But before they were able to respond, a torrent of rain descended. Jed grabbed Grace and pulled her into a narrow alleyway that ran between the St. Camille Register and the renovated Little Theater Playhouse. A small covered alcove at the back entrance to the theater provided a modest barrier of protection from the isolated springtime rainstorm.
Jed's arm tightened around Grace, pressing her body against his. She clung to him, shivering, her hair and face damp from the rain, as she hazarded a glance up and into his eyes. While he stared at her, his body hardened. He'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life than this flawlessly lovely woman wrapped in his arms. Striking blue eyes looked at him, her gaze riveted to his. When her full pink lips parted ever so slightly, all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss her.
Another thunderbolt roared, followed by vicious lightning. When Grace trembled, he splayed his hand across the small of her back, then lowered his head to hers. She eased herself up on tiptoe as she prepared for the inevitable. Jed covered her mouth with his, instinct urging him to ravage her; but the moment their lips met, the very hunger of her response gentled his possession. When his tongue came into play, sliding inside her mouth, exploring, she accepted his invasion without protest. The kiss deepened and intensified. Whether it was his doing or hers, he wasn't sure. More than likely a mutual action. Within seconds all reasonable thoughts left his mind; desire ruled him completely.
She smelled of fresh rain, a natural feminine sweetness and an enticing floral perfume, ever so subtle. Her scent assailed his senses as did her taste. A hint of the sugary breath mint she'd eaten after their meal lingered on her tongue. Her mouth was soft, pliable and eager. Her tall, slender body melted into his, the feel of her arousing him unbearably.
God, he could devour her. Every luscious inch.
She whimpered, but at first he thought nothing of it, then when she ended the kiss and tried to break free, he realized she had come to her senses. She had, but he hadn't. He wanted more. So much more. Reluctantly, he accepted her withdrawal. He buried his face against her neck and ran his hands down to cup her buttocks. She made a sound something between a gasp and a sigh.
"Please, release me," she whispered, her voice throaty, wispy.
He dropped his arms to his sides and lifted his head, but his gaze met hers and held.
"If you don't stop looking at me like that, I'm going to kiss you again," he told her.
She glanced away, then crossed her arms and ran her hands up and down, from elbows to shoulders and back. From within the dry security of the alcove, she studied the downpour. He sensed she wanted to run from him.
"Should I apologize?" he asked.
As she continued watching the rain, she replied, "What happened just then was mutual, as much my fault as yours. So, no, there's no need to apologize. We just need to make sure it doesn't happen again."
"Despite my admission of being a barbarian, you should know that I don't customarily drag women into alleyways and ravage them."
A tentative smile played at the corners of her mouth. "I haven't been kissed like that—there hasn't been anyone since my husband died. I haven't shared even a kiss with another man."
Jed sucked in his breath, then blew it out in a huff that expressed his surprise. She hadn't been with another man since her husband's death. She hadn't been kissed in nearly four years. No wonder she had responded to him with such passion.
"And here I thought I turned you on." Jed grinned.
Her smile blossomed when she looked at him again. "You did … you do. I guess you affect me the way you do other women after all. But that doesn't surprise you, does it? You have to know you're a very attractive man."
"Why thank you, ma'am."
"But regardless of that fact, I'm not interested in whatever you're offering, be it a one-night stand or a brief affair. Our relationship will remain a professional one. Do I make myself clear?"
"Quite clear, Ms. Beaumont."
Grace looked up at the sky. "I think the rain is tapering off a bit. Now would probably be a good time to see if we can make it back to the parking lot before another downpour sets in."
"Why don't you stay here, give me your keys and let me run back to get the car?"
"All right." She snapped open her small shoulder bag, dragged out the key chain and handed it to Jed. "It appears that even a barbarian can sometimes behave like a gentleman."
Acting purely on instinct, Jed kissed the tip of her small, pert nose; then before she could respond, he closed his hand over the keys in his palm and dashed off into the light springtime rain.
