Saving Grace Page 2

  The young man grinned. “Would you like us to walk you home?” He indicated a woman who’d followed him out of the building.

  Relief washed through her. “I would be so appreciative. I’m in the Marigny, just the other side of Esplanade.”

  “No problem. Anything for a lady.”

  Feeling infinitely better, Grace gave the empty street behind her one last searching look.

  SO NOW WHAT WAS Grace Broussard up to, going to a private investigator? Did she really think she was going to get out of this?

  Of course she did.

  Privileged people never thought bad things could happen to them. They assumed that while they wreaked havoc on other people, they could go through life unscathed. That they could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, and that they would never have to pay.

  Grace Broussard was about to learn different.

  The stakes just went up…

  Chapter Two

  “Minny, what are you doing here?” Grace asked when she arrived early for her shoot the next morning and found her cousin wandering around Gotcha!

  The photography studio wasn’t open this early. There was no one currently on hand to stop anyone from coming through. The last receptionist had been let go the week before—Max said Eva just wasn’t working out, but Grace had overheard an argument between Max and a supplier about cost, making Grace wonder if finances were the real reason.

  Minny had made herself at home.

  “I was looking for you, of course, Grace. So what do you think?”

  Minny was posed in front of the scrim, lit with a pale lavender—the only soft thing about the scene. Minny’s hair glowed red. Not auburn, not mahogany, but a stoplight red that made her freckles pop. Her floaty blouse was a pattern of red and gold, and she wore gold capris.

  Nothing subtle about Cousin Minny.

  Wondering where Max had gotten to—since the lights were on, the photographer was obviously in the middle of setting up for the shoot—Grace echoed, “What do I think? It all depends on what you want to advertise.”

  “My business, of course.” Minny waved red-tipped fingers heavy with rings of garnets and topaz. “I was thinking of running a big ad in the Times-Picayune.”

  For the past several years, Minny had run a shop in the French Quarter where she read palms and auras and tarot. Of course she used her gift to get the goods on the customers, so her predictions always rang true.

  Grace thought to tell Minny about the spooky notes—about someone following her the night before and about her hiring a private investigator—then thought again. She trusted Minny implicitly—perhaps the only person she could say that about. While normally her cousin would keep her confidence, Grace wasn’t sure she would when it came to her being threatened. The last thing she wanted was for Mama or Corbett to know that someone was stalking her and that she’d hired a professional to resolve the situation.

  Scrubbing the situation from her mind so Minny couldn’t use her psychic abilities to catch on, Grace said, “If you’re serious about needing a professional photo, I’ll talk to Max—”

  “Nah, I’m just thinking about it. Don’t know if I’ll ever do it. I’m the shy type, not like you, Grace.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Grace said with a laugh.

  Minny had always put herself right out there, ever since Grace could remember. Her cousin had never had the trouble using the family gift.

  “Why don’t you come back to the dressing room with me? I have a shoot scheduled in an hour—a new line of Raphael’s lingerie.”

  “Ooh, let’s see. I just know it’ll be the real me.”

  One of the few people who knew the real Minny Broussard—her cousin acted her way through life—Grace laughed and led the way back to the dressing room. Even though the woman used to babysit her, they’d gotten along as contemporaries for years.

  “So what do you need from me?” Grace asked, as she shed her clothing for a filmy robe.

  “Need?” Minny echoed. “Can’t I simply stop by to see my favorite little cousin?” Minny touched the side of Grace’s face and looked deep into her eyes.

  Grace ducked and started on her makeup. “Don’t be coy,” Grace said, using the mirror to watch Minny check out the skimpy lingerie hanging on the clothing rack. “You’re up to something. What happened?” Wanting to distract her cousin if she’d somehow sensed the stalker issue, Grace asked, “You somehow got the S-O-S on my psychic slip?”

  “You slipped? Well, isn’t this an interesting development.”

  Grace stopped what she was doing and turned to face Minny, who was studying the first thing Grace would model—a delicate black bustier laced with magenta ribbons.

  “Declan McKenna isn’t my type, Minny,” Grace said, believing it even as she saw him in her mind’s eye and her pulse picked up a beat. “So don’t make this into a thing.”

  Minny pulled the hanger holding the corset from the rack. Seeming extra-intent, she gazed at the garment, then used her free hand to touch it. For a moment, Minny’s expression deepened into a frown that made the flesh along Grace’s spine crawl.

  “What?” Grace demanded, her voice strained, knowing her talented cousin could get psychic readings from objects, as well as from people.

  Minny shook her head, but her expression didn’t lighten. “Something strange…bad vibes…can’t quite get it. Maybe you shouldn’t wear this.”

  As if she didn’t want to touch the bad vibe bustier any more than necessary, Minny set the hanger back on the garment rack and separated it from the other designs.

  “A fancy bustier is giving you bad vibes?” The tension drained out of Grace. “Oh, come on, Minny, you have to do better than that if you want to scare me.”

  Something her cousin used to take delight in when she’d been a teenager and in charge of Grace and Corbett.

  “I’m not trying to scare you.”

  A chill ran through Grace, but she chased it away. Minny had always used her psychic abilities to make herself seem more mysterious and all-knowing.

