Grace Under Fire

Chapter 10

Charmaine waited in her room until everyone had assembled in Booth's office, with the door closed and perhaps locked. She didn't know; didn't care. Once-and only once-she had dared to enter Booth's office uninvited. During the first year of their marriage. He had taught her a lesson that day, one she never forgot. When she was certain nobody other than Nola might spot her, she left her room and tiptoed down the hall. After glancing around to make sure she was alone, she opened the door to the room directly above Booth's office-a large storage closet. While exploring the old house one day while Booth was away, she had discovered something very interesting about that closet, something she knew Booth knew nothing about, that perhaps only Nola and the housekeeper before her knew existed. There was a peephole in the floor between the closet and Booth's office. Who had cut through the layers of flooring and why, she had no idea, but someone, long ago, had found a way to spy on the lord and master in his study-perhaps in Booth's father's day. At first glance in the closet, the peephole appeared to be nothing more than a light spot in the dark floor. Since first discovering the hole, Charmaine had kept it covered with a large cardboard box. Downstairs in Booth's office, the peephole really wasn't noticeable because the ceiling was high and the hole itself was located near the hundred-year-old chandelier, which actually blocked the view from below but not from above.

Charmaine eased the box aside, being careful that her actions created no sound; then she maneuvered herself down onto the floor and placed her eye directly over the peephole. She tilted her head right and left, searching the room for its occupants. She saw Jaron first, standing near the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Booth sat behind his massive desk, a lit cigar in his mouth, the smoke curling up and over his bald head.

"Sit," Booth ordered.

Hurriedly she scanned the chairs scattered about the room, all forming a semicircle around the desk. Oliver Neville sat closest to Booth. She noticed a black leather briefcase propped beside his chair. Aric, Curt, Ronnie and Charlie Dupree filled the other chairs. Her gaze lingered on Ronnie. Her lover. Her love.

She sensed the tension in the room as everyone waited for the big boss to speak, to explain why he'd called the top-secret meeting. It had to be something important to have cut short Booth's trip to New Orleans. And it had to do with something legal-or rather illegal-to require Ollie's presence.

"We've got ourselves a snitch in the organization," Booth said.

A palpable silence filled the room, as if each man was holding his breath. Oh, God, Charmaine thought, some poor fool is going to die.

"The guy's either one of ours or he's one of Lew Miller's group-either way, he signed his own death warrant when he screwed with me." Booth squinted his eyes menacingly as he puffed on his big, expensive Cuban cigar.

Charmaine knew Booth was waiting to see if anyone in the room dared to respond. No one did. Booth grinned.

"Somebody sent Grace Beaumont, former attorney general Dean Beaumont's widow, a letter telling her that I had her hubby and dear old dad bumped off because Dean was on the verge of securing evidence that proved a connection between our governor and me." Booth nodded to his lawyer.

"We're relatively certain that no one in the governor's immediate circle knew about the hit on Dean Beaumont and Byram Sheffield," Ollie said. "That means the traitor is someone privy to Booth's most confidential business. Knowing that narrows down the possibilities and will help us discover the traitor's identity quicker."

"You aren't implying that it's one of us, are you?" Charlie Dupree ran two fingers under his tight collar.

"No one is implying anything," Booth said. "Ollie's telling y'all that each one of you is under suspicion, as are half a dozen other guys who have worked here at the house in the recent past."

"I think everyone knows what happens to anyone who betrays you," Jaron said. "Why would any of us be that stupid?"

"Damn good question," Ollie remarked.

"I wasn't working for Booth four years ago," Ronnie reminded them. "I don't even know who these people-the Beaumonts -are."

"We're aware of everyone's work history." Ollie directed his attention to Ronnie. "However, once inside the inner circle, like y'all are, you learn things, see things and become privy to all sorts of information. Sorry, Ronnie, but we can't rule you out entirely."

"How are you going to find out who it is?" Aric asked. "I know it's not me-hell, I'd die to protect you, Booth, and you know it."

Grinning like a Cheshire cat, his white teeth shimmering against his dark skin, Booth flicked the ashes from his cigar into a sterling silver ashtray on his desk.

"What none of you knew is that we had an informant who gave Ollie the information we needed about Beaumont and his father-in-law the night they were run off the road… an informant who had reason to want both men out of the way. That informant is still working for us."

Not by choice, Charmaine surmised. Once you did a job for Booth Fortier, you were never free from him, not ever. She wiggled to loosen the tension in her body, then switched from her right eye to her left eye as she continued gazing through the peephole.