* * *
Jaron stood in the shadows and watched Charmaine, who wore a scanty bikini as she paraded around in front of Ronnie. She was trying to seduce the poor fool. He understood his sister as no one else did. She was hot for Ronnie Martine; and that meant she would stop at nothing until she trapped him. She must think herself in love or she wouldn't take such a huge risk. He wondered if they were already lovers, if they were taking advantage of Booth being away in New Orleans. If so, they'd better be careful and not let anyone else catch them mooning over each other. Not only was Booth's small squad of personal "bodyguards" devoted to him, so was the household staff. Some out of awe, others out of fear alone.
It would only be a matter of time, perhaps weeks, perhaps even days, before the love affair between his sister and Ronnie would become obvious to the most casual observer.
Jaron patted the envelope hidden away in his coat pocket. He had intended to drive over to New Iberia and mail the letter to Grace Beaumont this afternoon. But Booth had called and sent him out on a job with Curt Poarch—overseeing a daytime shipment at the riverfront warehouse. Now he was glad he hadn't gotten the chance to mail the letter. He didn't dare waste the time—the one or two days it would take for the letter to reach St. Camille. With Charmaine and Ronnie's relationship heating up, Jaron knew he had to accelerate his plan. He'd drive into New Iberia tonight, find a pay phone and call Grace Beaumont. With Booth in New Orleans until the end of the week, now was the perfect time to get the documents out of the safe and exchange them for the five million he was certain Grace would pay him.
Charmaine's sultry laughter echoed through the open French doors. Nola, the housekeeper, came to an abrupt halt on the patio, the stack of fresh towels for the pool house teetering in her arms. Charmaine stood on tiptoe and ran her long, coral nails across Ronnie's lips, over his chin and down his throat.
God in heaven, why wasn't Charmaine being more discreet? What if Nola telephoned Booth and told him that his wife was carrying on shamelessly with her bodyguard?
Jaron shook his head. No, don't worry, he told himself.
Nola is fond of Charmaine. She would never betray her, never jeopardize her life.
This time it had been Nola who'd seen Charmaine up to no good. But what about next time? Jaron removed his cigarette lighter from his pants pocket, pulled the letter from his coat and set the edge of the letter on fire, then let the damp evening breeze scatter the ashes.
On his way out of the house, he spotted Curt in the den and called to him. "I'm heading out for a while. Got a hot little number waiting for me."
Grinning broadly, Curt nodded. "Nothing like a hot piece of tail. I need to take a night off from the warehouse sometime soon and get me some. If this gal you're with tonight is any good, let me know."
"Sure thing." Jaron closed the door behind him, then halted on the front veranda. He took a deep breath. Sweat moistened his palms and dampened his shirt. He would call Grace Beaumont tonight to set things up and call her tomorrow with the particulars of the exchange, after she'd had time to get the money. Then day after tomorrow he'd have the five mil. Once he deposited the money in a bank account in the islands, he'd arrange for an "accident," so he could fake his and Charmaine's deaths. With a little luck, everything would come off without a hitch and by the weekend, he and Charmaine would be out of the country and free of Booth Fortier forever.
* * *
Grace didn't have much appetite for supper. She'd eaten a huge lunch at Beula's Crab Shack; and afterward she'd taken refuge with Jed in an alley alcove where they'd shared a kiss that had her lips still burning—and had set a fire that still raged inside her. As much as she'd tried to forget that kiss, as much as she'd tried to rationalize the way Jed had made her feel, she'd thought of little else all afternoon.
Shortly after Jed and she had shared the evening meal, she had excused herself and rushed off to the sanctuary of her room. Now was not the time to suddenly discover her sexuality had at long last come back to life. Jed was an employee, a trained investigator and bodyguard. He had been in her life for one day. One day! Never, in her thirty years, had she ever kissed a man she'd known for only one day; nor entertained thoughts of making love with him.
In high school and college she'd had a reputation for being a good girl. Grace Sheffield didn't put out. She'd been engaged—briefly—her senior year in college and had believed herself to be madly in love with Marty Austin. But Marty had resented Grace's loyalty to her father.
