Grace Under Fire

Chapter 13

Charmaine pushed the food around on her plate, the prime rib unappetizing. Booth preferred his meat rare and everyone was forced to eat it the way he liked it or not eat at all. As she gazed at the thinly sliced, pink beef, surrounded by bloody juice, she barely controlled the overwhelming urge to vomit. Even if she were hungry, she'd find it difficult to chew with a swollen lip and bruised jaw. No one had mentioned her bruises, not even Ronnie; but they hadn't been alone all day. Either Booth or Curt or Aric had been around since she'd ventured from her room a little after two this afternoon.

Booth and Curt were laughing about something. Charmaine hadn't been paying attention, had tuned out their conversation. A trick she'd learned years ago. Sit there, look as pretty as possible, smile occasionally and always respond instantly when Booth spoke to her. A few times during the course of the meal, she'd stolen a quick glance at Ronnie, who remained silent unless responding to Booth. She liked that about Ronnie, that he was a man of few words. The strong, silent type. She loved Ronnie with all her heart, but she wasn't sure how much she could trust him. If it came down to the nitty-gritty, would he remain faithful to Booth? She wanted to tell Ronnie about her fears for Jaron, but what if Ronnie went to Booth?

Her brother had left the house early this morning and hadn't returned. She knew where he'd gone and what he'd intended doing. If he'd been successful, if his scheme had worked, why wasn't he home now? Her imagination had gone wild, producing several vividly gruesome scenarios. What if at the exchange site, the police had been waiting? Jaron could be in jail right now. If he was, did Booth know? And on the other hand, what if Booth had suspected Jaron? If that was the case, then Jaron was dead.

Charmaine barely managed to stifle a frightened whimper. Fear for Jaron's life, fear for her own consumed her thoughts. If Booth had ordered Jaron killed, then it was only a matter of time before he'd come to the conclusion that she had been involved in Jaron's plot. And then he would kill her, too-or worse. She knew only too well what he was capable of, knew what he'd done to his own sister.

Oh, God, Jaron, I begged you not to do it. You can't betray Booth and get away with it. Somehow, some way, he always knows… and he always takes revenge.

"What seems to be wrong, my dear?" Booth looked pointedly at Charmaine. "You don't look well."

"I-I'm afraid I don't feel well." Tears misted her eyes. Don't you dare cry, she told herself. Show him any weakness and he'll use it against you. "May I please be excused?"

"I'd be glad to see Mrs. Fortier to her room." Ronnie was halfway out of his chair when Booth motioned for him to sit down. He sat.

"You're excused." Booth's black gaze studied her, as if waiting for her to make a misstep where he could pounce on any small error. "You can make it to your room alone, can't you? There's no need to ruin Ronnie's meal just because you aren't feeling sociable this evening."

"I'll be quite all right alone." She laid her linen napkin on the table, shoved back her chair and stood. Although she was sore from Booth's brutal beating the night before and every movement was painful, she pretended otherwise.

When she reached the doorway leading from the dining room into the hall, she looked back at Booth and said, "When Jaron comes in, please, ask him to stop by my room and say good-night."

Booth cut a huge hunk of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. Bloody juice dripped down on either side. He dabbed his chin with his napkin, then chewed slowly. After he swallowed, he looked at her and grinned. Her heart sank.

"Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you, Jaron won't be home tonight," Booth said.

Stay calm. Don't overreact, she warned herself. "Why is that?"

"I sent Charlie to join Jaron this morning. They're attending to some important business for me. I don't expect either of them back for a while."

Charmaine swallowed, trying to control her distress. It was all she could do not to look at Ronnie, not to scream aloud that Booth had probably sent Charlie to kill Jaron.

Without another word, she turned and walked away. She almost made it to her bedroom before the tears overcame her. The minute she got behind closed doors, she threw herself across the bed and muffled her cries in a pillow.

She knew in her heart that Jaron was dead. It was only a matter of time before his body would show up somewhere and Booth would lay the blame on someone else.

Rafe wasn't in the habit of sticking his nose into other people's affairs, but he knew what it was like to be a kid in trouble, going down the wrong path, headed straight for a life of crime. Anybody who knew him would tell you that Rafe Devlin was a bad-ass, a guy who didn't take any guff from anybody, a man who minded his own business and expected others to do the same. But a few of his friends were aware of another side to Rafe and even suspected his one weakness. His Achilles' heel was kids in trouble. Looking back now, he realized that if Detective Roy Dutton of the Knoxville PD hadn't interceded in his life when he was eighteen, he'd probably be in the pen by now. Either that or dead.

