Grace Under Fire

by Beverly Barton

  * * *

  Chapter 3

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  Jed Tyree took the private elevator directly up to the suite of offices on the sixth floor and arrived at the Dundee Agency at nine-fifteen. Sawyer McNamara had phoned him at home and asked that they meet tonight about an assignment Sawyer had handpicked Jed to oversee. On a gut level Jed felt something was off about this job. He'd heard an odd tone in his boss's voice. For some reason, Sawyer had been reluctant to discuss even the most minor details about the assignment over the phone.

  As Jed neared Sawyer's office, he noticed the door stood wide open so he saw plainly that Sawyer wasn't alone. With his hip resting against the side of his desk, Sawyer was deep in conversation with Sam Dundee, who presided over the room in the chair behind the massive desk. Across from the desk, in a large wing chair, another man, in a black suit, sat with his legs crossed. The stranger possessed a swarthy complexion, sleekly styled dark hair and an air of comfortable authority.

  When Jed approached the open door, Sawyer glanced at him, then eased off the desk and came forward to meet him. "Come on in," Sawyer said. "We've been waiting for you."

  A hard knot of apprehension tightened in his belly. What the hell was going on here? Jed wondered. Why was Sam Dundee sitting in on this meeting? And who was their visitor?

  Sawyer escorted Jed into the room. The man in the wing chair stood and offered his hand. Jed eyed the neatly manicured fingers on the guy's right hand and noted an onyx and diamond ring; then he looked right into the stranger's face. The guy's yellow-brown eyes narrowed as he studied Jed, who shared a quick handshake with him while Sawyer made the introductions.

  "Dante Moran, this is Jed Tyree."

  Moran stared at Jed so intensely that he wondered if perhaps they'd met before and Moran was trying to figure out where.

  "Jed, this is Special Agent Dante Moran," Sawyer said.

  Now Jed knew something fishy was going on. "You're a Fed."

  As if to say: that's that, Sawyer slapped and then rubbed his hands together, the quick, loud sound breaking the tension radiating around the room. "Why don't you have a seat, Jed, and we'll get right to it."

  Jed nodded, then took the matching wing chair across from the one into which Moran eased his long lean body.

  "I received a call tonight from Grace Beaumont," Sawyer said as he backed up against the edge of his desk, making sure he didn't block Sam Dundee's view. "Mrs. Beaumont is the widow of Dean Beaumont, who was the attorney general of Louisiana four years ago."

  At the mention of Louisiana, Jed's mind sent up a red warning flag. He'd left the state behind him—everything and everyone—seventeen years ago. He'd never returned, not even for a brief visit. Hell, he hadn't even made a phone call home.

  Jed didn't respond in any way; he simply waited for Sawyer to continue, which he did.

  "Dean Beaumont and his father-in-law, Byram Sheffield, died in what was believed to have been a hit-and-run accident almost four years ago. Mrs. Beaumont survived the crash. And the driver of the other car disappeared without a trace. The crime is still unsolved."

  The more Jed heard, the less he liked where this scenario was leading. Before his uncle's name was even mentioned, Jed knew that somehow, some way, Booth Fortier was involved.

  "Today Mrs. Beaumont received an anonymous letter telling her that the deaths of her husband and father were actually murders, not the result of an accident," Sam Dundee said. "She wants to hire Dundee's to investigate this allegation. We've chosen you to head up the operation."

  "And if I don't want to accept the assignment?" Jed asked, then looked pointedly at Dante Moran.

  "You know where this is leading," Moran told him. "You know why you're the perfect candidate for this job."

  "Let me guess—Booth Fortier is involved." Jed's jaw clenched. He had spent a lifetime trying to put more than distance between himself and his mother's brother. Only in the darkest, loneliest moments of introspection did he allow himself to remember the past.

  "This anonymous author claims that Dean Beaumont was on the verge of providing proof that Fortier has his hooks into Governor Lew Miller." Moran's expression didn't change one iota. "The Bureau has reason to believe these claims are true."

  "And if that's the case, then Booth Fortier was behind the murders of Beaumont and his father-in-law," Sawyer said.

