Grace Under Fire Page 19

  The words bounced off her heart, like arrows off a shield. She had already cried, already mourned her brother. And she would again. In private. And in Ronnie's arms, if that was possible. She closed her eyes for a split second and allowed the reality of Jaron's death to sink in fully.

  "Ma'am, are you all right?" the sheriff asked.

  Before she could respond, Ronnie was at her side, a strong, steady hand on her shoulder. "Would you like to sit down? Or do you need a drink or—"

  "I'm all right." She looked directly at the sheriff. "When may we have the body? I'll need to plan a funeral."

  "Can't say for sure, but it could be a few days. Maybe a week or more. Gotta do an autopsy and all."

  "You said Jaron was knifed to death … could they tell by looking at his body if he'd been tortured?"

  Sheriff Long swallowed hard. His forehead dotted with perspiration. "Hell, Mrs. Fortier, what do you think?"

  Ronnie grasped Charmaine's arm. "Mrs. Fortier, maybe I should call a doctor for you."

  "No, that won't be necessary." Why did she suddenly feel faint?

  "Any chance of me talking to Mr. Fortier tonight?" the sheriff asked.

  "My husband has been ill—"

  "I've already explained that Mr. Fortier is under doctor's orders to stay in bed and he's been given a sleeping pill," Ronnie said.

  "Well, that's it then, folks." The sheriff plopped his hat down on his head, knowing it would be useless to pursue the matter tonight.

  Ronnie lowered his head and whispered in Charmaine's ear. "Wait right here." Then he walked the lawman to the door.

  Charmaine felt nothing, only a blessed numbness. Jaron was dead. She soon would be. But before she died, she intended to find a way to save Ronnie.

  "He's gone," Ronnie said as he returned to the living room and closed the pocket doors in order to give them a little privacy.

  She looked at him. Could he see inside her, deep inside her? Did he realize she was a soulless creature, that a part of her spirit had died tonight along with Jaron?

  Ronnie pulled her into his arms and held her. "Go ahead and cry."

  "What if someone comes in and sees us?"

  "Just act like you've fainted and I'll pretend I'm catching you."

  She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek, then brushed a kiss across his lips. "I've already cried. Can't you tell. Just look at me. I'm a mess."

  "I'm getting you out of here as soon as I can," Ronnie whispered, as if he suspected the walls had ears. "Booth had Jaron killed, didn't he?"

  "You didn't know—I mean before the sheriff came tonight?"

  "No." He shook his head. "But you knew, didn't you?"

  "Jaron was the traitor. I didn't know what he was doing, not until it was too late to stop him. I begged him not to go through with it. I told him Booth would find out."

  Ronnie cradled Charmaine's face with his hands. "Play dumb, do you hear me? Tomorrow when Booth sees you act like you're shocked about Jaron. Put on a real show. Pretend you had no idea Jaron would do such a thing."

  "I don't understand…"

  He squeezed her face gently. "I can't explain more. Just trust me, will you, Charmaine? I love you and I'm going to take you away from all this very soon. Do you believe me?"

  She smiled. Tears misted her eyes. She'd been wrong when she thought she could no longer feel anything. Ronnie made her feel, but he couldn't give her hope, no matter how much he wanted to.

  "I trust you," she told him. "I believe you."

  But she didn't believe. She knew he meant what he said about taking her away from Booth, but Jaron had made her the same promise. And look where that had gotten him. She was trapped, more so than ever. With no way out.

  "Promise me something, will you?" She laid her hand over his heart. "Don't risk your life for me. I want you safe, no matter what."

  "Charmaine, I can't—"

  She placed two fingers over his lips to silence him. "Promise me that even if you can't save me, you'll save yourself."

  "How can I promise you such a thing?"

  "If you love me as much as I love you, you'll do it."

  "I promise that I'll save us both."

  "Oh, Ronnie, no…"

  "Yes. It's both of us or neither of us."

  In that moment, she knew that Ronnie Martine truly loved her. She knew she could trust him. But she also knew that it was only a matter of time before Booth would have them killed … just as he'd had Jaron killed.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  "What do you mean you want to tell her everything?" Sawyer MacNamara growled the question. Jed's having phoned him in the middle of the night and wakened him from a sound sleep might have something to do with his less-than-pleasant attitude.