Before hunting down Troy Leone in the apartment he shared with his twenty-six-year-old waitress girlfriend, Rafe had put in a call to Sawyer McNamara to okay it with him. After all, Rafe was on an assignment and Dundee 's wouldn't look kindly on him doing anything that screwed up his undercover work in St. Camille. And the Feds would hang him out to dry if he messed up their well-laid plans.

He wasn't sure why he felt compelled to have a talk with a boy he didn't even know. Hell, admit it, man, he told himself. It's because of the sister. Elsa Leone. And it really had nothing to do with the fact that he was attracted to the woman. After all, he'd probably never see her again. But knowing she had practically risked her life just to talk to her little brother, to try to persuade him his new high-paying job was a first-class ticket to the world of organized crime, reminded him of Sandy. His big sister had done her level best to help him, but all he'd given her was grief. God, what he'd give to be able to do that relationship all over again. But he'd never have the chance. He'd lost his only sibling just as he'd begun turning his life around.

Rafe parked two blocks away and strode through the rundown neighborhood on the east end of town. The citizenry was a mixture of black, white and Hispanic. 1212 East 7th Street was a two-story house, probably at least seventy-five years old, with peeling white paint on the exterior and a few cracked windows. From the row of mailboxes near the front entrance, Rafe surmised there were six apartments. Damn small apartments would be his guess just from looking at the building. The minute he entered the foyer, he smelled cabbage cooking, a none-too-pleasant odor. He checked the numbers on the three downstairs apartment doors. 121 2-E was, as he'd figured, upstairs. As he made his way up the rickety, scuffed staircase, he heard the loud shouts of a couple fighting in one of the downstairs apartments.

1212-E was on the left. Rafe raised his hand and knocked loudly several times. A long-haired, barefoot boy in tattered jeans and no shirt came to the door.

"Yeah, what do you want?" The kid glowered at Rafe.

"Troy Leone?"

Giving Rafe his I'm-a-tough-guy glare, Troy said, "Who wants to know?"

There was only one language a cocky, smart-mouthed kid like this knew. Rafe punched Troy in the middle of his chest, pushing him backward as Rafe moved into the apartment and, using his foot, slammed the door shut behind him.

"Hey, man, what's this all about?" Troy took a defensive stance. One hand slid into the pocket of his jeans.

"If you've got a knife, let it stay in your pocket," Rafe advised. He whipped the Beretta 8000 Cougar from its resting place beneath his belt, shoved Troy up against the wall and rammed the nose of the pistol under the boy's chin. "You've got a nosy sister, Leone. The boss doesn't like nosy women. She's gonna cause you trouble."

"I'm not responsible for my sister. I've told her to stay out of my life, but she's been like a mama to me, so she won't leave me alone."

"There's no place for mama's boys in our organization."

"I ain't no mama's boy."

"You willing to prove it?" Rafe eased the gun away from Troy 's face, but kept it in his hand.

Troy puffed out his skinny chest. "Yeah, I'm willing. Aren't I a good worker? Just ask Mr. Poarch."

"Mr. Poarch isn't involved in this. I'm bringing you word from Booth Fortier himself."

Troy 's eyes widened in shock, and if Rafe interpreted his expression correctly, a healthy dose of fear. "The Booth Fortier."

"That's right. Mr. Poarch didn't tell you who his boss was, did he?"

"Hey, look, my sister isn't involved in any of this. I don't want Mr. Fortier to go after her or nothing. Okay?"

There might be hope for this kid, Rafe figured. He was scared at the thought of working for Fortier and he still cared about his sister.

"Mr. Fortier has a little job for you to do. If you're interested, it'll mean some extra cash," Rafe said. "But if it's not your thing, then we need to know now so we can terminate your employment."

"What-what sort of job?"

"Have you ever killed anybody?"

Troy Leone turned chalk-white. "Nah." He shook his head.

Rafe figured the kid was shaking like a leaf inside.

"If you're interested in being part of the organization, you've got to be capable of following any order you're given. Now's the time for us-" Rafe pointed his Beretta at Troy "-and you to decide if you're in or out."

"And if I'm out?"

"As long as you keep your mouth shut, then we're square. You go your way and don't look back." Rafe gave him a few minutes to consider his only two options. "Well, kid, what's it gonna be?"

"I-I'm not sure I could kill somebody."

"Okay." Rafe put away his gun, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope that held five hundred dollars in crisp, straight-from-the-bank, hundred-dollar bills. This wasn't the first time he'd used his own money to help out a kid in trouble. "Consider this severance pay. And don't show up at the warehouse ever again."

"And that's it? You'll leave my sister alone? And you won't come after me?"

"That's it. Keep your nose clean, kid." Rafe saluted Troy, then left him standing there with his mouth gaping open and a stunned look on his face.