"Our very helpful informant let us know about the letter to Grace Beaumont," Booth told them. "It seems our traitor has now telephoned the lady and wants to exchange proof of my connection to Lew Miller for five million dollars."

A hushed rumble reverberated around the room. Ronnie, Curt, Aric and Charlie shifted uncomfortably. Charmaine glanced at Jaron. He was sweating. Oh, Jaron, please, please, don't let it be you. But somehow in her heart she knew it was. Why would he risk his life for the money? Didn't he know Booth would catch him? Hadn't he learned anything after nearly twenty years with Booth? While she kept her gaze on her brother, he removed a white handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, then his hands, and returned the handkerchief to his pocket.

"We'll find our man before he can make the exchange," Booth said, "but that won't eliminate our problem. It seems Mrs. Beaumont has hired herself a private investigation team to dig into the accident that befell her family, as well as any connection between the governor and me."

"Grace Beaumont has to be stopped." Ollie looked directly at Booth.

"I want the lady warned. Tonight." Booth took a couple of puffs on his cigar, laid it in the sterling tray, then shoved back his chair and stood. "Charlie, I'm putting together a little package for the young widow and I want you to deliver it. Tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Charlie Dupree wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was loyal to a fault and he hero-worshiped Booth. Although he was good to his elderly mother and had a soft spot for his pet parrot, Feathers, the guy had a vicious streak a mile wide. Like Booth, he actually enjoyed inflicting pain.

"That's it for now," Booth said. "Y'all can go. And whoever our traitor is had better enjoy his last days on earth."

When Jaron's trembling hand grasped the doorknob, Booth called to him. "Jaron, wait up. I want to talk to you. Privately."

Charmaine held her breath. Did Booth already know that Jaron was the traitor? Was he going to question him, grill him, until he confessed? She couldn't just stand by and do nothing. But what could she do? Think, Charmaine, think!

You could kill Booth , an inner voice advised her. Yes, she could kill Booth. She had dreamed of murdering the bastard in his sleep, had planned and plotted his demise numerous times.

"Yeah, Booth, what do you need?" Jaron asked, and Charmaine marveled at how calm her brother's voice sounded.

Booth walked over to Jaron, gripped his shoulder tightly and said, "Jed's back in Louisiana."

"What?" Jaron's gaze darted up from the floor to meet Booth's steady glare.

At the mention of Jed, Charmaine's heart missed a beat. She hadn't been in love with Jed in a long, long time, but she'd never forgotten him. And a part of her had never forgiven him for leaving Louisiana without her.

"It seems my nephew works for the Dundee Private Security and Investigation Agency, out of Atlanta." Booth loosened his hold on Jaron's shoulder. "He's the one heading up the investigation for Mrs. Beaumont."

"Jed is? I can't believe… God, Booth, why would he-"

"Look me square in the eye, Jaron, and tell me the God's honest truth-have you or Charmaine heard from him since he came back?"

Jaron shook his head. "I swear on my life, neither I nor Charmaine knew Jed was back, that he was working here in Louisiana."

Booth slapped Jaron on the back. "You can stop sweating. I believe you. You've always been loyal, always knew your place. I like a man who realizes when I own him. And you know that I own you and your sister. Always have."

"Yeah, Booth. I know."

Booth laughed. The sound sliced through Charmaine like razor-sharp blades, creating deep, agonizing wounds. She hated his laughter because when Booth was happy, it usually meant he had just inflicted pain on someone else.

If Jed was back, if he was working against Booth, was it possible that he could help Jaron? Help her? If as she suspected, Jaron was the traitor, could Jed save him from Booth? There was no way she could contact Jed from the house, no way to get a message to him. If Ronnie would take her into town and allow her to make a phone call… But on what pretense could she leave the house again tomorrow when everyone knew she'd gone into town two days in a row?

Charmaine eased up on her knees, scooted the cardboard box over the peephole, then stood up and opened the door just a fraction. She peered out, looking up and down the upstairs hall. Empty. Good.

