Saving Grace. Patricia RosemoorЧитать онлайн книгу.
his cart through the door.
Sensing a wave of something dark, something he couldn’t quite define, Declan murmured, “Friendly, huh?”
“He’s new. He started working here about a month ago. He’s always like that with everyone.” Grace practically flew down the stairs.
Declan had to work to keep up with her.
“Good thinking,” he said. “Bringing the invitation with you.”
“What invitation? This is a dry-cleaning receipt I forgot to take out of my pocket.”
Declan would laugh, but nothing about this situation was funny. Flagging down a taxi to take them back to Grace’s place, Declan knew that, despite her sophisticated looks, Grace Broussard was an innocent swimming with sharks.
He didn’t need to see outward signs to know what a person was made of. His empathic ability let him read her easily—her warmheartedness, her inner fragility, her uncertainty when it came to herself. Grace was a woman who didn’t deserve to have anything bad happen to her.
Declan was determined that nothing would.
Despite her best intentions, Grace hadn’t been able to avoid touching Declan a few times. And when she’d touched him, she hadn’t been able to avoid seeing them together intimately.
On edge as she dragged herself up the stairs to her apartment, she said, “Well, that certainly was a waste of time and effort.”
“Not a waste. We know where the camera is now.”
“I would rather have ripped it out and ground it under my heel.”
“Destroy evidence?” “Evidence for what?” “To make an arrest.”
Grace shook her head and unlocked her door. “Who said I was having anyone arrested?”
“This is blackmail! Don’t you want to see justice done?”
“I’m thinking in terms of a bonfire.” Entering, she threw her keys on a nearby table. “Camera. All copies of the photographs. The rat responsible.”
“Well, yeah, burning him at the stake might be rewarding, but it’s also illegal.”
“Afraid I might take the law into my own hands?”
Declan closed the door, asking, “You’re serious about not wanting to prosecute anyone?”
“Look, I don’t ever want my family to know about this fiasco. I certainly don’t want it to get out, which it would if I pressed charges.”
“You didn’t pose for those photographs. And it’s not like you’re having sex with anyone in them.”
“Mama is already disapproving of my work. This would give her a great I-told-you-so moment.” She felt him stop behind her so close she imagined his breath ruffling her hair.
“Grace, I can’t believe you would let your mother’s disapproval stop you from doing the right thing.”
“Right thing?” She whirled to face him—too close for comfort, but she stood her ground. “According to Mama, if I wanted to do the right thing, I would have gotten a degree and started a professional career years ago. Preferably in politics. If I wanted to do the right thing, I would have chosen someone suitable to marry. Old money, social register. If I wanted to do the right thing, I wouldn’t embarrass her on a weekly basis because the ads I pose for make the men of New Orleans desire me.”
“You wouldn’t have to pose for ads to be desired.”
“This isn’t the time for jokes, Declan.”
His expression taut, he murmured, “Who’s joking?”
“If we could figure out who put that camera in the dressing room and have him arrested, you can bet the media will have the story within hours if not sooner. I would be lucky if that photograph didn’t make the front page of the Times-Picayune. It would get around. Mama could kiss the bench goodbye. Corbett wouldn’t be able to run for dog-catcher. And I wouldn’t be able to show my face in polite society ever again.”
“I got the idea you didn’t care for polite society.”
“I’m not a snob, Declan. I just wish other people weren’t. But I don’t want to be humiliated again.”
“Again? When was the first time?”
Remembering the way her gift had misled her—the way she’d been laughed at had dogged her footsteps through the years—Grace clenched her jaw. No way was she going to tell Declan about the humiliating incident. No way would she give him the chance to laugh at her, too.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s not you. It just comes with the territory.” “What territory?”
“Being me” was all she would admit to. “It’s almost time to put on my game face.” When he appeared confused, she clarified. “The fund-raiser tonight? I’m going to have to make my appearance and then like Cinderella, do a disappearing act so I can be in front of a computer screen at midnight.”
“Is that going to be doable?”
“That’s where you come in—make it happen.”
“So what time should I pick you up?”
“I was thinking about that.” Grabbing a notepad and pen, she scribbled down the information he needed. “Meet me there about nine.”
“You don’t want to be seen with me?”
“Once you’re there I do. Make it seem like we ran into each other. And figure out a cover story for what you do. If the blackmailer is at the party, I don’t want to give him a heads-up that I hired a P.I.”
“You’re the boss.”
Declan left to get ready for the party, and Grace had to admit she was interested in him more than she wanted to be. Certain that he was interested in return, she wondered for how long. Experience told her that eventually Declan McKenna would be the same as the other men she knew and would expect her to change.
And if he found out about her gift of touch …
Declan was a wild card. Why had he resurrected her latent psychic ability? No matter that she kept trying to talk herself out of the fact, there it was. Either she was projecting into their future or she was reading what was on his mind. Whichever didn’t really matter. She didn’t trust the visions. She didn’t trust Declan, not personally.
Stopping in front of a table with gilt edging, she looked at the photos on display. The one of her with Mama and Daddy and Corbett had been taken when she was eight. Against the almost Gothic-looking dark clothing the entire family wore, she posed stiffly in bright pink shoes that Cousin Minny had bought for her at the French Market. Grace remembered wearing only those shoes for months no matter what threat Mama made. A small defiance.
The other photo was of her in her first Voodoo ad, looking comfortably sensual and happy, as if she’d finally found herself—which she had. She was more than a Broussard, Grace thought. She was Voodoo Woman. Wearing these clothes, posing for the camera, she could be and do anything she wanted. Donning Raphael’s designs were magic—they transformed her.
Grace never had felt like she fit in with her immediate family. While Daddy had had something of a relaxed attitude, he was gone now. And Mama was Mama. Old New Orleans blue blood, social register. Corbett wasn’t much better. Her brother might do what he wanted, but in secret, careful of appearances. Only once had he gotten careless. Reporter Naomi Larkin had proven to have a reputation for sleeping with men to get a juicy story, and Corbett had