Grace Under Fire Page 11

  Grace stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders and glowered at him, then glanced pointedly at his hand still clutching her. He removed his hand.

  "All right," Grace said, and he could tell she was reluctant to agree. "I'll leave y'all alone and get back to the business of running Sheffield Media." Without further ado, she nodded to Kate and Dom, then marched out of the room.

  "Whew…" Kate's expressive brown eyes spoke plainer than any words.

  "What's going on with you and Ms. Beaumont?" Dom asked.

  "I don't know what you mean, there's—"

  "Cut the crap," Dom said. "There was so much tension between the two of you, I could cut it with a knife."

  Jed shrugged. "I rub her the wrong way, that's all."

  Dom grinned. "And you'd like for her to rub you the right way, huh?"

  Kate cleared her throat.

  Both men winced, then looked at her sheepishly.

  "Sorry," Dom said.

  "Yeah, sometimes we forget you're a woman." Jed said.

  "Now, I wouldn't go that far." Dom winked at Kate.

  Kate rolled her eyes upward and shook her head. "There's not ten cents worth of difference between boys and men." She sighed. "Okay, Jed, you take a look at the info we brought while Dom and I set up shop. Who do we ask about getting another desk and a couple of comfortable chairs moved in here?"

  "Elsa Leone, Grace's assistant."

  As if the mention of her name conjured up the lady, Elsa called from the other side of the closed door, "Mr. Tyree, please come quickly. Grace just received that phone call she's been expecting."

  Instantly Dom's and Kate's gazes locked with Jed's; then Jed swung open the door and broke into a full run.

  Elsa caught up with him just as he reached the door to Grace's office. She grabbed his arm and pointed to the portable phone he'd ordered she use to answer incoming calls today. He nodded understanding, then picked up the phone and placed it to his ear before entering Grace's office.

  "Do you have the five million?" the disguised voice asked.

  Grace glanced up when she saw Jed entering her office. He nodded. It had been arranged for them to pick the money from her bank later today, after Dom and Kate arrived. He wanted backup when they transported that kind of cash. "Yes," she replied. "I have it."

  "Good. Now listen carefully. We'll make the exchange tomorrow. You'll come alone. No cops. Nobody else."

  Jed came over to Grace's desk, picked up a notepad and pen and scribbled instructions. Grace read the message hurriedly.

  "I've hired a bodyguard," Grace told her caller. "He comes with me tomorrow for the exchange or it's no deal."

  Silence.

  Grace looked up at Jed, her eyes asking him if they'd made the wrong move.

  "Okay," the voice said. "You and the bodyguard. But if you try to double-cross me, you won't get the evidence you need. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, I understand."

  "Tomorrow morning, come to Terrebonne Park. Come in on the south side, near the carousel. At precisely twelve noon, get on the carousel, sit in the swan seat—just you. I'll join you and we'll make the exchange."

  Grace looked at Jed. He nodded. "All right," she said. "Tomorrow. Twelve noon, on the carousel, the swan seat."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  The moment Jaron saw Booth's car pull up outside, he broke out in a cold sweat. The timing couldn't have been worse. He'd already telephoned Grace Beaumont and set up the exchange for noon tomorrow—no way to change the particulars now. Besides, he had to move as fast as possible. Time was running out. When Aric Luther, Booth's chauffeur and bodyguard, had called while they were en route to alert the household staff of Mr. Fortier's return, Jaron had taken full advantage of the advance notice. Curt had slept all morning and left directly after lunch to tend to some business in Baton Rouge. Charlie Dupree, who also lived at the house, had driven into Lafayette to visit his eighty-year-old mother, who was in a nursing home there. And Ronnie had taken Charmaine into town on yet another shopping excursion that would last for hours. With all three of Booth's flunkies out of the house, he'd been able to get into the safe where the documents he needed were kept. He'd hidden the papers in his room, in his bed, between the mattress and box springs. Tomorrow morning, he'd put the papers into his briefcase and use the excuse of making some spot checks on several of their businesses located in various nearby towns; then he'd keep his date with Ms. Beaumont. If anyone spotted him at Terrebonne Park—anyone who would report back to Booth—he'd say he'd stopped there for lunch. He'd be sure to arrive well before noon so he could pick up a sandwich and Coke at the refreshment center in the park. Cover all your bases, he told himself.