She opened the door all the way, hurried out of the closet and closed the door very quietly behind her. With her heart racing wildly, she tiptoed down the hall to her room. Once inside, she rushed to her dressing table, sat down and picked up her silver brush. She brushed her hair, counting the strokes as the bristles glided through her thick, curly mane. It was only a matter of time until Booth came into her room through the door that connected her room to his. She wanted him to find her sitting here waiting for him. Calm. Cool. Controlled. She glanced at the nail file lying atop the mirror-topped silver tray on the table. Could she kill him with the nail file? It wasn't very big, but if it went into his jugular vein…

Charmaine's hand trembled so badly that she dropped the brush. Oh, God, what was she thinking? Unless Booth was unconscious, passed out drunk or drugged, she'd never be able to overpower him. Besides, if she killed him, his syndicate associates would kill her, if his household entourage didn't do the job first. And that meant Jaron and Ronnie would die, too, because she knew both men would lay down their lives for her.

Restless, Jed meandered around in his room at Belle Foret, probably wearing a hole in the antique Persian rug beneath his feet. He had grown up in a nice home, surrounded by expensive things, but Booth Fortier's decor had nothing to do with good taste and everything to do with how much things cost. In Grace's home, the decor whispered timeless elegance, the very essence of what was once referred to as gentility. It was there in every room, in every stick of furniture, every painting. A style that had taken generations to cultivate. Just as Grace was quality, pure and simple, so was her home. Yeah, quality, that was the big difference between the two of them. She was; he wasn't. And the funny thing was, money had nothing to do with it. If Grace didn't have a penny to her name, she would still be quality.

He'd done everything he could to convince himself that he'd be a fool to approach Grace on a personal level again. The kiss they'd shared had only whetted his appetite for more. But the lady had said no. If he was smart, he'd listen to her, and take her refusal to heart.

Think about business, he reminded himself. There's five million dollars sitting in the safe at Sheffield Media, Inc., with Dom and Kate staying overnight at the office to assist the nighttime security guards. Of course, none of the employees were aware that a small fortune had been deposited in the company's safe. But Hudson Prentice knew, as did Elsa Leone. And Grace's uncle Willis and cousin Joy knew. They were four trusted friends, but Jed suspected one of them had betrayed Grace in the past, so what was to keep him or her from doing it again? Had the traitor told Booth exactly what was going on? Did Booth already know he had a Benedict Arnold among his most trusted associates?

The person who had helped Booth destroy Dean Beaumont and Bryam Sheffield would still be under Booth's thumb. He or she would still be reporting to Booth. That meant what the informant knew, Booth knew. Not only would his uncle be aware of a traitor in his midst, he would know Grace was having his association with Governor Miller investigated. And he'd also know that Jed was working for Grace. "The Plan" had been set in motion. It was only a matter of time before he could have an excuse to go to his uncle, confront him and ask him to disprove the allegations against him, all a guise to put Jed in contact with the federal agent working in Booth's camp.

Jed stood at the windows, pulled back one curtain and looked down at the dark, sprawling backyard lawn. Glancing up he studied the few stars visible tonight. Partial cloud cover shielded a section of the moon and half the stars.

If Booth already knew that Grace was having him investigated, if he suspected a traitor in his midst, then Grace was in danger. And when Booth discovered the traitor's identity, he was a dead man. But if Booth knew, why hadn't he made a move? Why hadn't he issued a warning? It wasn't like his uncle to bide his time. Just as soon as the first threat against Grace occurred, Jed could put their plan into action. He would have an excuse to visit his uncle and find a way to make contact with the FBI's undercover agent who apparently was trapped within the organization and kept under such close scrutiny recently that he had no way to exchange information with his superiors within the Bureau.

"Jim Kelly is one of our top agents," Dante Moran had told Jed. "He infiltrated your uncle's organization over two years ago and up until six months ago was able to keep in touch on a regular basis, then his job duties changed and it has become increasingly difficult for him to get any word out to us."

Jed chuckled. Booth Fortier not only had a traitor in his midst, but he had a spy, too. And if either man was found out…

A telephone rang. He heard the echo coming from Grace's room. Jed picked up the portable phone he'd requested to be kept in his room, then rushed out the door and across the hall. Grace's door was closed, but he didn't think twice about entering without knocking. He'd given Grace orders to answer her own phone from now on, now that the trace had been placed on her telephones, both at home and at work.

When Grace looked up at him, she nodded, her cue to him that he should listen in. He put the phone to his ear.

"There's a gift waiting for you, Mrs. Beaumont," the disguised voice said. "It's been left at the front gate. You might want to send someone down to get it."

"Who is this? What sort of gift?"

The dial tone hummed in their ears. Damn! Jed thought. No way was the guy on the phone long enough to trace the call. Besides, it didn't really matter if he'd used a pay phone or a cell phone that could be traced only to the nearest tower.