  "She has a right to know what's going on," Jed said. "Her life is in danger. She had a dead body dumped at her gate tonight."

  "What's going on there with you two?" Sawyer asked. "You sound as if you've gotten personally involved with Ms. Beaumont. Tell me you haven't."

  "Whether I have or not isn't the issue, the issue is—"

  "Damn it, man, you've known her only a few days, just how serious could things have gotten in that length of time? And you're right—the issue isn't whether you've got the hots for Grace Beaumont. It's that Dundee's, and therefore you, are part of a major operation involving the Federal government. There's a hell of a lot more at stake than just proving Dean Beaumont's and Byram Sheffield's deaths were murder."

  "Don't you think I, of all people, know that," Jed snapped. "I'm telling you that Grace can be trusted with the truth."

  "The Bureau isn't going to see it that way."

  "Screw the Bureau."

  "Look, we're going to keep Ms. Beaumont safe—you, Dom, Kate, Rafe and J.J. When this is all over, she'll be alive and we'll have Fortier behind bars for the rest of his life. What more could she want?"

  "Grace wants to know whatever I'm not telling her. It's not the information that's so important to her, it's the fact that I'm keeping something from her. She's the type who doesn't like being kept in the dark—about anything. Besides, she's smart. She'll probably start figuring it out pretty soon."

  Sawyer groaned. "Use some of that good-old-boy charm of yours and feed her a line of bull. You've charmed many a woman, haven't you? This wouldn't be any different."

  "I'm not going to lie to Grace. I won't fabricate some story to pacify her."

  "There's no way Moran will give you permission to share secret information with her. Too much is at risk, including the life of the agent working undercover."

  "Maybe I won't ask Moran."

  "Don't you go off half-cocked and do something stupid," Sawyer said.

  "Get this straight—I'm telling her something, even if it's only half the truth. I've already told her that I'm going to see Booth tomorrow and that I'm attending Jaron's funeral. "

  "Did you tell her that you're Fortier's nephew?"

  Every muscle in Jed's body froze. He wanted to tell Grace everything—everything except that. "No, I haven't."

  "She'll find out eventually," Sawyer reminded him. "Maybe your personal history with Fortier is what you should share with her, not the details of a highly confidential and potentially deadly FBI operation."

  "Yeah, you're probably right." Jed knew he wasn't going to tell Grace that he was Booth's nephew. Not yet. Not until he had no other choice. "The other reason I called is so you can tell Moran that if he wants to give me a last-minute briefing, he should call before nine. I'll be leaving then for Beaulac to pay a visit on my uncle."

  "I'll let Moran know that you're set to make contact with his agent tomorrow. And as far as the other, don't let your dick do your thinking," Sawyer warned. "If you do, you could wind up in trouble with the Feds and you could also lose your job at Dundee's."

  "Mmm-hmm. Sounds like a win-win situation."

  Sawyer harrumphed. "You're going to do whatever the hell you want to do, regardless
of what I say. Why bother even asking me?"

  "I don't know what I'm going to do," Jed said honestly. "But I do know that my first priority is Grace Beaumont."

  "Bringing Booth Fortier down will be in Ms. Beaumont's best interest. Just remember that."

  "Yeah, I'll remember." Jed hit the Off button on his phone.

  He'd pretty much known before he called Sawyer what Dundee's CEO would say. Hell, the guy was a former Fed. And Jed knew that as much as he wanted to come clean with Grace, he couldn't. If by keeping silent, he had to face her wrath, he could handle it—even if she stayed angry with him until this assignment was completed. But it sure would make things easier for him if he could tell her something. Anything to appease her curiosity. Okay, Tyree, just how much can you tell her and not jeopardize the operation?

  Of course the wise thing would be to tell her nothing. He could just go to bed right now, get a few hours of sleep before leaving for Beaulac, and then face Grace later in the day. As much as he hated to leave her under someone else's protection, he trusted Dom and Kate to keep Grace safe. But by not coming clean with her, all he was doing was putting off the inevitable.

