Grace Under Fire

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 deferential 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.

But before they were able to respond, a torrent of rain descended. Jed grabbed Grace and pulled her into a narrow alleyway that ran between the St. Camille Register and the renovated Little Theater Playhouse. A small covered alcove at the back entrance to the theater provided a modest barrier of protection from the isolated springtime rainstorm.

Jed's arm tightened around Grace, pressing her body against his. She clung to him, shivering, her hair and face damp from the rain, as she hazarded a glance up and into his eyes. While he stared at her, his body hardened. He'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life than this flawlessly lovely woman wrapped in his arms. Striking blue eyes looked at him, her gaze riveted to his. When her full pink lips parted ever so slightly, all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss her.

Another thunderbolt roared, followed by vicious lightning. When Grace trembled, he splayed his hand across the small of her back, then lowered his head to hers. She eased herself up on tiptoe as she prepared for the inevitable. Jed covered her mouth with his, instinct urging him to ravage her; but the moment their lips met, the very hunger of her response gentled his possession. When his tongue came into play, sliding inside her mouth, exploring, she accepted his invasion without protest. The kiss deepened and intensified. Whether it was his doing or hers, he wasn't sure. More than likely a mutual action. Within seconds all reasonable thoughts left his mind; desire ruled him completely.

She smelled of fresh rain, a natural feminine sweetness and an enticing floral perfume, ever so subtle. Her scent assailed his senses as did her taste. A hint of the sugary breath mint she'd eaten after their meal lingered on her tongue. Her mouth was soft, pliable and eager. Her tall, slender body melted into his, the feel of her arousing him unbearably.

God, he could devour her. Every luscious inch.

She whimpered, but at first he thought nothing of it, then when she ended the kiss and tried to break free, he realized she had come to her senses. She had, but he hadn't. He wanted more. So much more. Reluctantly, he accepted her withdrawal. He buried his face against her neck and ran his hands down to cup her buttocks. She made a sound something between a gasp and a sigh.

"Please, release me," she whispered, her voice throaty, wispy.

He dropped his arms to his sides and lifted his head, but his gaze met hers and held.

"If you don't stop looking at me like that, I'm going to kiss you again," he told her.

She glanced away, then crossed her arms and ran her hands up and down, from elbows to shoulders and back. From within the dry security of the alcove, she studied the downpour. He sensed she wanted to run from him.

"Should I apologize?" he asked.

As she continued watching the rain, she replied, "What happened just then was mutual, as much my fault as yours. So, no, there's no need to apologize. We just need to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Despite my admission of being a barbarian, you should know that I don't customarily drag women into alleyways and ravage them."

A tentative smile played at the corners of her mouth. "I haven't been kissed like that-there hasn't been anyone since my husband died. I haven't shared even a kiss with another man."

Jed sucked in his breath, then blew it out in a huff that expressed his surprise. She hadn't been with another man since her husband's death. She hadn't been kissed in nearly four years. No wonder she had responded to him with such passion.

"And here I thought I turned you on." Jed grinned.

Her smile blossomed when she looked at him again. "You did… you do. I guess you affect me the way you do other women after all. But that doesn't surprise you, does it? You have to know you're a very attractive man."

"Why thank you, ma'am."

"But regardless of that fact, I'm not interested in whatever you're offering, be it a one-night stand or a brief affair. Our relationship will remain a professional one. Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite clear, Ms. Beaumont."

Grace looked up at the sky. "I think the rain is tapering off a bit. Now would probably be a good time to see if we can make it back to the parking lot before another downpour sets in."

"Why don't you stay here, give me your keys and let me run back to get the car?"

"All right." She snapped open her small shoulder bag, dragged out the key chain and handed it to Jed. "It appears that even a barbarian can sometimes behave like a gentleman."

Acting purely on instinct, Jed kissed the tip of her small, pert nose; then before she could respond, he closed his hand over the keys in his palm and dashed off into the light springtime rain.

Jaron stood in the shadows and watched Charmaine, who wore a scanty bikini as she paraded around in front of Ronnie. She was trying to seduce the poor fool. He understood his sister as no one else did. She was hot for Ronnie Martine; and that meant she would stop at nothing until she trapped him. She must think herself in love or she wouldn't take such a huge risk. He wondered if they were already lovers, if they were taking advantage of Booth being away in New Orleans. If so, they'd better be careful and not let anyone else catch them mooning over each other. Not only was Booth's small squad of personal "bodyguards" devoted to him, so was the household staff. Some out of awe, others out of fear alone.

It would only be a matter of time, perhaps weeks, perhaps even days, before the love affair between his sister and Ronnie would become obvious to the most casual observer.