Rafe's con wouldn't have worked with a tougher, meaner kid. Making a boy decide immediately whether he was willing to kill, willing to become a murderer, separated the redeemable from the hopeless. Once a boy had no qualms about murder, he was usually lost forever. Rafe was glad that Troy still had a conscience, not only for Troy 's sake, but for Elsa Leone's sake.

Getting anything accomplished at the office this afternoon had been impossible. Every time Grace had heard a phone ring, she'd tensed. Why hadn't he called back? She knew what Jed thought-that the man had been found out and silenced. After all, if he was still alive, why hadn't he shown up at the designated time and place? After hours of waiting, trying desperately to hold on to the least bit of hope that the opportunity to get her hands on documented proof against Booth Fortier wasn't lost to her forever, she'd finally given up and let Jed drive her home.

They had eaten a late supper of tossed salads and cold cuts, but she hadn't had much appetite. The adrenaline rush she'd experienced at Terrebonne Park had depleted her energy and left her stomach tied in knots. After nibbling at her food, and assuring Laverna that everything was delicious, all she'd wanted to do was take a long soak in her bathtub and go to sleep.

Jed had hovered over her, as if he thought she was so fragile that the day's disappointment might shatter her. He had offered her his strength, but she'd turned him away. She didn't dare chance a repeat of last night's intimacy. Not that the idea of making love with Jed didn't appeal to her-it did. But she'd never been a woman for casual affairs, for going-nowhere relationships. Until Jed, she'd never had sex without being in love, and something told her that, given half a chance, she'd fall head over heels for her big, rugged bodyguard.

Jed Tyree wasn't her type, of course. He was a little too rough around the edges. Marty Austin had been a sweet man, gentle and easygoing. Although not worldly-wise, he'd been schooled in good manners and was, to his very core, a gentleman. Dean had possessed many of her father's personality traits-strong, dependable, sophisticated, aggressive. No rough edges. And her father had adored him almost as much as she had.

What would Daddy think of Jed? she wondered. Oddly enough Grace believed her father would have liked Jed because Jed wouldn't have been the least bit intimidated by Byram Sheffield.

Jed… Jed… Why is it that if you're Mr. Wrong, being in your arms feels so right?

Grace sat at her dressing table in her large, luxurious bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Just thinking about Jed affected her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. Her nipples stood at attention. And a sexual ache pulsed between her thighs. Her body would never forget being loved so thoroughly. But not as thoroughly as she and Jed had wanted.

Stop thinking about him! She snatched up the hair dryer, turned it on, tossed her long hair over her head and let the hot air style her natural waves. The only thing she should have on her mind was getting justice for Dean and her father. Her first priority-her only priority-should be proving the connection between Fortier and Miller. She couldn't allow her attraction to Jed to sidetrack her.

Once she finished with her hair, she went into her massive walk-in closet and chose a pair of pink silk pajamas, with shorts instead of pants. She slid her feet into matching slippers and tossed the matching robe over her arm. When she neared her four-poster bed, she halted and stared at the turned-down covers. Her mind revisited last night's events and the early hours of this morning… and all she could see was a mass of tangled sheets and Jed Tyree's big naked body. The sound of his voice, deep and sultry, echoed in her ears. The erotic phrases he'd whispered to her. The satisfied groans and moans that had excited her beyond all reason.

If she wanted him, all she had to do was walk across the hall and knock on his door. If she wanted him? Mercy!

Stop this right now, she told herself. Go to bed, go to sleep and tomorrow you'll return to square one with the investigation and back to a friendly business relationship with Jed.

Grace crawled into bed, turned off the light and closed her eyes. Images of Jed flickered through her mind. Her eyelids popped open. Damn! She punched her pillows, flopped over and peered through the windowpanes at the slice of moon high in the dark sky.

She kept telling herself to go to sleep, to think about work or about going with Joy on her next shopping spree to New Orleans. Her body relaxed. She inhaled and exhaled several times. See, that was easy, wasn't it? she told herself.

An hour later, Grace was not only still awake, but she had tossed and turned so much, she'd worn herself out. She had checked the digital lighted clock on her bedside table every five minutes. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop thinking about Jed Tyree.

Maybe a brandy or some sherry… or even warm milk-yuck-might soothe her into sleep. She'd try anything. Well, not anything, she amended. Just as she got out of bed and reached for her robe lying on the nearby armchair, the telephone rang. She stared at the antique-style, crystal contraption as if she'd never seen it before. Who was calling at nearly midnight? she asked herself. Please, let it be the man who has the Fortier/Miller documents. Let him explain why he didn't show up at Terrebonne Park today and make arrangements for another meeting.

