Grace Under Fire Page 7

  "And if Neville was the source, then Neville could be our letter writer."

  "Bingo."

  "It's worth checking into," Jed said.

  "I'm already on it."

  "Rafe?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Make sure—"

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I will. I'm not stupid. I know what I'm dealing with here. I won't take any chances and I won't make any mistakes. You're the one who's in the most danger. You'll soon be walking into the lion's den."

  "I'm familiar with the territory."

  "Familiarity doesn't make it any less dangerous."

  "Right." Jed paused for a split second as long-ago memories flashed through his mind. Memories he'd spent a life-time trying to erase. "Just let me know about the warehouse ASAP. Okay?"

  "Sure."

  * * *

  Charmaine Fortier had made a decision, one that might put her life in danger. But she didn't care. Not anymore. For months now she had pretended she wasn't falling in love with Ronnie Martine; she'd tried with all her might to resist her feelings. And even though Ronnie hadn't made an overt move or said anything that indicated he felt the same way, she knew he cared about her, too. Of course he was loyal to Booth, as were all Booth's employees. But unlike most of Booth's other boys, Ronnie didn't seem to be afraid of him. Not the way Jaron was. Her brother practically quaked in his boots every time Booth entered a room. And with good reason. Booth had a reputation of eliminating anyone who displeased him. She didn't know it for a fact, of course, but she didn't doubt for a minute that her husband had ordered the deaths of countless people. And whenever he took his vile temper out on her, she wondered how many people he had murdered personally. There was an evil in Booth that fed off other people's suffering. Off humiliation. And death.

  If he ever finds out about you and Ronnie, he'll kill you both, she reminded herself.

  "Turn off at the next right," Charmaine said. "I want to take a ride by the river before we go home."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Ronnie acted as her chauffeur and bodyguard, a position Booth had assigned him six months ago. Booth always chose a bodyguard for her within the ranks of his personal staff, the boys he kept around him, the ones who lived in the house with them. During the fifteen years they'd been married, he had rotated her bodyguards on a yearly basis, which meant Ronnie had only six more months to be at her side.

  They'd taken Charmaine's silver BMW convertible, a car Booth had given her on her birthday two months ago—her thirty-fifth—when she'd decided to run into town. She was thirty-five goddamn years old. One day she'd been Booth's twenty-year-old bride and the next thing she knew she was his middle-aged prisoner. Yeah, that's exactly what she was—a prisoner. He had never allowed her to go anywhere without an escort, not in fifteen years. She was watched over day and night. Guarded, but from what she didn't know. Or maybe she did know. Wasn't Booth afraid she would betray him, that given the chance she'd turn to another man for the love he was incapable of giving her?

  Jealousy was one of Booth's personality disorders—only one of many. When he'd married her, he'd known she still had feelings for someone else, but he had been so sure he could make her forget her first love. Whenever her performance in the bedroom had been less than he expected, he'd throw up the fact that she had been soiled goods, that she hadn't come to him a virgin. And she would never forget what he'd said to her the first time he hit her.

  "So help me, I'll get Jed Tyree out of your system even if I have to beat him out of you."

  As the late springtime wind whipped through her hair while Ronnie drove her along the bumpy gravel road, Charmaine let her mind drift back to her teenage years, to when she'd first met Jed. They'd been sixteen, both of them a little wild and looking for fun. Jaron had just gone to work for Booth a few months earlier and was in awe of his boss and encouraged Charmaine to cozy up to Booth's nephew. Jed had been her first love, in every sense of the word. And she'd thought he loved her, too, during their teenage affair. But after Jed had left so suddenly at eighteen and hadn't asked her to go with him, she'd hated him. Hated him enough to marry his uncle two years later. What a fool she'd been. Not a fool for having loved Jed, but to have believed marrying his uncle would be a sweet revenge.

  "Do you want to stop anywhere, Mrs. Fortier?" Ronnie asked. "Or do you just want me to keep driving?"