  “I really do need to get ready for my shoot,” Grace said, all business now.

  Tension made it impossible to get her lipstick on just right—Minny wasn’t taking the hint and leaving!

  “Uh-uh, Grace. You haven’t told me about the psychic incident yet. Did you touch this Declan?”

  “What does it matter?” Grace asked, even as what she’d seen flitted through her mind. “I don’t have the ability anymore. I don’t want to be psychic.”

  “You don’t have any say in the matter. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. So what was it? A real live look into the future? Or were you simply reading what was on his mind?”

  She hadn’t really thought about it before. Maybe Declan had been the one on the hormonal overload and she’d merely been picking that up. Not that the possibility made her feel any better. Psychic was psychic and she didn’t want any part of the supposed gift. Or maybe her imagination had simply been engaged. Declan was someone she’d hired to work for her, and that was that.

  “You encouraged me to use my touch before, Minny, and look where it got me,” Grace reminded her. “Humiliated in front of my classmates.”

  The last time she’d read anyone’s thoughts, she’d been fifteen. Years of predictions had made her a pariah amongst her peers because kids didn’t like anyone who was different. That last time, she’d made such a muddle interpreting what she’d seen that she’d sworn never to succumb to that particular temptation again. Her decision to abstain from mind-reading had relieved her family—all but Cousin Minny, of course. Minny understood Grace’s gift because she’d been the only other person in the family who’d had the touch since their grandmama had passed.

  “It takes maturity and practice to get things right,” Minny said. “It’s not like listening to a radio. Lots of times you have to untangle what you hear to make sense of it.” Minny leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Try to chill, would yo
u? And let me know when you’re ready to expand your mind again.”

  Which would be never.

  Still, Grace hugged Minny in return. She loved her cousin even if she didn’t want to be like her.

  “Remember what I said about the bustier,” Minny reminded her. “Bad vibes.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  But Grace meant to wear it anyway. It was her job.

  After putting on the bustier, she stood in front of the mirror and aligned it on her body.

  The garment really was sexy, pushing her full breasts up over the delicate material so that her flesh looked ready to spill out of the top. As she adjusted the shallow lacy cups, she couldn’t help but wonder how Declan would react if he saw her wearing this.

  Grace struck a sultry pose as she would in front of the camera and gave her imagination free rein.

  Suddenly it came to her again—that image she’d gotten when she’d taken Declan’s hand. Unable to help herself, she cupped her breasts as he might do. Her neck arched and her breathing changed and her breasts swelled until her nipples peaked over the top of the lace.

  She licked her lips and closed her eyes for a moment and indulged herself in a moment of fantasy about a sexy man.

  Suddenly, she got the weirdest sensation, almost feeling as if Declan were watching her. Her eyes whipped open and she stared at herself in the mirror.

  No, not Declan…

  Someone else.

  Having the same feeling she’d had several times in the past weeks, she tugged the bustier in place and gave the room a paranoid once-over, expecting to see a peephole in the wall somewhere. Nothing. Of course not. Her imagination was simply running wild.

  Thank you, Minny, she thought as she slipped into a robe.

  Shaking off the creepy feeling only with difficulty, Grace quickly finished getting ready for the shoot, all the while wondering what Declan might have found out.

  “IS MS. BROUSSARD EXPECTIN’ you?” the hefty woman in the gray uniform asked.

  “No, actually not…” Declan quickly looked at the uniform’s pocket where the woman’s name was scrolled. “Eula. But I have business with Ms. Broussard.”

  The guard narrowed her gaze at Declan before nodding. “All right, go on in. But if Ms. Broussard ain’t pleased to see you, you’ll answer to me.”

  “Absolutely,” Declan said, as he headed for the door with the Gotcha! sign.

  Declan entered the photography studio office and noted the unoccupied desk set in the middle of an empty and none-too-lovingly decorated room. The place was at best functional, though no receptionist guarded the gates to the inner sanctum.

  Music drifted from an open doorway to the right. Declan stepped inside the studio, following the strains of a sexy tune—a woman with a low, throbbing voice warbling in French. He stood back in the dark.

  Before him, in a pool of hazy lavender light, lying across a chaise lounge, Grace Broussard made love to the camera in time to the sensual music. And as she did, another woman with spiked, magenta-streaked brown hair, wearing short-shorts and a tube top, photographed her. This was Max? For a moment, Declan watched her work. Max Babin was a total professional and he got no bad vibes from her, so he turned back to the woman she was photographing.

  Dressed in a cream-colored bustier, lace cheeky panties, thigh-high stockings and sling-back sandals, Grace was every man’s dream. And what she did with her body as the camera whirled softly! Max barely had to encourage her to adopt poses that made Declan physically uncomfortable.

  This was work, he reminded himself. Not play.

  On her knees, she stretched like a cat….

  She turned on her side and lifted one leg in a seemingly impossible pose….

  Then she was on her back, both legs drawn over the top of the chaise, her upper body dangling, head down….

  The very atmosphere was charged with Grace’s sexuality, and Declan was a mere man, one who’d been without female companionship for too long. He wondered how he was going to work for Grace without getting himself in a knot around her.