  Jaron swung open the front door, rushed out onto the porch and down the steps to meet Booth as soon as Aric opened the limo door. Whenever Booth made a trip to New Orleans, he always used the black limousine. He liked playing the big man. Hell, there was no playacting to it—Booth Fortier was the big man in Louisiana.

  Aric, a six-six black guy with a wrestler's body, had been in service to Booth since he'd been a kid and his mama had worked here at the house as one of the maids. Rumors abounded that Aric was Booth's illegitimate son, but there was no physical resemblance and Booth treated Aric the same way he treated his other employees.

  "Welcome home." Jaron forced a wide smile as he greeted his boss. "You're back a couple of days early. I hope nothing went wrong.

  "Something's gone wrong, all right." Booth's small black eyes glistened with fury. Jaron knew that look; he'd seen it on more than one occasion when Booth was out for blood. "I want a meeting with all of you as soon as possible, by no later than seven this evening. Wherever the hell everybody is, get them back here immediately."

  "Yes, sir." Jaron followed behind Booth like an obedient puppy dog, while Aric popped the trunk and unloaded the luggage.

  "Where's Charmaine? Didn't you tell her I was on my way home?" Booth stormed across the porch and into the house, where Nola stood waiting to take his hat and cane.

  "Ronnie drove Charmaine into town to do a little shopping. They should be back any time now."

  "Call her on her cell phone and tell her to get her ass back here. When I come home, I want my wife waiting for me right here." Booth emphasized the word "here" by stabbing his index finger into the air.

  "I'll contact Charmaine and the others right away."

  When Booth halted outside his office-cum-study, Jaron was so close on Booth's heels that he almost ran into him. Coming to a screeching halt only a few inches behind Booth, Jaron froze to the spot.

  "What's the matter with you? You seem unusually jumpy. And you're sweating." Booth studied Jaron, as if sizing him up for a coffin.

  Jaron shuddered inwardly, but managed to grin. "Hell, Booth, it's hot weather. That's why I'm sweating. And I guess I had too much coffee this morning. A lot of caffeine makes me jittery."

  "Humph."

  "Anything you want before I make those calls?" Jaron asked.

  "When you've contacted the others, call Oliver Neville and tell him I'm home and for him to come on over this evening and join us."

  "Yes, sir. I'll call Mr. Neville. Should I say what it's about?"

  "He knows."

  A sick feeling hit Jaron in the pit of his stomach. If Ollie Neville was involved, that meant some sort of legal problem. And legal problems for Booth meant problems for everyone in the organization.

  When Jaron headed down the hall, intending to use the phone in his room to contact the troops, Booth called, "You ever hear from Jed?"

  Jed? Jed Tyree? Why would Booth be asking about his nephew after all these years? "Nah, I haven't heard anything from him. Why would you think he'd get in touch with me?"

  "You two used to be big buddies. Before he decided he was too good for the likes of us. I thought maybe you knew where he was and what he was doing these days."

  "No, sir. I don't have any idea."

  "Wh
at about Charmaine? Has she heard from Jed?" A sour bile rose up Jaron's esophagus at the thought of what Booth would do to Charmaine if he suspected she'd had any contact with Jed. "I swear to you that Charmaine hasn't seen or heard from Jed since he left here seventeen years ago."

  "I think about him sometimes, you know. I wonder what it would be like if he'd stayed. Despite our differences, that boy was my blood kin. My only sister's only child. Everything I've spent a lifetime building could have been his."

  "Jed was ungrateful. You did so much for him." Jaron understood now why Jed had fled, why he'd escaped his uncle while he'd had a chance. If only he'd been that smart and taken Charmaine away before it had been too late.

  "Jed wasn't strong enough." Booth's eyes got that far-away, almost glazed look that actually made him seem more human than he was. "He had some of his mama's weakness in him."

  "Yes, sir, that he did."