Grace hung up the receiver. "What do you think?" she asked.

"I don't think this was our guy, the one who's expecting five million dollars tomorrow at noon. I think this is someone else."

Grace's blue eyes rounded in surprise. "Who do you think…" she gasped. "You think Booth Fortier already knows about-"

"I'm going to make a quick phone call and have someone check the front gate for your gift."

"Who are you going to call and why not just go get it-" Grace paused as realization dawned. "Do you think it's a bomb? Are you phoning the sheriff?"

"Do you want the local law involved?" he asked.

Her shoulders lifted and fell as she sighed deeply. "Not unless it's absolutely necessary. Since we have nothing but our suspicions to go on… no solid proof. Not yet."

Jed punched in a series of numbers, then lifted the portable phone to his ear.

"Who are you calling?" she repeated her question.

He held up his index finger in a signal for her to wait. She nodded agreement.

"This is Jed. Ms. Beaumont just received an interesting phone call. It seems someone has dropped off a gift for her at the front gates and I need you to pick it up. Understand?"

"Yeah, I understand," Rafe Devlin replied. "I'll get some of Moran's boys to check it out and if it's not lethal, I'll bring it up to the house."

"Thanks. I'll be waiting to hear from you."

"Will do."

Jed turned to Grace. "Why don't you stay up here and I'll go downstairs and wait. If there's a bomb or anything else, he'll call back. If not, he'll leave the package."

"Are you taking one of the Dundee agents away from guard duty at Sheffield Media to check out whatever was left at the gate?"

"No." He turned and walked away, hoping that would end it, at least for the time being.

Grace followed him into the hall. "Jed, what are you not telling me?"

Pausing, he kept his back to her. "There's a third Dundee agent working this case. I called him."

"A third person? Why didn't you mention this before? I swear to goodness, Jed Tyree, you're the most aggravating man I've ever met. Why all the secrets? If I'm paying for four Dundee agents, don't you think I'll find out when the bill comes in?"

"Yeah, sure. Sorry I didn't mention it." When her bill came in, she'd be charged for three agents-Dom, Kate and himself. He supposed you could say the others-Rafe and J.J.-were working pro bono, without pay, for the public good. Over the years, the Dundee agency had formed a cooperative relationship with the Bureau. As with all relationships it often resulted in a you-scratch-my-back-I'll-scratch-yours policy. And now that the CEO of Dundee's was a former Fed himself, it cemented an already strong bond.

Jed left Grace standing in the hall, then galloped down the long, winding staircase and into the marble-floored foyer. He sat in one of the two antique armchairs flanking an ornately decorated chest that rested against the right entrance wall. He figured he'd be waiting no more than thirty minutes before he heard from Rafe, letting him know the package had been examined and either destroyed or was on its way up to the house.

While he waited, he went over several different scenarios. He was ninety-nine percent certain the "gift" was from Booth. And whatever it was, it would be an unpleasant surprise. If he could, he wanted to protect Grace as much as possible from the ugliness. She was a strong, brave woman, but she'd suffered more than enough for two lifetimes. He had no intention of letting her become another of Booth Fortier's victims.

"Want some company?" Grace asked as she floated down the staircase, her movements fluid and unhurried.

He glanced up and watched her as she descended, her yellow silk pajamas only a shade darker than her shoulder-length hair. Looking at her, he couldn't see a flaw. Not one tiny imperfection. But then, he hadn't explored every inch of her.

His sex reacted instantly to the thought of his hands caressing Grace's naked body. Down, boy, down! he ordered a particular part of his anatomy. Okay, so he was a red-blooded American male, and what guy in his right mind wouldn't be attracted to a woman as beautiful as Grace? But it wasn't like him to react so strongly to a woman he barely knew-one who'd put up No Trespassing signs all around her. Yes, he got as horny as the next guy, but he had never hurt for female companionship. If he wanted to get laid, he didn't figure he'd have a problem once this assignment was over and he was free to indulge in some extracurricular activity. But the problem was he didn't just want to get laid. He wanted Grace. He wanted to make love to her. Sweet, slow, all-night-long love.

"Jed?" she called to him when she reached the foot of the stairs.

"Huh?"

"Are you all right?"

No, honey, I'm not all right. I'm hurting in the worst way, but you don't want to hear it. "Yeah, sure, I'm fine. Just thinking."

"Mind if I wait with you?" she asked, but didn't pause long enough for him to reply before she sat in the matching armchair on the opposite side of the chest.

