Grace Under Fire

Chapter 1

Elsa Leone placed the morning mail on the ornate Jacobean desk, then hurried into the adjoining kitchenette to prepare her employer's morning beverage, a rich cinnamon-flavored cappuccino. She loved her job as the personal assistant to the owner and CEO of Sheffield Media, Inc. The pay was above average for such a position, the personal benefits were excellent and her working relationship with Grace Beaumont couldn't be better. Elsa had worked for the company the past ten years, as a receptionist for seven of those years; but during that time she had been attending night classes at St. Camille Junior College, hoping to improve her chances for a promotion. Then miraculously three years ago when Grace had taken charge of her father's media empire, she had looked within the company for a replacement for her father's middle-aged assistant who had retired shortly after Byram Sheffield's death four years ago.

Elsa worked busily, wanting everything to be perfect when Grace arrived. Although professionally and socially they were worlds apart, Grace insisted Elsa call her by her given name. Being allowed that privilege, along with receiving fair and courteous treatment, Elsa had grown to not only admire her boss, but to care for her. She would even go so far as to say they were good friends.

"She's not here?" Hudson Prentice, the senior vice-president of Sheffield Media, Inc. stood in the open doorway.

"No, sir." Elsa glanced at the carved mahogany antique wall clock. "It's five till."

"So it is. And our Grace is seldom early and never late."

"Yes, sir."

"Buzz me when she arrives. I've made reservations for Dumon's for lunch and I don't want her making other plans." Hudson stared quizzically at Elsa. "She doesn't have a prior lunch date, does she?"

Elsa liked Hudson Prentice well enough, but thought him a bit of a stuffed shirt. Somewhere in his late thirties, with brown eyes, brown hair and of medium build, he was a rather nondescript-looking man, despite his expensive suits, weekly manicures and salon-styled hair.

"Not that I know of, Mr. Prentice, but she doesn't always inform me when she has a personal lunch date."

Lifting his brows, he stared at her, contradiction in his eyes. "Grace doesn't have lunch dates unless you count her outings with that silly cousin of hers." When Elsa didn't respond, he asked, "There isn't someone that I don't know about, is there?" He shook his head. "No, of course not. She would have told me."

"I'm sure she would have, sir."

Hudson Prentice wanted Grace. Everyone who worked for Sheffield Media, Inc. knew it. Elsa smiled. Probably two-thirds of La Durantaye Parish knew it. The poor man had done everything but get down on one knee and beg Grace to marry him, but she gave the impression of being oblivious to his unrequited love. Elsa figured it was easier for Grace that way. She was less likely to hurt Mr. Prentice's feelings if she feigned ignorance.

Of course, she wasn't sure which the man loved more-Grace or her money. The curse of every wealthy woman.

Mr. Prentice backed out of the doorway. "Yes… well… buzz me when she-"

"Good morning." Grace Beaumont arrived at precisely one minute till nine, and looking like a breath of springtime in her white linen suit and pale yellow blouse. Grace was a classically beautiful woman, with natural blond hair and vivid blue eyes. Tall and slender, with an aura of elegance and fine breeding, she exuded cool sophistication.

Hudson turned and smiled. "Don't you look lovely this morning."

"Good morning, Grace." Elsa brought the cappuccino over to Grace's desk and placed the mug on a monogrammed earthenware coaster.

Grace entered her office, put her dark-green leather briefcase on the right side of her desk, then pulled out her large, hunter-green, tufted-leather swivel chair and picked up her coffee cup.

Hudson Prentice hovered in the doorway. Grace glanced at him.

"Is there something you need?" Grace asked pleasantly.

He cleared his throat. "I've made reservations for us at Dumon's for lunch."

"Is there a special occasion I don't know about?"

"Have you actually forgotten?"

"Forgotten what?"

"This is your anniversary," he said.

She looked at him, a puzzled expression on her face.

He sighed dramatically. "Three years ago today you took over the reins of Sheffield Media, Inc."

"Oh." Grace offered him a wavering smile. "How sweet of you to remember. Then, yes, of course, a celebratory lunch would be nice. We'll include Elsa, of course."

Hudson Prentice looked as if he'd been slapped. Elsa couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He'd wanted an intimate lunch for two, and any third party would alter his well-made plans.