  "There's a little house not far from here, about a half mile down the road." She and Jaron had grown up in that shack by the river, just the two of them fending for themselves after their mother died when Charmaine was twelve. They'd never known their father. Hell, they didn't even know if they had the same father.

  "You planning to visit somebody?" Ronnie glanced at her quickly then returned his gaze to the road.

  "I'm going to pay a visit on some old memories."

  "Pardon?"

  "I used to live in the house," she told him. "Back before I married Booth."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She tossed back her head, closed her eyes and let the afternoon sun warm her skin while the humid breeze caressed it. Right this minute, she was free. Gloriously free. Booth was in New Orleans. And she was alone with Ronnie. Away from the house. No prying eyes to spy on them.

  "Have you ever been in love?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "I said have you ever been in love?"

  "Yeah, sure I have."

  "Was it wonderful and passionate and—"

  "We were young. Got married. Had problems. Got a divorce."

  "Are you still in love with her?" Please, say no, Charmaine prayed. Say that you don't love anybody but me.

  "It was a long time ago," Ronnie said. "So long ago I barely remember."

  "Then it wasn't real love. I remember Jed, you know. Even though Booth thinks he's erased his nephew from my memory. He hasn't."

  "Mrs. Fortier, I don't think you should be—"

  "There it is!" She squealed with delight, then sighed when she noticed the dilapidated state of the old house. "Lord, what a pitiful sight."

  Ronnie pulled up in the weed-infested driveway, the dirt path almost totally obscured by vegetation of various varieties. "Do you want to get out? Looks a bit shaky to me. Might not be safe."

  Charmaine flung open the door and stepped out. "I was a lot safer in this house than I am in the one where I live now."

  Ronnie got out and joined her as she walked toward the ramshackle front porch with rotting floorboards and a sagging roof. He came up beside her, his gaze scoping out the area, his open palm hovering over the small of her back. Hovering but not touching.

  She paused before she reached the rickety front steps, turned slowly and smiled at him. "I came here for another reason. Other than to visit some old and very pleasant memories." He waited for her to continue, his gaze downcast as if he didn't want to make direct eye contact with her. "I brought you here for a reason."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Don't you want to know what that reason is?"

  "If you want to tell me."

  "The first time I made love, it was in this house. One cold winter night when I was seventeen. Jed Tyree was the sweetest, most tender lover."

  Ronnie cleared his throat, then shifted uncomfortably.

  "I don't still love Jed, if that's what's bothering you. I just love the memory of him."

  "Mrs. Fortier—"

  "It's just the two of us. Call me Charmaine." When she reached out and laid her hand on his chest, she felt the hard, steady beat of his heart.

  He stood there, stiff as a board, unmoving, except for his eyes. His eyes devoured her.

  "I brought you here because I want to make some new memories," she told him. "New sweet memories to add to the old ones."

  "Ma'am, I don't … you shouldn't—"

  Charmaine slunk closer, lifted her arms up and around his neck, then pressed herself against him. "I want you to make love to me, Ronnie. Here in this house. No one will ever know. Only the two of us."

  He hesitated for a s
plit second before he reached up, grabbed her arms and flung her away from him. "I'm taking you home right now, Mrs. Fortier. And we're both going to forget this ever happened."

  For just a moment, she felt the sting of rejection, then she looked at Ronnie and saw how desperately he was struggling to remain in control. It was so obvious that he wanted her as much as she wanted him, but he was fighting his desire.

  "All right. We'll go home," she said. "But we won't forget. We can't forget. And tomorrow you'll drive me into town and we'll make this same detour on our way back. Think about it tonight. Think about the two of us … naked … making love … over and over again."

  Ronnie swallowed hard. His hands knotted into tight fists. Charmaine tilted her chin high and walked toward the convertible. She could have forced the issue today. Right now. And Ronnie would have made love to her. But she didn't want to seduce him. She wanted him to be unable to resist her. She could wait another day. After all, she'd been waiting seventeen years to fall in love again. One more day couldn't possibly matter.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  « ^ »

  "That was the best Crawfish Etoufe I've eaten in years," Jed said as he held open the door at Beula's Crab Shack and waited for Grace to exit.