Jaron patted the envelope hidden away in his coat pocket. He had intended to drive over to New Iberia and mail the letter to Grace Beaumont this afternoon. But Booth had called and sent him out on a job with Curt Poarch-overseeing a daytime shipment at the riverfront warehouse. Now he was glad he hadn't gotten the chance to mail the letter. He didn't dare waste the time-the one or two days it would take for the letter to reach St. Camille. With Charmaine and Ronnie's relationship heating up, Jaron knew he had to accelerate his plan. He'd drive into New Iberia tonight, find a pay phone and call Grace Beaumont. With Booth in New Orleans until the end of the week, now was the perfect time to get the documents out of the safe and exchange them for the five million he was certain Grace would pay him.

Charmaine's sultry laughter echoed through the open French doors. Nola, the housekeeper, came to an abrupt halt on the patio, the stack of fresh towels for the pool house teetering in her arms. Charmaine stood on tiptoe and ran her long, coral nails across Ronnie's lips, over his chin and down his throat.

God in heaven, why wasn't Charmaine being more discreet? What if Nola telephoned Booth and told him that his wife was carrying on shamelessly with her bodyguard?

Jaron shook his head. No, don't worry, he told himself.

Nola is fond of Charmaine. She would never betray her, never jeopardize her life.

This time it had been Nola who'd seen Charmaine up to no good. But what about next time? Jaron removed his cigarette lighter from his pants pocket, pulled the letter from his coat and set the edge of the letter on fire, then let the damp evening breeze scatter the ashes.

On his way out of the house, he spotted Curt in the den and called to him. "I'm heading out for a while. Got a hot little number waiting for me."

Grinning broadly, Curt nodded. "Nothing like a hot piece of tail. I need to take a night off from the warehouse sometime soon and get me some. If this gal you're with tonight is any good, let me know."

"Sure thing." Jaron closed the door behind him, then halted on the front veranda. He took a deep breath. Sweat moistened his palms and dampened his shirt. He would call Grace Beaumont tonight to set things up and call her tomorrow with the particulars of the exchange, after she'd had time to get the money. Then day after tomorrow he'd have the five mil. Once he deposited the money in a bank account in the islands, he'd arrange for an "accident," so he could fake his and Charmaine's deaths. With a little luck, everything would come off without a hitch and by the weekend, he and Charmaine would be out of the country and free of Booth Fortier forever.

Grace didn't have much appetite for supper. She'd eaten a huge lunch at Beula's Crab Shack; and afterward she'd taken refuge with Jed in an alley alcove where they'd shared a kiss that had her lips still burning-and had set a fire that still raged inside her. As much as she'd tried to forget that kiss, as much as she'd tried to rationalize the way Jed had made her feel, she'd thought of little else all afternoon.

Shortly after Jed and she had shared the evening meal, she had excused herself and rushed off to the sanctuary of her room. Now was not the time to suddenly discover her sexuality had at long last come back to life. Jed was an employee, a trained investigator and bodyguard. He had been in her life for one day. One day! Never, in her thirty years, had she ever kissed a man she'd known for only one day; nor entertained thoughts of making love with him.

In high school and college she'd had a reputation for being a good girl. Grace Sheffield didn't put out. She'd been engaged-briefly-her senior year in college and had believed herself to be madly in love with Marty Austin. But Marty had resented Grace's loyalty to her father.

Marty hadn't understood the strong bond between her father and her, a bond that had strengthened greatly after Grace's mother's untimely death when Grace was sixteen. Elizabeth Ann Sheffield's death had devastated her husband and daughter. From that day forward, Grace tried to make her father happy, even if that meant bending over backward to please him. She had felt that it was the least she could do for her mother, a woman Grace had so adored. Marty had wanted her to marry him and for the two of them to forge a new life together as Peace Corp workers. Her father had said Marty was a worthless bum who'd never amount to anything. When the time came to choose between the life of privilege she knew as Byram Sheffield's daughter and the unknown and uncertain future as a poor man's wife, Grace had chosen the easy route. In retrospect, she realized she'd been more in love with love than with Marty.

Marty had been her first lover, her only lover, until she'd married Dean Beaumont, a brilliant lawyer, ten years her senior. She had admired and respected Dean. They had instantly formed a genuine rapport based on similarities in backgrounds, likes, beliefs and future plans. Her daddy had thought the world of Dean and had encouraged their relationship. She had loved Dean. He'd made her very happy. Their life together had been everything she'd hoped it would be. And then it had ended. Suddenly. Tragically.