  "So you want to send me to Louisiana to do what?" Jed's lips curved into a mocking smile. "You think because there's a biological connection between Fortier and me that I'll be able to unearth the truth … quicker … easier … than another Dundee's Agent?" Jed scanned the room, his gaze taking aim at Sawyer and Sam for a split second, before he returned his sharp glare to Moran. "If the Bureau has an interest in this situation, why not send one of your own down there?"

  "We're taking a risk here, trusting you," Moran said. "But as you well know, before you were hired by Dundee's, they did a thorough investigation into your past. You're clean as a whistle. Not one black mark against you. And you've had no contact with your uncle since you left home when you were eighteen."

  "Get to the point." Jed didn't like the way the conversation was going. No matter what the Bureau wanted or why, it had to be bad news for him.

  "Seventeen years ago, you contacted the Bureau about your uncle." Moran continued. "You claimed Fortier had murdered your father and you wanted him brought to justice."

  "Yeah, and I was patted on the head and sent on my way." Jed recalled the arrogant son-of-a-bitch who had pointed out that Jed had no proof, that the accusation was worthless, that it would be Jed's word against his uncle's.

  "The agent in charge at the time made a mistake," Moran said. "He made a decision without consulting his superiors." Moran cleared his throat. "Special Agent Clark overstepped his authority by automatically refusing to use you to infiltrate Fortier's close-knit family. It seems Clark had his own reasons for not taking advantage of your ties to Fortier. "

  "Mind telling me what those reasons were?"

  "The guy didn't trust you. He was skeptical when it came to mob informants. Actually, he had a major chip on his shoulder when it came to anyone associated with the mob," Moran explained. "He figured you'd either get scared off or you'd wind up dead before the case would ever go to trial. He made a bad judgment call, one we didn't know about for years. Not until after his death eighteen months ago."

  "So what's the deal?" Jed asked. "Lay it on the line for me, will you? You can't possibly want me to infiltrate my uncle's organization at this late date. He'd never buy my coming home and doing the prodigal son bit."

  "We want you to go to St. Camille, work for Mrs. Beaumont as an investigator and while there, pay your uncle a visit. We're not expecting a reconciliation, but it's a known fact that Fortier still has a soft spot where you're concerned. He'll see you. You know he will." Moran waited for a response; he didn't get one. "Be up-front. Tell him you're working for Grace Beaumont. Act skeptical, tell him you don't trust him, ask him if the allegations against him are true. But give the guy a hint that you might not hate him, that you've had second thoughts about blaming him for your father's death. Make him think you want to believe he didn't have Ms. Beaumont's father and husband murdered."

  "And putting on this little act will get us what?"

  "Seventeen years ago you desperately wanted to help us bring Booth Fortier down. Here's your chance to help us do that and also protect Grace Beaumont's life in the process. Once Dundee's starts digging, it's only a matter of time before her life is threatened. We both know that."

  "Why not send one of your agents?"

  Moran clicked his tongue, but said nothing.

  "You've already got someone in place, someone working undercover in my uncle's organization."

  Moran remained silent.

  "Damn you, Moran! Something's gone wrong with your inside man."

  Moran's expression didn't confirm or deny Jed's statement.

  "You need a contact person between your guy and
the Bureau, someone with a personal connection to Fortier," Jed said. "Booth might question my motives, but deep down he'd want to believe that he has a chance of making things right with me. My uncle has a warped sense of family, so he'd like nothing better than to bring me back into the fold."

  "Then you'll do it, won't you?"

  "Yeah, I'll do it. You knew I would." He glanced around the room, his gaze pausing on each man in turn.

  "We were fairly confident that we could count on you," Sawyer said.

  "Retribution's been a long time coming, Tyree," Moran told him. "But with your help, we stand a good chance of splitting Fortier's crime syndicate wide open."

  * * *

  Grace emerged from the white Mercedes, locked the vehicle, smoothed the wrinkles from her coral linen shirt and headed into the airport terminal. More than once during the past ten years, St. Camille's little airport had been put on the extermination list, coming close to being shut down. But every time, the influence of local politicians and Sheffield Media, Inc. managed to keep the planes flying in and out of the small Louisiana town.