  "Didn't I tell you? The place really is a shack, but the food is to die for."

  Grace smiled. Sweet and genuine. Instinct told him that she had no idea how sexy her warm smile was, how alluring, especially since she possessed such a cool, aloof sophistication. His gut tightened. He wanted to touch her; run the back of his hand over her cheek, down her neck, and dip his fingers into the vee of her silk blouse.

  "Walk or ride?" she asked. "It's really sticky outside today because of the high humidity, so you might prefer the air-conditioned car."

  It took him a second to dislodge his lustful thoughts and realize she was talking about the tour of St. Camille he'd requested before lunch.

  Since there was little chance, this early on, that Booth Fortier knew anything about Grace having been contacted by a traitor in Fortier's ranks, any danger to Grace was probably nonexistent at this point. However, all that would change once the investigation into the allegations went into full swing. An investigation of this type, especially with the FBI involved, wasn't something that could be rushed. By tomorrow at this time, the wheels would be fully set in motion and after that everything would switch from slow gear into high. But before that happened, Jed wanted a chance to get to know the woman whose life was in his hands. Not only would a casual, relaxed tour of St. Camille give him the opportunity to acquaint himself with Grace Beaumont, it would also allow him to get the lay of the land. Whenever he began a new assignment, he always tried to make time to check out his surroundings, and that included the town or city. The more he knew about his employer and his or her environment, the better he could do his job. At least that was the way Jed worked.

  "Which do you suggest?"

  "Despite the heat and humidity, I recommend the walk. It's really the best way to see the town. And unless we dawdle along the way, the tour won't take long. Downtown St. Camille isn't all that big, only a few blocks."

  "Then why don't we shed our coats, dump them in the car and tour the town on foot?"

  "Let's go."

  She headed for the parking lot shared by three restaurants side-by-side along the street and a voodoo/magic shop on the corner of Avenall. After opening the back door of her Mercedes, she removed her lavender jacket to reveal a sleeveless, V-neck silk blouse that clung to her high, round breasts. After folding her jacket and placing it on the back seat, she turned to Jed. He'd already removed his jacket—one of only two sport coats he owned—and was in the process of folding it when he heard her gasp. He glanced at her face, then followed her line of vision to the hip holster he wore.

  "Where did … when did…?"

  He patted the weapon. "I'm licensed to carry the gun. Dundee's handles all the legalities that affect us whenever we cross state lines or work in foreign countries."

  "I don't like the idea of your…" She frowned. "At present you're working as an investigator, not a bodyguard, so why is the gun necessary?"

  "It's not." Jed removed the holster and placed it beneath his jacket on the seat. "Is that better?" There was no reason to tell Grace he carried another gun strapped to his ankle. A seasoned professional usually had a backup weapon.

  "Yes, thank you. If someone had seen you wearing a gun, they might have reported it to the police."

  "I thought you and Chief Winters were personal friends. All you'd have to do is explain to him that I'm working for you, as a bodyguard. Your being who you are, he'd buy that."

  "How did you know Charles Winters and I are friends?" Her eyes widened with realization. "That Dundee report on me really was very thorough, wasn't it?"

  Jed grinned. "Thorough enough, as far as preliminary reports go."

  "Then the second report you're expecting will no doubt list my shoe size, my bra size, how many fillings I have in my teeth and whether I sleep in pajamas or a gown."

  He tossed his unfolded coat into the back seat of the Mercedes, atop her neatly folded jacket, then surveyed her from head to toe. "I don't need a report to give me that type of info. My guess is you wear a size seven and a half shoe, a thirty-four C-cup bra…" His gaze lingered over her breasts, then moved up to her face. "I'd say no more than three or four fillings in your teeth and as far as what you sleep in…" He paused, imagining her in silk pajamas, then in a sheer see-through gown. "A woman with a body like yours should sleep in the raw … and you probably did when your husband was alive. But now, I peg you for the silk pajamas type."