"No, really, I don't want to intrude," Elsa said.

"Nonsense," Grace insisted. "She won't be intruding, will she, Hudson? After all, I couldn't manage without the two of you. You're both indispensable to me and to Sheffield Media."

"Yes. Certainly, Elsa, you must join us." Hudson backed out of the office again, like a commoner respectfully easing away from a queen. "I'll call Dumon's and make that lunch for three."

"Make it for four," Grace told him.

He stopped abruptly and looked directly at her. "For four?"

"Yes, Joy mentioned stopping by to pick me up for lunch today. She phoned last night. She's been to New Orleans on a shopping spree and is dying to tell me all about it."

He swallowed, then nodded, a rather pitiful disappointment evident in his fading smile and sagging shoulders. "Lunch for four then."

Grace didn't even seem to notice when he left. She put the crystal glass mug to her lips and sipped the frothy cinnamon coffee.

"There seems to be quite a bit of mail this morning," Elsa said. "I've set aside an extra thirty minutes for you to take care of it before your appointment with Mr. Carruth."

The phone rang. On the second ring, Elsa lifted the receiver. "Ms. Beaumont's office. Elsa Leone speaking."

"This is Orson Sidney down in Bayou Cuvier. We've got us a big problem here at WBCL. Our biggest advertiser is threatening to walk. They got all upset over a political ad that we started running a couple of days ago. All the sweet-talking and ass kissing I've done hasn't calmed them down. I think it's something Ms. Beaumont is going to have to handle."

Grace flipped through the assortment of envelopes stacked on the blotter in the center of her desk.

"Oh, dear," Elsa said. "Hold one moment, Mr. Sidney."

Grace glanced at Elsa. "Orson Sidney?"

"Yes, ma'am. It seems he has a problem with an advertiser. I'm afraid the mail will have to wait until later." Elsa handed her the telephone. "This will probably take awhile."

Grace shoved the morning mail aside, took the phone from Elsa and said, "Good morning, Orson, I hear we have a problem."

Elsa excused herself quietly, closing the door behind her as she left Grace's office and went into her own. Grace would probably be tied up on the phone for the next couple of hours-maybe longer. But in the end, she would find a compromise that would suit everyone. The woman had a knack for diplomacy. One might say a true gift. Of course it didn't hurt that she was beautiful, charming, intelligent and had become quite business-savvy in the past three years.

Elsa had watched the transformation and was sometimes awestruck by Grace's abilities. Her being an astute businesswoman had been a trait she'd come by honestly. After all, her father had created an empire for himself that spread out all over Louisiana, and parts of Mississippi, Arkansas and Texas. Elsa hadn't really known Grace before Mr. Sheffield's death, but she'd seen her a few times in person and numerous times in the society pages of the St. Camille Herald. Everybody in La Durantaye Parish knew who Grace Sheffield Beaumont was. The daughter of one of the richest men in the South and the wife of the state's attorney general, Dean Beaumont. Both from prestigious old-money families, they'd been called the golden couple. Dean and Grace Beaumont had had it all. And in the tragic events of one summer night almost four years ago, they had lost it all.

Not once in the three years Elsa had worked at Grace's side, day in and day out, had Grace ever mentioned the accident or the fact rumors abounded afterward that Grace had suffered a nervous breakdown. Whether the rumors were true or not, Grace showed no signs of whatever torment she'd suffered. She was, at least outwardly, highly competent, unemotional and always in control. But Elsa suspected that beneath that dispassionately calm, serene exterior, she was still in mourning.

Jed Tyree had never seen Dundee 's office manager Daisy Holbrook as anything less than calm, skillful and confident. But today, as the old saying goes, she was running around like a chicken with her head chopped off. Of course, even Dundee 's CEO, Sawyer McNamara, seemed a little nervous. No, on second thought, nervous was the wrong word to ever describe the super-cool former federal agent. Sawyer was anxious. Anxious that he, the office staff and the agents he'd been able to round up on short notice would make a favorable impression on the owner of the agency, Sam Dundee. Having been hired by former Dundee 's CEO, Ellen Denby, Jed had never met Sam, but he'd heard all about him. Hell, the guy was legendary around here.