  "Get going. Make those calls. And when Charmaine comes home, tell her I want to see her alone for a few minutes. "

  Jaron tried not to think about why Booth wanted to see his wife alone, even for a few minutes. He couldn't do anything to stop Booth's tyranny. Not today. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

  * * *

  The moment Ronnie headed the BMW up the driveway and Charmaine saw the limo parked out front, she knew her brief afternoon of happiness was over. Booth was home. Two days early.

  "I can't bear the thought of him touching you," Ronnie said. "I know how he treats you. You don't know how many times I've wanted to beat the hell out of him."

  "No, you mustn't. Don't even think that way." She gazed lovingly at Ronnie—for one last time today. "I can endure anything now that I know you love me. I'll live for our stolen moments. But we have to be very careful."

  "One of these days, I'll take you away from here. I swear I will."

  He wouldn't. He couldn't. No more than Jaron could. Both men loved her. Both promised to take her away from Booth Fortier. Neither would ever be able to fulfill that promise. The only thing that would ever free her from her husband was death. She knew that as surely as she knew cats had kittens. There were some things in this life that were inescapable.

  Jaron stood on the front porch, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels. What the hell was wrong with her brother? He'd been acting like a whore in Sunday school lately. Fidgety. Nervous. He was up to something and hiding it from her. But what?

  When Jaron saw them drive up, he came running. "Booth's home and something's wrong. Something big." The words flew from Jaron's mouth in a breathless rush. "He's building up to a fine rage. He's calling a meeting. Everybody's on their way in, including Ollie Neville." Jaron looked at Ronnie. "Stay out here with me, do you hear?" He glanced at Charmaine. "He wants to see you. Alone."

  "No!" When Ronnie reached for Charmaine, Jaron stepped between them.

  "It's all right," she said quietly. "Nothing will happen that hasn't happened before. I'll be all right. Just don't give us away by saying or doing anything to make Booth suspicious."

  Jaron blocked Ronnie's path until after Charmaine entered the house. Once inside, she took a deep breath and hurried down the hall toward her husband's office. She knocked.

  "Enter," he said gruffly.

  She eased open the door. He sat behind the massive, elaborate antique desk, his head bent over as he snorted coke. In the past several years, Booth Fortier had become a drug addict. He couldn't make it through a day without his fix.

  She closed the door, crossed the room and stood in front of the desk. "Welcome home."

  He sniffed several times, lifted his head and grinned lasciviously. A shudder of apprehension fluttered along her nerve endings.

  "Did you miss me, baby?"

  "What do you think?"

  His smile vanished. "I didn't miss you. I've been having me a real good time with some of the best trained whores in Louisiana. They know when to scream, when to cry, when to beg for mercy. It's your own fault that I have to hurt you more. You make it harder on yourself by being silent."

  She knew. And that's the very reason she tried so hard to stay as quiet as possible, no matter what he did to her. Crying out in pain would give him too much satisfaction. And always in the back of her mind was one thought—if I scream and beg for mercy, Jaron might hear me. Now she had to worry about Ronnie, too.

  "Come here." Booth waved his hand in a beckoning gesture.

  Charmaine swallowed hard, then went to him, stopping when she was within arm's reach. He grasped her wrist tightly and tugged. The pain shot up her arm as his fingers bit into her flesh and he jerked her down onto his lap. He grabbed her face, his fingers digging into her cheeks; then his bleary black eyes focused on her.

  "Have you been a good girl while I was away?"

  "Aren't I always?"

  His fierce grip on her face loosened. He slid his hand down her neck and tightened his fingers around her throat. "I got business to take care of this evening, but once that's done, I'll be free to spend some time with my loving wife. How does that sound to you?"

  She knew how Booth loved to intimidate people, how he got his jollies from frightening others, but even more so from inflicting pain. Her husband was a sick—a very sick—bastard. A monster with the power of a god.

  When he eased his ferocious grip on her throat, Charmaine gasped in air. She wasn't afraid he'd kill her, at least not quickly; slow torture was Booth's trademark.