  Grace stared at him with a mixture of wonder and disbelief in her eyes. "Shoe size correct. Bra size correct. I have six fillings in my teeth. As a kid I loved sweets." She took a deep breath. "And I sleep in silk pajamas."

  Jed noticed a tinge of color in her cheeks. Anger? Embarrassment? A bit of both, he figured.

  "Should I apologize?" he asked.

  "For what? For being too forward, for getting a bit too personal?"

  She studied him, the intensity of her gaze informing him that his brash comments hadn't rattled her in the least. But he knew better. Deep down inside, Grace Beaumont was just a little unsure of him … and of the effect he had on her.

  When he remained silent, she said, "I assume it's your nature to act the way you do. Just keep in mind that whatever effect your boldness has on other women, it's wasted on me."

  "I think you just accused me of something … not having good manners probably." She wouldn't be the first to tell him that he was often tactless. "And just what effect do you think I usually have on women?"

  Grace slammed the car door, looked up at him and offered him a cold smile. "I think you're used to women falling all over you. Now, shall we take our walk? I can give you a tour of the town in an hour."

  She had adeptly ended the personal aspects of their conversation and changed the subject. Guess she put you in your place, he told himself.

  "Lead the way," he said.

  Jed fell into step alongside Grace as they left the parking lot and began their trek by following Avenall over to the next block. She pointed out several buildings, explaining that this particular section of town was, for the most part, close to two hundred years old. They passed two blocks of renovated structures dating back to the early nineteenth century.

  "My father did a great deal to help restore many of the old buildings downtown," she said as they crossed the street onto Raleigh, which ran north to south. "Of course St. Camille isn't the tourist spot that New Orleans is since we're a small town, but we get our share of the Louisiana tourist trade. And we have a 'Tour of Homes' every spring, in late April, and again in the fall, in early October."

  As they continued their walk around town, numerous people spoke to Grace and gave Jed curious stares, but she didn't introduce him to anyone, nor did she linger in conversation. By the friendly yet deferenti
al way the citizens of St. Camille treated Grace, he concluded that they liked her, but didn't really know her on a personal basis; that everyone respected her, but many understood they weren't her social equals.

  Jed had been to St. Camille in the past, but he remembered very little about the small, centuries-old town. As a teenager, he'd had no interest in history or culture, but seeing the town through Grace's appreciative eyes gave him a different perspective today. She pointed out four banks, two other restaurants, and several lawyers' offices, including the house where the man she referred to as Uncle Willis had his practice.

  "That house is on the historical register," Grace said. "Uncle Willis had it restored as closely to the original as possible."

  Jed nodded. "Mmm-hmm."

  "Not your thing?" When he eyed her quizzically, she elaborated. "You're not interested in your heritage or the historical significance of Louisiana architecture or history of any kind or—"

  "Hey, why don't we just agree that I'm an uncouth barbarian and leave it at that." He paused in front of the two-story structure that housed the St. Camille Register, a local weekly newspaper. "We can even go in and take out an ad in the paper stating the fact." He had overreacted and he knew it, but there was something about Grace's lady-of-the-manor attitude that grated on his nerves. She was so … so untouchable, which made him want to touch her all the more. Made him want to drag her down to his level, and get real-life dirty with her.

  "Did I hit a raw nerve?" she asked.

  A loud rumble of thunder echoed nearby. When a streak of wide, bright lightning zigzagged unexpectedly through the sky, Grace gasped. Her gaze collided with Jed's. They stood there in the middle of the sidewalk staring at each other for several seconds. Another boom of thunder preceded a closer lighting strike, a sound so powerful that it rattled the windowpanes in the old buildings along Main Street

  .

  Suddenly raindrops plopped onto the sidewalk, splattered on their heads and bare arms, warning them to take cover.