Marty hadn't understood the strong bond between her father and her, a bond that had strengthened greatly after Grace's mother's untimely death when Grace was sixteen. Elizabeth Ann Sheffield's death had devastated her husband and daughter. From that day forward, Grace tried to make her father happy, even if that meant bending over backward to please him. She had felt that it was the least she could do for her mother, a woman Grace had so adored. Marty had wanted her to marry him and for the two of them to forge a new life together as Peace Corp workers. Her father had said Marty was a worthless bum who'd never amount to anything. When the time came to choose between the life of privilege she knew as Byram Sheffield's daughter and the unknown and uncertain future as a poor man's wife, Grace had chosen the easy route. In retrospect, she realized she'd been more in love with love than with Marty.
Marty had been her first lover, her only lover, until she'd married Dean Beaumont, a brilliant lawyer, ten years her senior. She had admired and respected Dean. They had instantly formed a genuine rapport based on similarities in backgrounds, likes, beliefs and future plans. Her daddy had thought the world of Dean and had encouraged their relationship. She had loved Dean. He'd made her very happy. Their life together had been everything she'd hoped it would be. And then it had ended. Suddenly. Tragically.
She had never even considered the possibility that she might love again, that someday she would want another man. But rough-around-the-edges Jed Tyree had opened the door of possibility, had given her a glimpse of what it could be like to live again. Really live instead of simply exist.
The telephone rang. Grace ignored it. Laverna or Nolan would pick up on the fourth ring. Whoever it was, she didn't want to talk to them. What she needed was a long soak in the garden tub in her bathroom. A bubble bath. With some soft music, a few scented candles. Quiet time. Stress-reducing time. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with all her problems.
Just as Grace chose a pair of beige silk pajamas from her closet and headed toward the bathroom, a soft rapping on the door interrupted her plans.
"Miss Grace, there's a phone call for you," Nolan said from outside the closed door.
"Please, take a message," Grace replied. "I'll return their call tomorrow."
"Miss Grace, you might want to take this call. The man said if you didn't talk to him, you'd be sorry."
Grace's heart caught in her throat. It was him. The man who'd sent her the letter. Jed had told her that he might call, but she hadn't seriously believed he would.
"All right, Laverna, I'll take the call. And would you please tell Mr. Tyree about the call and ask him to come to my room immediately."
"Yes, ma'am."
Grace glanced at her hands. They were trembling. Her stomach fluttered and a tingling nausea churned inside her. She tossed the pair of pajamas on the foot of her massive four-poster bed, then hurried toward the nightstand where the antique-inspired French phone rested. Her hand hovered over the receiver for a split second, then she lifted it and mentally prepared herself for whatever was to come.
"Hello, this is Grace Beaumont."
"Listen very carefully," the voice said. "I won't repeat myself. I have documents that will prove Booth Fortier controls Governor Lew Miller. I want five million dollars in exchange for that proof."
"Five million is a lot of money."
"Not for a woman as rich as you."
The bedroom door opened quietly. Grace glanced at Jed as he entered the room, a portable extension phone in his hand. Oh, Lord, Jed was listening to her conversation with the caller.
"How do I know you're telling me the truth?" Grace asked the caller as Jed came toward her.
"You don't ask any questions. Just get the money together. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know when and where to bring the money for the exchange."
"But I need some sort of—" The dial tone hummed in her ears.
Jed set the portable phone on the nightstand, then reached out and took the receiver from Grace's death grip and returned it to the cradle. He wrapped his big hand around her small wrist.
"We'll get those taps put on the phones here and at Sheffield Media ASAP," he told her. "Our guy isn't wasting any time. Looks like he needs that money fast. He's desperate to get his hands on it and leave the country before Booth Fortier finds out what he's done."
"So, do I believe him? Should I get him the money?"
Jed nodded. "Call your banker. Tonight. Start the ball rolling. Whether we give this guy any money or not, we need to make it look as if we intend to."