  As she sat on his lap, showing no sign of fear or pain, he ran his hands over her breasts. "These are mine." His palm skimmed her belly and moved downward to cup her mound. "This is mine." She managed to keep the shudder of revulsion inside her. "Every damn ounce of this luscious hundred and ten pounds is all mine. Isn't that right?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  He laughed. She waited. He shoved her off his lap, sending her toppling. Her left hip hit the floor with a hard thud; pain radiated through her hip and down her leg. She clamped her mouth shut to stop herself from crying out. He would ignore her now, as if she were a piece of trash he'd tossed aside. He'd forget she even existed … until later. Until he needed his daily fix of sadism. He was as hooked on cruelty as he was on the cocaine.

  Charmaine went up on her knees, then grasped the edge of the desk for leverage so she could stand. Despite the pain in her hip, she didn't favor her left side as she walked across the room, straight and tall, showing no sign that his actions had injured her. She had to make it to her room without limping, without crying, in case Ronnie or Jaron saw her. She had been able to control Jaron's outrage over the years, reminding him that if he confronted Booth, it could cost both him and her their lives. But Ronnie wasn't like Jaron. She had no idea whether or not he would actually try to defend her against her husband; but her feminine instincts told her that he might. No matter what it cost her, she couldn't let Ronnie ever realize the extent of Booth's inhumane abuse.

  Tonight when her husband brutalized and humiliated her, she would think of Ronnie and the joy of being in his arms. She would shut out what was happening to her, withdraw into herself, as she always did. To a safe place. But tonight would be different. She wouldn't be alone in that safe place. Ronnie would be there, holding her, comforting her.

  * * *

  Elsa parked her white Honda Civic in front of the first warehouse on the long row of warehouses along the riverfront. Looking the building over as she stood on the cracked sidewalk, she noticed faded lettering above the huge double doors facing the street. Garland Industries. She'd come to the right place. Ordinarily she would never come to this part of town. One, because she'd have no reason to be here; and two, although the crime rate in St. Camille was relatively low, everyone knew East Fifth Street wasn't really safe after dark. But it isn't dark, she reminded herself. It's barely six-thirty. She'd stopped by to see Milly after work, as she did almost every day. The staff at St. Camille Haven often told Elsa how much Milly looked forward to her big sister's daily visits, so no matter how difficult her day ha
d been or how bone-tired she might be, Elsa did her best to not miss their evening visit. Today, she had needed to see Milly for her own sake. She needed to believe in her heart that she'd done something right in caring for her siblings. Sherrie didn't live close by, not close enough to drop in on at a moment's notice. How was it, she asked herself, that she had succeeded so well in mothering her two sisters and had failed so miserably with Troy? He'd been the sweetest little boy; but sometime around puberty, he'd changed, become rebellious and angry. What he'd needed then—and now—was a father. When a boy was coming of age, he needed a man's strong, steady influence. A father's firm hand and loving guidance.

  When Jed Tyree had spoken to her today and confirmed her worst fears, she'd been able to think of little else. Troy was working in a warehouse owned by Garland Industries, which was nothing more than a front for one aspect of Booth Fortier's illegal activities. Mr. Tyree had told her to do whatever she had to do to terminate her brother's employment.

  "Booth Fortier doesn't give a damn about the guys who work for him," Jed Tyree had said. "He has sacrificed people all his life to protect himself, to punish others or just on an illogical whim. If your brother continues working at the warehouse, he'll wind up either doing time in prison or six feet under."

  God, help me, Elsa prayed as she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and marched toward the small office door at the side of the warehouse. Usually she was logical and levelheaded, never a risk-taker. But desperate times called for desperate measures. She intended to speak to Troy's boss, this Curt Poarch he'd mentioned. And if the man was uncooperative, she'd wait and talk to Troy. She had to make him understand the danger he was in, the horrible chances he was taking by working for Booth Fortier—for the Louisiana branch of the Southern Mafia.

  Halfway to the door, Elsa paused, opened her shoulder bag and glanced down at the small can of Mace she carried. She didn't own a gun, was in fact uneasy around them. And she didn't usually carry Mace because in a town like St. Camille she really didn't need it. But on the way here this evening, she'd made a stop to purchase a can of Mace and a whistle.