She had never even considered the possibility that she might love again, that someday she would want another man. But rough-around-the-edges Jed Tyree had opened the door of possibility, had given her a glimpse of what it could be like to live again. Really live instead of simply exist.

The telephone rang. Grace ignored it. Laverna or Nolan would pick up on the fourth ring. Whoever it was, she didn't want to talk to them. What she needed was a long soak in the garden tub in her bathroom. A bubble bath. With some soft music, a few scented candles. Quiet time. Stress-reducing time. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with all her problems.

Just as Grace chose a pair of beige silk pajamas from her closet and headed toward the bathroom, a soft rapping on the door interrupted her plans.

"Miss Grace, there's a phone call for you," Nolan said from outside the closed door.

"Please, take a message," Grace replied. "I'll return their call tomorrow."

"Miss Grace, you might want to take this call. The man said if you didn't talk to him, you'd be sorry."

Grace's heart caught in her throat. It was him. The man who'd sent her the letter. Jed had told her that he might call, but she hadn't seriously believed he would.

"All right, Laverna, I'll take the call. And would you please tell Mr. Tyree about the call and ask him to come to my room immediately."

"Yes, ma'am."

Grace glanced at her hands. They were trembling. Her stomach fluttered and a tingling nausea churned inside her. She tossed the pair of pajamas on the foot of her massive four-poster bed, then hurried toward the nightstand where the antique-inspired French phone rested. Her hand hovered over the receiver for a split second, then she lifted it and mentally prepared herself for whatever was to come.

"Hello, this is Grace Beaumont."

"Listen very carefully," the voice said. "I won't repeat myself. I have documents that will prove Booth Fortier controls Governor Lew Miller. I want five million dollars in exchange for that proof."

"Five million is a lot of money."

"Not for a woman as rich as you."

The bedroom door opened quietly. Grace glanced at Jed as he entered the room, a portable extension phone in his hand. Oh, Lord, Jed was listening to her conversation with the caller.

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?" Grace asked the caller as Jed came toward her.

"You don't ask any questions. Just get the money together. I'll call you tomorrow and let you know when and where to bring the money for the exchange."

"But I need some sort of-" The dial tone hummed in her ears.

Jed set the portable phone on the nightstand, then reached out and took the receiver from Grace's death grip and returned it to the cradle. He wrapped his big hand around her small wrist.

"We'll get those taps put on the phones here and at Sheffield Media ASAP," he told her. "Our guy isn't wasting any time. Looks like he needs that money fast. He's desperate to get his hands on it and leave the country before Booth Fortier finds out what he's done."

"So, do I believe him? Should I get him the money?"

Jed nodded. "Call your banker. Tonight. Start the ball rolling. Whether we give this guy any money or not, we need to make it look as if we intend to."

"Do you think he has proof of-"

Jed caressed her wrist, causing her tight fist to relax. "Yeah. Maybe. Probably." He paused, then looked directly into her eyes. "Be sure you want to go through with this, with all of it-the money exchange, the investigation. Booth Fortier is a formidable opponent. He plays dirty. And he plays for keeps."

"Four years ago my life ended," Grace said. "If Booth Fortier was responsible for my husband's and father's deaths, then he killed me, too, that very night. Don't you see, Jed, I have nothing to lose. I've been dead inside all these years. If Fortier was behind the hit-and-run driver's actions, if it was murder and not an accident, then I want him to pay for what he did. I want him to suffer. I want him…" Grace hadn't realized she was crying until her tears hit Jed's hand that held hers.

Jed pulled her into his arms. She went willingly. The feel of his strength surrounding her comforted in a way nothing else ever had, not since she'd been a child and her father had consoled her after all her little girl crises. Although her reaction to him confounded her, she couldn't help but give in to his protective embrace.

"Nothing will ever bring back your father and your husband, but you're alive, Grace, very much alive. And you'll love again. You'll marry again."

She clung to him as the silent tears trickled down her cheek lying against his hard chest. "I lost more than my husband and father that night. I lost my baby. I lost Emma Lynn. God didn't spare her life. He didn't give me even that much."

"You lost a child?" Jed asked, gazing down at her.

"My little Emma Lynn died before she had a chance to live. I was almost six months pregnant."

"Damn! Grace, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pulled her closer to him.

"I don't believe in happiness anymore. I don't trust God. I will never-ever-care for anyone that much. I'd rather be dead inside than know that kind of pain again."

Grace doubted that Jed understood her reasoning, doubted that anyone who had not experienced the kind of losses she had could possibly comprehend the extent of her torment. Numbness was preferable to agony. Existing was better than risking being hurt if she took a chance by truly living again.