  He paced the room in his sock feet. Sometimes avoiding an issue was a solution. A temporary solution. He sat on the edge of the bed, yanked off his socks, then unbuttoned his shirt. If he told Grace that Booth Fortier was his uncle, would that satisfy her curiosity? If he swore to her that he hated the man as much as she did, would she believe him? Or would she distrust him, turn against him, fire him as her bodyguard?

  Jed removed his shirt and hung it on the cannonball bedpost of the Colonial style oak bed, then flopped down across the top of the bedspread. Lying there his hands cupped behind his head, he tried to stop thinking about Grace … about the trip to his uncle's house tomorrow … about Jaron. He had no idea what sort of man Jaron had become, how many crimes he'd committed for Booth, for the syndicate. But he figured his old friend had been guilty of just about every offense on the books. What Jed couldn't figure out was what had made Jaron so desperate to escape Booth's hold that he'd risked everything for Grace's five million.

  A soft rapping on his door abruptly ended his speculation. He started to get up, but didn't. Instead he said, "Yeah, come in."

  The door eased open. Grace peeked inside. "Jed, may I speak to you?"

  "You should be in bed trying to get some sleep." So much for putting off a confrontation, he thought.

  "I can't sleep." She opened the door all the way, walked in and shut the door behind her. "We need to talk."

  Why was it that just the sight of this woman made him soft in the head and hard everywhere else?

  "Can't it wait?" he asked.

  "Did you telephone Mr. MacNamara?"

  "Yeah. And the answer is no. No way in hell."

  She nodded. "I figured as much."

  "If it was my decision to make, I'd tell you." Jed sat up and slid over to the edge of the bed. "But I work for Dundee's and—"

  "I understand."

  Standing in the muted light from the one bedside lamp, she looked like an angel. A golden angel, all shimmering beauty. And he could tell that the fiery indignation with which she'd confronted him an hour ago downstairs in the kitchen had burned itself out. She seemed quite calm, even a bit subdued.

  "You don't have to tell me anything," Grace said. "I think I've figured it out. You're working for Dundee's, but you're cooperating with the FBI. They're interested in proving that Fortier and Lew Miller are in cahoots."

  "Grace…"

  She signaled him to say no more. "Don't worry, I'm not sharing my theory with anyone else. I promise."

  "Look, Blondie, you should go to bed. It's been a rough night." Jed stood, but made no move to go to her. "If you've got a sleeping pill, take it. You're the boss over at Sheffield Media. You can take the morning off if you want to. Stay home tomorrow. Before I leave for Beaulac, Dom and Kate will come over here and stay with you. They'll act as your bodyguards while I'm gone."

  Grace nodded; then suddenly an odd look appeared in her eyes and her mouth opened on a surprised gasp. "Booth Fortier lives in Beaulac? Didn't you tell me that you're originally from Beaulac? Did you know Fortier years ago when you lived in the same town?"

  The inevitable had arrived sooner than he'd expected. What are you going to tell her? he asked himself. The truth? Or a lie?

  * * *

  Troy Leone sat in a chair near the window where the old air conditioner chugged out cold air as it rattled and rumbled. He reached over and picked up a pack of cigarettes off the table, knocked a fresh one from the pack and lit it with the butt of the one he'd finished. Josie had fallen asleep right after they'd had sex. She was a wild thing in bed, but she wasn't one for cuddling afterward. Hell, neither was he. It wasn't like he was in love with Josie or anything. She was red-hot and couldn't get enough, which suited him just fine. But now that he'd decided not to return to the warehouse and wouldn't be making big bucks, he figured Josie would tell him to get lost. She liked pretty things; and without money, he couldn't buy her clothes and jewelry and whatever else she wanted. He knew what she wanted more than anything—to quit her waitress job.

  Troy scratched his chest, then glanced over his shoulder, back into the bedroom where Josie slept. He sure wished she'd let him stay. He liked having a place of his own and a willing woman in his bed; but mostly he dreaded the thought of tucking his tail between his legs and crawling home to Elsa. Okay, so his sister cared about him, worried about him, wanted what was best for him. But God Almighty, she smothered him. Couldn't she get it through her head that he was a man now, not some snot-nosed kid? So he'd made a mistake taking the warehouse job. He'd thought he was tough, that working for the mob wasn't such a big deal. But after that guy had paid him a visit today and he'd found out he really was working for none other than Booth Fortier, Troy had known he was in way over his head. He wasn't interested in a life of crime, in becoming a career criminal. All he'd wanted was some easy money.

