hallway toward the elevators. His mind flashed back to when he'd been a boy and had watched while his uncle Booth inspected his household staff and personal bodyguards. This little show here today to impress Sam Dundee was a minor skirmish compared to the battle Booth Fortier's underlings had fought on a daily basis to keep their boss content. Sawyer McNamara wanted to impress his employer because he admired and respected the man, because to Sawyer doing a good job was a matter of honor. Booth's employees had sought to please him out of fear. No one Jed had ever known could put the fear of God into a person faster than the notorious godfather of the Louisiana Mafia, a man to whom killing came as naturally as breathing.

  Frank Latimer jabbed Jed in the ribs, bringing him instantly back to the present moment. A huge, blond man with the build of a football linebacker stood in front of him, his big hand held out in greeting.

  "Sam, I want you to meet Jed Tyree," Sawyer said. "He became a Dundee's agent last year. We're lucky to have him. He's former Delta Force."

  "Did you know Hunter Whitelaw?" Dundee asked as he took Jed's hand in a firm, friendly exchange. "He was former Delta Force."

  "Yes, sir. I served under him for about a year before he retired. He's the one who recommended me for my job with Dundee's."

  "Fine man. Hated to lose him, but he made the same choice I did. He found a less dangerous type of work when he got married."

  One by one Sawyer introduced the office staff and the agents who were present, then the big boss man invited everyone to lunch. He had reserved a private room at Peaches, a local downtown bar and grill that always hosted the crème-de-la-crème of private security agents whenever Sam Dundee was in town.

  * * *

  Grace returned from a festive lunch at Dumon's with a slight buzz. She'd indulged in three margaritas, while she'd done her best to put on a happy face for the others. For Hudson in particular. The dear, sweet man had thought it only appropriate to celebrate the three-year anniversary of her assuming the CEO role at Sheffield Media, Inc. What had never entered his mind was the fact that the only reason she had taken over was that her father had died. And her cousin Joy, who seldom had a serious thought in her head, had rattled on and on about May Beth Chapin's darling twins … little four-year-old boys. Not once had Joy considered the fact that discussing children, especially children who were the same age Emma Lynn would have been if Grace hadn't lost her child before she'd had a chance to live, might not be all that pleasant for Grace. But she suspected that Elsa understood how difficult it had been for her to smile and chitchat. And smile. And smile. And smile. Her young assistant seemed wise beyond her twenty-eight years, which made Grace wonder if some tragedy in her life had gifted her with such sage perception.

  Grace slammed the office door behind her, then marched to her desk. Staring down at the stack of mail she'd never gotten a chance to look over this morning, her vision blurred momentarily. Oh, God, why had she drunk that third margarita? And why had she agreed to the celebratory lunch in the first place? She should have known that the memories would return like a tidal wave, washing over her, bringing with them the melancholy she continuously battled.

  "You did it because you didn't want to disappoint Hudson," she said aloud as she plopped down in her swivel chair. Everyone, including Hudson himself, had expected the board to name him as CEO of Sheffield Media, Inc. After her father's untimely death, Hudson had run the company for ten months, handling everything with his customary competence. And no one, least of all Hudson, had dreamed that Byram Sheffield's socialite daughter would use her power as the major stockholder to claim the position her father had held during his lifetime.

  No one had understood why she wanted the demanding job; and she had not felt compelled to explain her reasons. What could she have said? I desperately need something to do, something that will require most of my time and attention, something that will keep me from going stark, raving mad. For nine months after she had buried her husband, her father and her stillborn child who had existed inside her body for over five months, she had lived in limbo, little more than a zombie who went through the motions of living. She had cried until there were no more tears. She had ranted and raved and vented her anger. And she had gone through months of grief therapy with the best psychologist in the state. After all, money was no object. She was one of the wealthiest women in the South. She was Grace Sheffield Beaumont, who had once been the luckiest woman in the world.

  Emotion lodged in Grace's throat. Damn those margaritas! She usually had complete control over her feelings, a hard lesson learned from necessity. For self-protection. To keep from going insane. But liquor had always affected her strangely, making her weepy and silly and— Damn the margaritas. Damn Hudson for celebrating her three-year anniversary as CEO. And damn Joy for talking so cheerfully about another woman's beautiful, healthy and very much alive four-year-olds.