"Mr. Tyree, didn't you get the memo about dressing appropriately today?" Daisy gave him a disapproving glance as he walked by. "Mr. McNamara requested suits and ties."

"I don't own a suit," Jed told her.

"Then at least go put on a tie."

Always Ms. Efficiency, Jed thought. And never shy about stating her opinion, but usually in a more diplomatic manner. Her sharp tone expressed her nervousness.

Jed reached out, put his hands on Daisy's plump shoulders to bring her to a standstill. "Slow down, take several deep breaths and-"

"Is my craziness showing?" Daisy laughed. "It's just that I know how important it is to Mr. McNamara that Mr. Dundee's visit comes off without a hitch. After all, it is the first time Mr. Dundee has come to Atlanta since Mr. McNamara became CEO."

Jed patted Daisy's shoulders. "I don't own a tie, but I'll see if I can borrow one from Frank or Vic."

"Thank you." Daisy released a sigh.

Jed meandered down the hallway until he came to Frank Latimer's office. Frank was a big guy, tall and muscular, but trim. He was wearing a suit today, as usual; and as usual he looked like he'd slept in it. Frank had the unkempt appearance of TV's Detective Columbo and was every bit as shrewd.

Jed knocked on the open door. Frank glanced up from where he sat behind his desk.

"Come on in."

"You look like you have a fresh haircut," Jed said. "And you even shaved."

"We're supposed to look our best," Frank replied in his thick South Carolina accent. "The big man's on his way in from the airport."

"Yeah, so I hear." Jed glanced at Frank's cheap blue-and-red striped tie, and wondered where the guy bought his clothes. "You wouldn't happen to have an extra tie, would you?"

"I've got two more at home."

"Ms. Efficiency just told me to find myself a tie."

"From the way she's been acting this morning, I'd say Daisy missed her calling. She should have been an army drill sergeant."

Jed chuckled. "So, who around here might have a tie?"

"Other than Mr. Beau Brummell himself?"

"Yeah, Sawyer probably keeps a dozen in his office."

"If Dom were here, he might have one." Frank nodded toward the office next to his. "Try asking Vic."

"I thought Vic was still in Miami."

"Got in late last night and Sawyer requested his presence in the office today."

"Bet he's not too happy about that."

"About as happy as I would have been."

Jed grinned, then headed next door. He found Vic Noble standing by the windows overlooking the street below.

"Got a tie I can borrow?" Jed asked.

"Sorry, I didn't bring a spare." The tall, lanky former CIA operative turned to face Jed. "Have you ever met Dundee?"

"Nope."

"Ellen hired you, didn't she?"

Jed nodded. "And you came on board right before she retired."

"Yeah. I believe Rafe Devlin was the first agent Sawyer hired."

"Never thought I'd say this, but I sure as hell wish I had Devlin's assignment. Overseeing the security for a cotillion ball in Savannah seems preferable to putting on a tie and showing off to the big boss to make Sawyer look good."

"Ah-hem." Standing in the doorway, Sawyer McNamara cleared his throat. The new CEO of Dundee's looked like a damn model straight off the cover of GQ. Tall, physically fit and almost a pretty boy. Almost, but not quite. There was always an expression in McNamara's eyes that issued a warning: Dangerous. Tread lightly. "Heard you were looking for a tie." He held out a beige silk tie that would coordinate perfectly with the long-sleeved brown shirt and brown slacks Jed wore.

"Should I apologize now or should I just wait for my punishment to come later?" Jed asked.

Sawyer's lips twitched, but he didn't smile.

Lucie Evans came up beside Sawyer, who glanced at her briefly, frowned and then replied, "No need to apologize, Tyree. I do want the entire staff, including all agents present today, to look and act like professionals… because I want Sam Dundee to know when he chose me to replace Ellen Denby, he made the right choice."

Lucie expressed herself with a mocking frown and an odd, rumbling groan. Jed couldn't suppress a chuckle. Everybody at Dundee 's knew about the ongoing feud between Sawyer and Lucie, both former FBI agents, who mixed like oil and water. What surprised everyone was the fact that Sawyer didn't ask for Lucie's resignation once he became the head honcho. Then of course, maybe he had. And maybe Lucie-being the stubborn, tenacious Lucie they all knew and loved-had told Sawyer to go… well, to go take a flying leap.