  “That should do it,” Max said none-too-soon.

  “Good. I’m exhausted.”

  Grace stood and walked out of the pool of light where she slipped into a silky robe. Declan cleared his throat to make his presence known.

  The photographer immediately whipped around, her eyes squinting into the dark. “Who’s there?”

  “Declan McKenna,” he said, stepping into the light. “I’m a friend of Grace’s.”

  Grace’s eyes went wide. “Uh, Declan…” Her voice throbbed, sounding thick and undeniably sexy. “Let’s go to my dressing room.”

  “Yes, let’s,” he said agreeably.

  When they entered the cramped room, which was little bigger than a closet, she asked, “What brings you here, Declan? The fingerprints? Did you get the results back already?”

  “On the weekend? No such luck. I simply thought it would be a good idea for me to see where you work. Where you live.”

  “You want to come home with me?”

  “Don’t you want me to make sure your place is safe? If you really do have a stalker—”

  “If? You don’t believe me, after all. For your information, I’m pretty sure someone was following me last night after I left your office.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m fine, aren’t I? Part of me thinks I was imagining things.”

  “Even so, the possibility gives me more reason to check out your place—to make sure that if someone is doing more than just sending you notes, he can’t get at you.”

  “Fine. You can come home with me and check things out, then. But I would appreciate your waiting in the outer office while I change.”

  “No problem.”

  While he would rather remain right where he was, Declan knew that would lead to nothing but trouble.

  Though he hadn’t yet gotten a report on the fingerprints, he’d called Ian to see if his cousin knew anything about their client. Declan hadn’t been in New Orleans long enough to get more than the feel of the place, but Ian had lived here all his life. Indeed, Ian had known that Grace Broussard was a trust-fund baby and something of a free spirit in a political, driven family.

  Obviously, she’d found her niche, Declan thought, and a perfect one for her, at that.

  And now someone was threatening to use it against her.

  Not on his watch.

  GRACE’S NERVES WERE already on edge. She’d been occupied for every moment since she’d had that bizarre feeling in her dressing room that morning, but once she stopped working, she couldn’t forget about it. She found herself changing in the powder room, as if she were safe in the smaller space.

  But safe from what?

  The scariest thing she had to face was touching Declan again. The mere thought of which sent a shiver down her spine, all the way to her toes.

  So a few minutes later, as they walked along Decatur and its shops filled with tourist trinkets and other souvenirs of New Orleans, Grace made certain she kept a safe distance between them.

  “Do you always work on Saturdays?” Declan asked.

  “No. We just had to finish up shooting the new designs for a series of ads Raphael intends to run.”

  “Very provocative.”

  She slashed him a look. “You don’t approve?”

  “I was simply making an observation,” Declan said, his demeanor professional. He moved his gaze constantly over the crowd as if searching it for a potential stalker. “So do people recognize you when you walk down the street?”

  “So far people haven’t actually come up to me and told me so.”

  “Just followed you.”

  “Which would be scarier,” she said.

  “What happens when Raphael Duhon goes really big? Will you follow him to New York? Paris?”

  “I never thought that far ahead. I like things as they are now. New Orleans is my home. I have a great job and I’m close to Mama and my brother, Corbett.
” Just considering losing all that made Grace uneasy. She was happy now. “I can’t see wanting any of that to change.”

  “You can’t control fate.”

  Grace didn’t miss the serious note in Declan’s tone. She wondered what had happened to him to make him such a cynic.

  As they walked through the French Quarter, her native city called to her, stirring her blood. Music and the seductive voices of entrepreneurs floated on the air along with the smell of Cajun and Creole cooking. New Orleans was a city of the senses and Grace was in love with her hometown, grateful its heart had survived disaster. It had taken years, but finally it was coming back from Hurricane Katrina.

  They walked up past Esplanade and then away from the river. Grace lived in an old apartment complex in Faubourg Marigny, a neighborhood bordering the French Quarter. Her third-floor apartment had a balcony with black wrought-iron railings that wrapped around the corner from living room to bedroom.

  “Not what you would call a secure building,” Declan said when they found the downstairs door unlocked.

  “Some people think they’re bulletproof,” she muttered, releasing the latch so not just anyone could get in.

  “That door needs a dead bolt.”

  Grace knew he was correct, but she didn’t know what it would take to convince her landlord. They headed for the third floor. Her newspaper lay outside her apartment door. When she picked it up, she saw what it had been hiding.

  “What’s this?” she muttered, stooping again to pick up a large brown envelope.

  Her name and nothing else was typed on the label stuck on the front. No postage. Someone had hand-delivered it—an easy task since someone had left the downstairs door unlocked. Her pulse thudded. Or maybe whoever had left it had picked the lock and that’s why the door was open.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Grace stared at the envelope as if she could guess its contents—something she wasn’t going to like.

  “Let’s get inside.”

  She was barely through the door when she moved around the counter in the kitchen area to keep distance between her and Declan. Wanting to see what was inside the envelope before he did, she ripped it open, then tilted it to spill the contents into her hand. A glossy photograph of her.