  Before she realized what she was doing, Grace swiped her hand across the top of her desk and sent the stack of unread mail sailing off the edge. Damn Sheffield Media, Inc. Her job was supposed to keep her so busy and wear her out so completely that she never had time to think about the past, to remember what had been and what would never be. It had been almost four years since her world had been turned topsy-turvy. Four long, lonely years where each day was much like the day before, a routine of mundane habits—eating, sleeping, bathing, working. Trying to make it through another night in a house filled with memories. Some had thought she should leave Belle Foret, buy a condo in town or even move the headquarters for her father's company to Baton Rouge or New Orleans. But she couldn't leave her family's ancestral home. It was the only thing she had left that she truly loved. Everything else had been lost that night nearly four years ago when a hit-and-run driver had crashed into their car and sent it careening over a steep embankment.

  Don't do this to yourself. Self pity serves no purpose. Get on with what you have to do.

  Grace scooted back her chair, stood and then bent down to pick up the scattered mail. Not bothering to neat
ly arrange the array of envelopes, she dumped them on her desk and began methodically going through them, sorting them into let-Elsa-handle, consult with Hudson, and take-care-of-yourself stacks.

  Halfway through the chore that should have been done first thing this morning, she glanced at the return address on the envelope she held. New Iberia. Who did she know there? They had no business connections to that city. She studied the plain white envelope. No name above the return address. Elsa must have assumed the letter was personal.

  Grace removed the single page of eight-by-eleven paper and unfolded it. Not handwritten. Typed. No signature. An odd sensation shuddered through her. What was that old saying? Ah, yes—she felt as if someone had just walked over her grave.

  She read the letter all the way through once, but couldn't comprehend what she'd read. Then she read it again.

  Mrs. Beaumont, I believe you should know that the accident that killed your husband and father was no accident at all, but a coldblooded, premeditated plot to destroy your entire family. Your husband had uncovered damaging information about our governor, Lew Miller, and was investigating the connection between Governor Miller and organized crime in Louisiana. Your husband believed our esteemed governor was in bed with Southern Mafia kingpin Booth Fortier. He was very close to finding the evidence he needed, and your father was set to go public with this evidence, using Sheffield Media's vast television, radio and newspaper resources in the state. The reason the hit-and-run driver who caused your husband to wreck his car that night was never found is because Fortier had the man executed so he could never tell anyone what happened. But I know. And my conscience will not allow me to keep silent any longer.

  Grace held the letter in her trembling hand. Who could have sent her such a horrible letter? Who would be cruel enough to torment her with some fantastic story about the governor, a Mafia boss and her husband? Why would anyone tell her such wicked lies?

  She balled her hand into a fist, crumpling the letter in the process. Lies. All lies. The car wreck had been a horrible accident. The highway patrol had believed some out-of-control drunk had smashed into them on River Road

  and just kept on going.

  But wasn't it odd that they never found the drunk? They never even found the car the man had been driving. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.

  Fortier had the man executed so he could never tell anyone what happened.

  It was a lie. Every word in the letter was a lie! It couldn't be true. It couldn't be. Lies. Lies. All lies.

  But what if it wasn't a lie? What if it was the truth?

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Jaron Vaden wiped his damp hands along the outer edge of his thighs, the threadbare denim cool beneath his sweaty palms. This May wasn't any hotter in South Louisiana than any other had been in the past, but then it wasn't the heat that had Jaron perspiring. Although his red T-shirt clung to his shoulders and chest with perspiration, a cold chill rippled along his spine as he passed Booth Fortier's home office. The door was shut, which meant Keep Out. No one dared to disturb Booth; no one entered his private domain without an invitation. Not even Charmaine, whom many outside the immediate household thought had her husband wrapped around her little finger. Jaron knew better. His sister might be the wife of the most powerful crime boss in the South, but her influence over Booth was insignificant. He'd seen his brother-in-law give in to Charmaine on several occasions, when it suited him to please her. But he'd also seen Booth slap Charmaine halfway across the room when she'd dared to interfere in one of his business decisions.

  Jaron heard two voices talking behind the closed door, but he couldn't understand what was being said. He paused just past the doorway and listened. The louder, deeper voice belonged to Booth. He couldn't make out the other voice because it was much quieter and softer. Everyone spoke with reverence in front of Booth. Out of respect. Out of fear.

  Jaron hated his life and hated himself for ever being stupid enough to get sucked into this sewage of corruption and mayhem. He wanted out. He'd been part of the syndicate operation since he'd been eighteen and had been looking for an easy way to earn a fast buck. He had brought Charmaine into this cesspool, this underbelly of society. He blamed himself that she was now tied to Booth Fortier for life. His wife. His whore. His slave.

  There was only one way to escape—money. Lots of money. Enough to fake his death and Charmaine's and set them up for life in South America or Europe. He'd been making plans for over a year and yesterday he'd driven into New Iberia and mailed a letter to St. Camille. Step #1—make contact with the wealthiest woman in Louisiana.