"What is that you're wearing?" Sawyer asked Lucie as he surveyed her from head to toe. Disapprovingly.

"It's a dress."

"Yes, so it is. Don't you think a suit would have been more appropriate?"

"Look, your royal high-muckety-muck, I came in today-on my off day-because you asked me to. I'm attending an afternoon wedding in Smyrna and I won't have time to go home and change."

The six-foot redhead was built like an Amazon. No model-thin, fragile creature was their Lucie. She filled out to perfection the hot-pink and purple floral dress that hugged her every luscious curve. "I think you look lovely," Jed said.

"So do I. You look like a flower garden," Frank added.

"Why, thank you, gentlemen." She smiled at Jed and Frank, then gave Sawyer an eat-dirt-and-die glare.

Daisy came flying down the hall. "They just rang from downstairs. Mr. Dundee has arrived. He's in the elevator."

Jed draped Sawyer's expensive beige silk tie around his neck, tied it quickly and followed the others down the hallway toward the elevators. His mind flashed back to when he'd been a boy and had watched while his uncle Booth inspected his household staff and personal bodyguards. This little show here today to impress Sam Dundee was a minor skirmish compared to the battle Booth Fortier's underlings had fought on a daily basis to keep their boss content. Sawyer McNamara wanted to impress his employer because he admired and respected the man, because to Sawyer doing a good job was a matter of honor. Booth's employees had sought to please him out of fear. No one Jed had ever known could put the fear of God into a person faster than the notorious godfather of the Louisiana Mafia, a man to whom killing came as naturally as breathing.

Frank Latimer jabbed Jed in the ribs, bringing him instantly back to the present moment. A huge, blond man with the build of a football linebacker stood in front of him, his big hand held out in greeting.

"Sam, I want you to meet Jed Tyree," Sawyer said. "He became a Dundee 's agent last year. We're lucky to have him. He's former Delta Force."

"Did you know Hunter Whitelaw?" Dundee asked as he took Jed's hand in a firm, friendly exchange. "He was former Delta Force."

"Yes, sir. I served under him for about a year before he retired. He's the one who recommended me for my job with Dundee 's."

"Fine man. Hated to lose him, but he made the same choice I did. He found a less dangerous type of work when he got married."

One by one Sawyer introduced the office staff and the agents who were present, then the big boss man invited everyone to lunch. He had reserved a private room at Peaches, a local downtown bar and grill that always hosted the crème-de-la-crème of private security agents whenever Sam Dundee was in town.

Grace returned from a festive lunch at Dumon's with a slight buzz. She'd indulged in three margaritas, while she'd done her best to put on a happy face for the others. For Hudson in particular. The dear, sweet man had thought it only appropriate to celebrate the three-year anniversary of her assuming the CEO role at Sheffield Media, Inc. What had never entered his mind was the fact that the only reason she had taken over was that her father had died. And her cousin Joy, who seldom had a serious thought in her head, had rattled on and on about May Beth Chapin's darling twins… little four-year-old boys. Not once had Joy considered the fact that discussing children, especially children who were the same age Emma Lynn would have been if Grace hadn't lost her child before she'd had a chance to live, might not be all that pleasant for Grace. But she suspected that Elsa understood how difficult it had been for her to smile and chitchat. And smile. And smile. And smile. Her young assistant seemed wise beyond her twenty-eight years, which made Grace wonder if some tragedy in her life had gifted her with such sage perception.

Grace slammed the office door behind her, then marched to her desk. Staring down at the stack of mail she'd never gotten a chance to look over this morning, her vision blurred momentarily. Oh, God, why had she drunk that third margarita? And why had she agreed to the celebratory lunch in the first place? She should have known that the memories would return like a tidal wave, washing over her, bringing with them the melancholy she continuously battled.

"You did it because you didn't want to disappoint Hudson," she said aloud as she plopped down in her swivel chair. Everyone, including Hudson himself, had expected the board to name him as CEO of Sheffield Media, Inc. After her father's untimely death, Hudson had run the company for ten months, handling everything with his customary competence. And no one, least of all Hudson, had dreamed that Byram Sheffield's socialite daughter would use her power as the major stockholder to claim the position her father had held during his lifetime.