"Do you think he has proof of—"
Jed caressed her wrist, causing her tight fist to relax. "Yeah. Maybe. Probably." He paused, then looked directly into her eyes. "Be sure you want to go through with this, with all of it—the money exchange, the investigation. Booth Fortier is a formidable opponent. He plays dirty. And he plays for keeps."
"Four years ago my life ended," Grace said. "If Booth Fortier was responsible for my husband's and father's deaths, then he killed me, too, that very night. Don't you see, Jed, I have nothing to lose. I've been dead inside all these years. If Fortier was behind the hit-and-run driver's actions, if it was murder and not an accident, then I want him to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer. I want him…" Grace hadn't realized she was crying until her tears hit Jed's hand that held hers.
Jed pulled her into his arms. She went willingly. The feel of his strength surrounding her comforted in a way nothing else ever had, not since she'd been a child and her father had consoled her after all her little girl crises. Although her reaction to him confounded her, she couldn't help but give in to his protective embrace.
"Nothing will ever bring back your father and your husband, but you're alive, Grace, very much alive. And you'll love again. You'll marry again."
She clung to him as the silent tears trickled down her cheek lying against his hard chest. "I lost more than my husband and father that night. I lost my baby. I lost Emma Lynn. God didn't spare her life. He didn't give me even that much."
"You lost a child?" Jed asked, gazing down at her.
"My little Emma Lynn died before she had a chance to live. I was almost six months pregnant."
"Damn! Grace, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pulled her closer to him.
"I don't believe in happiness anymore. I don't trust God. I will never—ever—care for anyone that much. I'd rather be dead inside than know that kind of pain again."
Grace doubted that Jed understood her reasoning, doubted that anyone who had not experienced the kind of losses she had could possibly comprehend the extent of her torment. Numbness was preferable to agony. Existing was better than risking being hurt if she took a chance by truly living again.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
The telephone rang at eleven o'clock, waking Oliver Neville with its insistent clamor. He roused from sleep, blinked his eyes and yawned
. Who the hell would be phoning him at this time of night? he wondered, and could think of no one other than his most notorious client—Booth Fortier. By the fourth ring, Oliver managed to rise from the overstuffed lounge chair in his den, where he'd fallen asleep tonight as he did almost every night. Between the fifth and sixth ring, he lifted the receiver.
"Hello."
"Did I wake you?"
It took Oliver half a second to realize his caller wasn't Fortier. "You shouldn't be calling me. There mustn't be any record of contact between the two of us."
"I'm at a pay phone near a gas station off Interstate 10. Believe me, I don't want anyone to know that there's a connection between the two of us. Now or in the past."
"Is there a problem?"
"Well, Ollie, now that you ask…" Self-satisfied chuckles hummed through the phone line. "Yeah, there's a problem. A big problem."
"Concerning?"
"What the hell do you think it's concerning—it's about Grace Beaumont."
"Any problems you're having with Ms. Beaumont are yours—not mine."
"Oh, they're your problems all right. Aren't all of Booth Fortier's troubles your troubles, too?"
"And just how is Ms. Beaumont Booth's problem?"
"Tell Fortier he'd better start looking for a traitor in his midst. Somebody in his organization or in the Miller camp sent Grace a very informative letter."
Ollie's stomach knotted painfully. "Just how informative?"
"The message stated plainly that Dean Beaumont and Byram Sheffield's accident had been murder, ordered by Fortier because Beaumont had discovered Fortier's connection to our esteemed governor."
"God damn!"
"Grace has hired a private investigator to look into the matter. She's determined to unearth the truth—the whole truth."
"We've got ourselves a mess … a holy mess. Booth will have conniptions. He'll be fit to be tied when I tell him." Oliver knew exactly what Booth would do after he exploded—he'd give Grace Beaumont a couple of warnings, then he'd eliminate her, just as he had gotten rid of her husband and father nearly four years ago. "By the way, who's the P.I.? Is he local?"
Grace Under Fire Page 8