  Puffing on his new cigarette, Troy leaned his head back against the wall as the front legs of the straight chair lifted off the floor. If he moved home—when he moved home—Elsa would be onto him again about his smoking. If it wasn't one thing with her, it was another.

  So, don't go home, he told himself. Go back to the warehouse tomorrow night. But if he did that, he'd knowingly be working for Booth Fortier and that guy would show up again and ask him to do a job for the big boss. Fortier would expect him to kill somebody. He just didn't think he had it in him to be a murderer. Ask him to lie, cheat or steal and he'd do it. But kill another human being in cold blood? No way.

  He took a last draw on his cigarette, ground it into a nearby ashtray and headed back to the bedroom. He stood over the bed and watched Josie sleeping. She wasn't pretty, but she was built good. He crawled into bed beside her, draped one arm over her and cuddled to her back.

  She had no idea he'd quit his job at the warehouse. Tonight he'd stayed at a bar on East Sixth Street until the place closed down, then he'd come back to the apartment and told Josie he'd gotten off work early. He'd have to tell her the truth before tomorrow night, but he wasn't going to mention it until then. Since tomorrow was her off day, he figured they could spend most of the day in bed. If she needed a little incentive, he'd just show her the five hundred bucks Booth Fortier's man had given him.

  Troy kissed Josie's ear. She grunted. He licked her neck. She slapped at him as if she were swatting a fly. He chuckled.

  "Wake up, honey. Wake up just enough to say yes."

  She growled, then flopped over, but kept her eyes closed. "What time is it?"

  "Early. Not quite four."

  Josie groaned. "I'm too sleepy to—"

  He kissed her, stuck his tongue in her mouth while he whipped the covers off her. When he rubbed his erection against her belly, she started kissing him back. God, he was going to miss getting sex all the time like this. But as soon as Josie found out he didn't have any big mone
y coming in, she'd sure as hell kick his ass out the door. Just get it while you can, man, he told himself. You'll miss it—miss her—but you can always find another woman. But if you let yourself get in too deep with Booth Fortier, you could wind up in the pen for life or end up dead. He didn't intend for either to be his fate. He loved money and he loved sex, but not enough to die for either.

  * * *

  Grace wondered why Jed didn't answer her, why he wouldn't allow his gaze to meet hers. There was something he didn't want to tell her, something too painful to share. Had, as she suspected, Jed lost someone to Booth Fortier's ruthlessness?

  "Jed?" She took a few hesitant steps toward him, wanting to put her arms around him and offer him comfort.

  He held up a restraining hand. She stopped immediately. Oh, her poor Jed. What could be so horrible that he couldn't tell her? And she knew from the pained expression on his face that his experience with the infamous Mr. Fortier had been horrible.

  "Jed, whatever it is, you can tell me. I'll understand."

  He took a deep breath, then faced her, his mossy hazel-brown eyes searching for the understanding she'd promised. "I knew Fortier." He paused. "I'd rather not go into too many details. Not tonight."

  "All right." Grace kept her distance, despite the overwhelming desire to rush to Jed.

  "He had my father murdered."

  She could tell that the bold statement hadn't been intentional. It was as if Jed's very soul needed to make a confession, to share a painful secret.

  When Jed turned his back on her, she wondered if he was crying. "Oh, Jed, I'm so sorry. I felt it was something like that. No wonder—"

  "Don't!" He snapped around and glared at her, his face etched with anger. "I don't want or deserve your sympathy."

  "Jed, please … what is it? What's wrong?" She rushed toward him, but when he backed away from her, she paused. "You're frightening me. What—?"

  "My family…" He swallowed. "The people I come from were criminals, part of organized crime here in Louisiana. Don't you see, don't you understand—when I was eighteen, I ran away from Booth Fortier and his kind."