No one had understood why she wanted the demanding job; and she had not felt compelled to explain her reasons. What could she have said? I desperately need something to do, something that will require most of my time and attention, something that will keep me from going stark, raving mad. For nine months after she had buried her husband, her father and her stillborn child who had existed inside her body for over five months, she had lived in limbo, little more than a zombie who went through the motions of living. She had cried until there were no more tears. She had ranted and raved and vented her anger. And she had gone through months of grief therapy with the best psychologist in the state. After all, money was no object. She was one of the wealthiest women in the South. She was Grace Sheffield Beaumont, who had once been the luckiest woman in the world.

Emotion lodged in Grace's throat. Damn those margaritas! She usually had complete control over her feelings, a hard lesson learned from necessity. For self-protection. To keep from going insane. But liquor had always affected her strangely, making her weepy and silly and- Damn the margaritas. Damn Hudson for celebrating her three-year anniversary as CEO. And damn Joy for talking so cheerfully about another woman's beautiful, healthy and very much alive four-year-olds.

Before she realized what she was doing, Grace swiped her hand across the top of her desk and sent the stack of unread mail sailing off the edge. Damn Sheffield Media, Inc. Her job was supposed to keep her so busy and wear her out so completely that she never had time to think about the past, to remember what had been and what would never be. It had been almost four years since her world had been turned topsy-turvy. Four long, lonely years where each day was much like the day before, a routine of mundane habits-eating, sleeping, bathing, working. Trying to make it through another night in a house filled with memories. Some had thought she should leave Belle Foret, buy a condo in town or even move the headquarters for her father's company to Baton Rouge or New Orleans. But she couldn't leave her family's ancestral home. It was the only thing she had left that she truly loved. Everything else had been lost that night nearly four years ago when a hit-and-run driver had crashed into their car and sent it careening over a steep embankment.

Don't do this to yourself. Self pity serves no purpose. Get on with what you have to do.

Grace scooted back her chair, stood and then bent down to pick up the scattered mail. Not bothering to neatly arrange the array of envelopes, she dumped them on her desk and began methodically going through them, sorting them into let-Elsa-handle, consult with Hudson, and take-care-of-yourself stacks.

Halfway through the chore that should have been done first thing this morning, she glanced at the return address on the envelope she held. New Iberia. Who did she know there? They had no business connections to that city. She studied the plain white envelope. No name above the return address. Elsa must have assumed the letter was personal.

Grace removed the single page of eight-by-eleven paper and unfolded it. Not handwritten. Typed. No signature. An odd sensation shuddered through her. What was that old saying? Ah, yes-she felt as if someone had just walked over her grave.

She read the letter all the way through once, but couldn't comprehend what she'd read. Then she read it again.

Mrs. Beaumont, I believe you should know that the accident that killed your husband and father was no accident at all, but a coldblooded, premeditated plot to destroy your entire family. Your husband had uncovered damaging information about our governor, Lew Miller, and was investigating the connection between Governor Miller and organized crime in Louisiana . Your husband believed our esteemed governor was in bed with Southern Mafia kingpin Booth Fortier. He was very close to finding the evidence he needed, and your father was set to go public with this evidence, using Sheffield Media's vast television, radio and newspaper resources in the state. The reason the hit-and-run driver who caused your husband to wreck his car that night was never found is because Fortier had the man executed so he could never tell anyone what happened. But I know. And my conscience will not allow me to keep silent any longer.

Grace held the letter in her trembling hand. Who could have sent her such a horrible letter? Who would be cruel enough to torment her with some fantastic story about the governor, a Mafia boss and her husband? Why would anyone tell her such wicked lies?

She balled her hand into a fist, crumpling the letter in the process. Lies. All lies. The car wreck had been a horrible accident. The highway patrol had believed some out-of-control drunk had smashed into them on River Road and just kept on going.

But wasn't it odd that they never found the drunk? They never even found the car the man had been driving. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the earth.

Fortier had the man executed so he could never tell anyone what happened.

It was a lie. Every word in the letter was a lie! It couldn't be true. It couldn't be. Lies. Lies. All lies.

But what if it wasn't a lie? What if it was the truth?