"Look… whatever the gift is, it's not going to be anything you want to see." Jed leaned over slightly, so that he could look around the huge chest that separated them. "Take my word for it. My guess is Booth Fortier has sent you a warning. Why don't you just go back upstairs and let me handle this. "

"You're trying to protect me and I appreciate it, but-"

"That's my job, isn't it?"

"To protect my life," she told him. "Not protect my heart."

Jed huffed, then leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Stay. We'll wait together."

"How long-"

"I'm not sure. Thirty minutes. Maybe longer."

She kicked off her yellow satin house slippers, curled her legs up under her and placed her hands in her lap. He kept stealing quick glances at her in his peripheral vision. Once or twice, he caught her doing the same. Minutes ticked by. The grandfather clock on the landing struck the half hour. Neither of them said a word.

After about fifteen minutes, Grace eased her feet down to the floor, slid her feet into the slippers and readjusted her position in the chair. "Would you like a sherry or brandy? I could get us something."

"No, thanks, but you-"

"No, I really don't want anything."

Time dragged. Jed checked his watch every couple of minutes, more for something to do than anything else. The grandfather clock struck eleven times. Just as the vibration from the last dong ended, Jed's cell phone rang.

"Tyree here."

"Yeah, the package is clean, but it's not something you want to let the lady see," Rafe said.

"I understand. I'll open the gates and be waiting on the veranda for you."

"Take a look at the pictures for yourself first, then tell her what they are, if you have to. But I'm telling you-do not let her see them."

Jed's gut tightened.

"I'm going to open the gates and disarm the security system while I go outside on the veranda and take the package," Jed told Grace. "You stay in here. And you need to know now that you aren't going to see what's inside your gift package."

"What is it?"

"Just do as I ask, will you? Stay in the house and let me handle this." She nodded. Damn, that was too easy, Jed thought. She'd agreed too quickly. "Go back upstairs, will you?"

"I'd rather wait here." She didn't budge from the armchair.

Jed got up and walked over to the controls hidden in a panel behind the staircase, punched in the code to deactivate the security system, then used another code to open the massive wrought-iron gates. When he opened the front door, he glanced over his shoulder to check on Grace. She didn't move or even look at him. He closed the front door behind him and waited for Rafe. In just a few minutes, the rental car Rafe was using pulled up in the circular drive. Jed went down the steps to meet his fellow Dundee agent. Rafe got out of the car and joined Jed. He held out a large manila envelope. Jed took the envelope, loosened the clasp, then removed the contents. Photographs. Police shots from the accident scene. A few of the shots were particularly gruesome and Jed wondered what sicko cop had taken them. Closeups of Dean Beaumont and Byram Sheffield, both dead and bloody. And a shot of an unconscious Grace. More photos. Some taken at the funerals. And one of Grace in her hospital room. Rage burned through Jed's veins.

Yeah, this was definitely Booth Fortier's handwork. It had his fingerprints all over it.

Jed shook his head. "This was a mild warning for Grace. The next one will be far worse."

Just as Jed started to slip the photos back into the envelope, intending to give them to Rafe, Grace came running out of the house and directly toward them.

"Hell," Jed cursed under his breath. He shoved the photos into the envelope and held them out to Rafe.

"Wait," Grace called. "Whatever it is, I want to see it."

"No, you don't," Jed told her and handed the envelope to Rafe.

She marched straight to them, planted herself between them and held out her hand. "Give me the envelope."

Rafe grunted. "Ma'am, you really don't-"

"Give them to her," Jed said.

Rafe hesitated for a couple of seconds, then gave Grace the envelope. "Call if you need anything else," he told Jed, then got back in the rental car and drove off.

Grace stared at the envelope for a couple of minutes before slipping the photos out and looking at them, one by one, studying them carefully. Watching her for a reaction, he waited for her to say something, but she said nothing. After she finished with the lot, she turned away from Jed and started walking back toward the house, the envelope loosely clutched in her hand.

"Grace?"

One by one, the photos dropped from her hand and floated onto the driveway, as if she were scattering rose petals. The envelope sailed downward and landed at Jed's feet. He ignored them as he followed Grace. When she reached the steps, she faltered. Damn! Was she going to faint?

Jed rushed toward her just as she staggered, her feet searching for the first step. When he put his arm around her waist to support her shivering body, she pivoted slowly around and laid her head on his chest. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He pulled her into his arms and held her while she wept.