On the fourth ring, Grace reached out and picked up the receiver. By the time she had it to her ear, her bedroom door swung open and Jed stormed in, the portable phone in his hand. Their gazes met for one brief moment.

Gripping the phone, Grace said, "Hello."

"How are you, Mrs. Beaumont?" The voice was disguised, so she wasn't sure who he was. Was it the man who had missed their appointment today? Or was it someone else? Maybe it was the same person who'd called to tell her about the gift waiting outside the gate last night.

"Who is this?"

"I'm the gift-giver."

Grace's jaw clenched; her gaze darted to Jed. He walked over to her and put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"What do you want?" Grace asked.

"I have another present for you."

If the next present was anything like the first one, she didn't want to see it. "I don't like your kind of gifts."

A rumbling chuckle vibrated through the telephone line. "Like it or not, I've delivered another little gift and you can find it in the same spot where your other gift was left."

"You can take your gift and-" The dial tone trilled in her ear.

Grace slammed down the receiver and turned to Jed. "Whatever it is, I don't want to see it."

"Good girl." He kissed her on the tip of her nose, then when she leaned toward him, he slipped his arms around her and held her. "I'll call in a couple of Dundee agents to pick up the package. There's no need for you to even go downstairs."

She lifted her head. "I don't want to see whatever it is, but I need to know what he's left this time. You can just tell me what it is. Okay?"

He grasped her shoulders. "I'll go in my room to make the necessary calls. I want you to stay here in your room."

"I don't think I can stay up here alone. I want to go downstairs with you, but I promise I'll stay in the house and not go outside to look at whatever sick present he's sent me."

Jed phoned Dom and Kate and explained the situation, then he waited downstairs in the foyer with Grace, just as they'd done last night. What he knew that Grace didn't know was that this gift would be much worse than the first one. Escalating cruelty was Booth's trademark style. Jed had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His gut instincts kept warning him about tonight's present, but he tried to shut out the all-too-real possibility.

"What's taking so long?" Grace asked.

"It's been only fifteen minutes."

Grace sighed. "This is driving me crazy."

Yeah, and seeing her like this-a bundle of nerves-was really getting to him. He didn't like this helpless feeling. Waiting. Not knowing. Certain and yet uncertain. The torment Booth was putting Grace through, the hell he'd made of her life four years ago, was another reason to hate his uncle.

"Why don't we go in the kitchen and fix you something to drink," Jed suggested. "If you've got some ice cream and cola, I'll make you a float. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like you're trying to take my mind off what's happening."

"I guess my strategy isn't working."

Grace smiled and his gut tightened. She was just a woman, like so many other women, but nothing more than her fragile smile turned him inside out.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a good man, Jed Tyree?"

"No, ma'am. You're the first."

"I can't believe that."

Jed grinned. "Well now, a few ladies have told me that I'm good," he said jokingly. "But they were referring to certain talents that-"

"That I've been privileged to experience firsthand." Her gaze locked with his. "Those ladies were right, you know."

Jed felt as if his racing heart was going to jump out of his chest. God help him, if Grace didn't have him tied in knots. How did a man react when a woman told him that it had been a privilege to be his lover?

"Ah, Blondie, you sure know how to make a man speechless."

"That'll be the day." Her smile widened, reaching her eyes and putting a sparkle in them.

He reached out to touch her, to skim the back of his hand over her cheek. His cell phone rang. His hand froze in mid-air, then he retrieved his phone from the clip-on holder and punched the On button.

"Tyree here."

"Jed, it's Dom. I'm sending Kate up to the house to stay with Ms. Beaumont. After she gets there, you'd better come on down here. I've already put a call in to the sheriff, so they should be here soon."

"Damn!"

"You already know, don't you," Dom said.

"I've got a pretty good idea."

"Fortier's gift to Ms. Beaumont weighs in at about one-seventy-five. He's got his hands and feet bound, hogtied actually, and he's got so many stab wounds in him that his body looks like a knife thrower was using him for target practice."

"I'll be on down as soon as Kate arrives."

"Yeah, you do that," Dom said. "And in the meantime, I'll get in touch with Sawyer and he can handle the Feds."

"Send Kate on up."

"Open the gate and she'll be on her way."

Jed punched the Off button and replaced his phone, then turned to Grace. "Kate Malone is coming to the house to stay with you. When she gets here, I'm going down to the gate to wait with Dom until the law arrives. He's already called the sheriff's department."

"The law?" Grace paled instantly. "It must be truly horrible if Mr. Shea has contacted the sheriff. What did Booth Fortier send me this time?"

Jed looked at her point-blank. "He sent you the body of the guy who betrayed him."