  Having arrived early, Grace waited inside the terminal. She sat in an uncomfortable, hard plastic seat and checked her watch continuously. Her entire support contingent had offered to come to the airport with her this morning—Joy, Hudson, Elsa and Uncle Willis—but she had declined their offer. Nolan had wanted to drive her here in her father's Rolls, but she'd nixed that idea immediately. She wanted her first encounter with the Dundee agent to be just the two of them. In the next few weeks—or perhaps even months—she and a man named Jed Tyree were going to be working together to prove the validity of the accusations against Governor Miller and Booth Fortier. It was imperative to the mission that he and she form a bond of trust and cooperation.

  The minutes ticked by, each moment seeming like a dozen, as she waited impatiently. Finally twenty minutes later, the arrival of Jed Tyree's flight was announced. She joined the dozen or so others who were meeting that flight as they congregated together to greet the incoming passengers. Grace watched as, one by one, men and women disembarked. Four, eight, twelve. There he is, she thought. She wasn't sure exactly how she knew that the man she was looking at was Jed Tyree, but she knew. He was tall—probably six-three—with shoulders that would fill a doorway. His dark, curly hair appeared to have been combed with his fingers. A day's growth of beard stubble covered his cheeks and chin. And his attire was casual. Very casual. A light-blue cotton knit shirt clung to his broad chest and muscular arms. And a pair of well-worn jeans hugged his hips. With every move he made, Jed Tyree's body screamed, "I'm a man!"

  Grace swallowed. The very idea that she would be even remotely affected by this man's blatant masculinity unnerved her. Not once since Dean's death had she felt the least bit attracted to another man. You're not attracted to this man, she told herself. You've simply noticed how virile he is.

  The man glanced around, obviously looking for her. He scanned the few remaining people waiting, then zeroed in on her. His eyes widened. He grinned. But suddenly the grin vanished, replaced by a worried frown.

  She took a tentative step toward him. "Mr. Tyree?"

  He nodded.

  "I'm Grace Beaumont." She held out her hand.

  He hesitated. She heard a low rumble coming from his throat and thought he'd murmured something that sounded like "son-of-a-bitch."

  When she continued holding out her hand, he finally grasped it and gave her the quickest handshake she'd ever exchanged.

  "We can pick up your luggage and then—"

  "This is all the luggage I brought." He hoisted the black canvas bag over his shoulder.

  "Oh. All right." She motioned for him to follow her. "I'm parked in the adjacent lot. I'm afraid we don't have valet parking here."

  "Lead the way."

  Grace glanced over her shoulder—once—and caught him staring at her behind. Feeling self-conscious, she tried to not sway her hips as she walked.

  When they approached the Mercedes, she punched the button on her keyless entry pad and the trunk flipped open. Without being told what to do, Jed dropped his bag inside, closed the trunk lid, then hurried around to the driver's side and waited for her to unlock the door. The moment she pushed the pad again, he opened her door for her. He didn't look like a gentleman, Grace thought, but by this gesture alone he showed he could act like one.

  "Thank you." She smiled at him. He returned the smile. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. This wasn't happening! No way. What was wrong with her? Why did he make her feel like a young girl encountering her first real man?

  Grace slid behind the wheel, strapped her seat belt, started the engine and turned on the air conditioning. Although it wasn't quite June yet, it was already warm and humid. The minute Jed fastened his safety belt, she backed out of the parking slot and drove onto the city street.

  "Have you ever been to Louisiana, Mr. Tyree?" Grace hoped some idle chitchat might relieve the tension tightening inside her.

  He didn't respond immediately, as if he had to think about his answer. "Please, call me Jed. And as a matter of fact I was born and raised in Louisiana."

  "Really?" Grace forced herself to keep her eyes on the street, to not sneak a peek at her passenger. "Where are you from?"

  "Beaulac. It's a little place between Baton Rouge and Lafayette."

  "Beaulac's not far from here. We have a radio station there."

  "Sheffield Media, Inc. is a pretty far-reaching empire. I understand it spreads over into Mississippi, Oklahoma and Texas."