  He had written just enough to whet her appetite, to make her curious. By now, Grace Beaumont had probably read the letter and was trying to decide if what he'd told her was true or not. But after she thought things over, she'd come to the only logical conclusion. Once she had accepted the accusations against the governor and Booth Fortier as the truth, she'd be ready to bargain with him for the proof that would prove her husband's and father's deaths hadn't been an accident. He didn't have the original documents, of course. Booth kept everything locked away safe and sound at the bank. But he had photocopies in his home safe. Almost as good as the real thing. Enough for Grace Beaumont to take to the police; enough for a judge to issue a search warrant.

  Once he had the five million, he'd tell Charmaine about his plan. She'd be scared. Hell, who wouldn't be frightened out of their mind at the thought of double-crossing Booth. But they really didn't have much choice. It was either risk everything, including their lives, or continue living in hell.

  Jaron hurried along the hallway that led to the den. On the far side of the room, a set of French doors stood slightly ajar. When he drew nearer, he heard his sister's muted laughter, as if she'd covered her mouth with her hand. She couldn't even laugh out loud for fear it would displease Booth.

  Someone else laughed. Louder. Robust. A man's deep-throated chuckles. Someone not afraid for Booth to hear him.

  Jaron eased open the French doors and glanced outside. Stretched out on a padded wooden chaise, Charmaine lounged by the pool. Her round, voluptuous body was tanned to a golden hue from endless, mindless hours spent in her bikini outside in the hot Louisiana sun. Of course, it didn't hurt that both she and Jaron were biologically prone to café-au-lait complexions. His mother had said they had Creole blood, but his Aunt Hattie had whispered that their great-grandmother had been the quadroon mistress of a rich Creole doctor.

  A big, masculine hand shoved Charmaine's waist-length auburn hair to one side, then lathered her back and shoulders with colorless suntan lotion. She turned her head slightly, just enough so she could glance up and over her shoulder in order to look at the man who was touching her so tenderly.

  Damn, they were fools! What if Booth saw them? Would Charmaine be able to explain why Ronnie Martine had his hands all over her?

  Jaron stepped outside onto the deck that ran the length of the sprawling old house. A hundred and fifty years ago, the place had begun as a large raised cottage, and had been expanded over the years into a six-thousand-square-foot house. Booth's father had purchased the house and twenty acres for back taxes when the widow whose family had owned the house for generations fell on hard times. Booth's daddy had been a shrewd businessman—and every bit the heartless bastard Booth was. At least that's what folks around these parts said.

  "Booth's home, isn't he?" Jaron said, his question more a warning than anything else. "I heard him talking to someone—"

  Charmaine gasped when she saw her brother standing only a few feet away. Despite the surprise in her eyes, she managed to smile. "He's holed up in his office with Ollie."

  "Ollie? You mean Oliver Neville, his lawyer?"

  "Yes, silly, what other Ollie do we know?" Charmaine flopped over on her back. Ronnie Martine capped the lotion bottle and placed it beside the chaise on the concrete patio that surrounded the pool. When Charmaine glanced at Ronnie, her who
le face brightened and her cheeks flushed. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome, Mrs. Fortier."

  Ronnie wore a pair of tan cotton slacks, a white short-sleeved cotton-knit shirt and a pair of brown leather sandals. He was a big guy, about six-one, with massive shoulders, ham-hock arms and tree-trunk legs. He'd been working for Booth nearly eighteen months now, a trusted employee; but there was something about the guy that bothered Jaron. Something other than the fact he obviously had a thing for Charmaine—and she for him.

  Was Booth out of his mind giving Ronnie the job as Charmaine's personal bodyguard? That was like asking a fox to guard the henhouse. He didn't know how far things had progressed between his sister and her protector, but if they weren't already screwing around, it was only a matter of time.

  Another reason he'd had to put his plan into action a bit earlier than he'd figured on. He had originally thought he'd send the letter to Grace Beaumont a couple of months from now so she would receive it on the fourth anniversary of the car wreck that had killed her husband and father. But with things heating up between Charmaine and Ronnie, he realized he had to get his little sister safely away from Louisiana before Booth found out she was betraying him with another man. If he even suspected what was going on, Booth would kill Ronnie and Charmaine.

  Ronnie walked across the patio toward the round wooden table, reached down under the open umbrella-shade and lifted the pitcher of lemonade the housekeeper had prepared at lunchtime. Jaron came up beside him. Ronnie offered him the glass of lemonade he'd just poured.