  "Have you done your homework on me?" Grace hazarded a glance at him. "I'm afraid I don't know much about you other than your name and that your boss, Mr. McNamara, assured me you were the right man to head up this job."

  "Not much to know, ma'am. I joined the army at eighteen and stayed in for fifteen years. I've worked for Dundee a little over a year. No wife. No kids. Never been married."

  "I suppose you know my personal history."

  "Yes, ma'am. Dundee's always compiles a file on all clients. Just basic stuff. Nothing too personal. Not unless it affects the case."

  "Murder is very personal, isn't it, Mr. Ty—Jed? So I suppose you know the facts about the car wreck that killed my husband and my father."

  "I'm sorry about what happened. I understand you almost died, too."

  "A part of me did die," Grace admitted, then wondered why she was so forthcoming with a stranger.

  "I think I understand."

  No, you don't understand, Grace wanted to shout. You can't possibly understand. No one can. Not unless they have survived an accident that killed the other members of their family. Not unless they, too, have lain in a hospital bed, and silently prayed to die.

  Grace whipped the Mercedes through early morning traffic, which wasn't terribly heavy in a small town like St. Camille, but dense enough to slow their progress from the city limits out into the country where Belle Foret was located.

  * * *

  Jed observed Grace Beaumont as she maneuvered her car through traffic and onto the highway leading out of town. At the airport, the moment he'd realized the gorgeous, long-legged blonde approaching him had to be Grace Beaumont, he'd cursed under his breath. He supposed he could rightfully be accused of being a ladies' man; he'd certainly enjoyed his fair share. But during his time at Dundee's, he'd made it a personal policy to not become involved with a client, which usually wasn't a problem. But he could see trouble with a capital T written all over Grace Beaumont. What red-blooded man could look at her and not get aroused? She was absolute perfection.

  Yeah, Tyree, she's perfect—but not perfect for you. Not even for a brief fling. How do you think she'd feel if she knew you were Booth Fortier's nephew? Especially if it turns out that Uncle Booth was behind Dean Beaumont's and Byram Sheffield's deaths… Hell, what was he thinking? Of course his uncle had ordered their deaths. And if Jed knew his uncle, Booth Fortier had wanted all the occupants of the car to die that night. Grace had barely es
caped; and once his uncle became aware that she had now instigated an investigation into their deaths, she would be in grave danger.

  Jed couldn't allow himself to become personally involved with this woman. It wouldn't be fair to either of them. And from what he'd learned about Grace through the files Dundee had put together on her, she'd been hurt more than enough for one lifetime. He had to keep things strictly business between them.

  While in Louisiana, he'd be walking a fine line, trying to balance the truth with the lies. He'd be working with Dundee's and the FBI to find evidence that substantiated the accusations in Grace's anonymous letter. He'd be guarding Grace as closely as possible, even before the first threat was made on her life. And it was only a matter of time until that first threat happened. Also, once the time was right, he would make contact with his uncle. That meeting was something he dreaded. But for their plans to work, he had to visit Booth. Several times. He had to convince his uncle that, after all these years, he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And he had to find a way to make contact with the federal agent who had infiltrated his uncle's organization. Undoubtedly something had happened recently to make it impossible for the agent to contact anyone in the bureau without jeopardizing his position.

  "We're here."

  Grace's soft, sultry voice instantly snapped Jed from his thoughts. He surveyed the area as she drove the Mercedes through the white wrought-iron gates that opened at a touch of her finger on the automatic control inside her car. A long paved drive, lined with massive oak trees dripping with Spanish moss, led to the old antebellum mansion. Consisting of three stories, the first was graced with whitewashed brick pillars across a wide veranda and a second story balcony was decorated with white columns and fancy white wrought-iron banisters.

  Grace Sheffield Beaumont had been born into a life of wealth and privilege, with a pedigree that could be traced back to Europe. Until her father's emergence into the media industry forty years ago, the men in Grace's family had been gentlemen farmers since before the Civil War. And the women had all been ladies of breeding. Quality. Not a peasant in the bunch.