Checking his watch, Declan realized he had to hurry. Luckily his apartment was a quick walk from the office. Once inside, he was showered and dressed in ten minutes. And in another five, he was on his way to the hotel.
Declan couldn’t help but mull over what he’d learned from his cousin about Grace. A woman who didn’t get herself involved in long-term relationships. Perfect. She might be a client now, but that would change when he solved the case. He was already looking forward to the possibilities.
CARS AND TAXIS LINED UP outside the Hotel Monteleone. Declan looked for Grace as he went inside. No luck there, either. Not that she couldn’t be in the ballroom. It was already swarming with guests.
Declan wandered through the crowd, his intent not only to find her, but also to read the guests, as well. Empathic impressions weren’t as accurate an ability as telepathy, for example, but taking the pulse of the room had always served him well, perhaps the reason he’d had such a good arrest and conviction record as a cop.
As he walked through the crowd, Declan opened himself to the people around him who didn’t even notice he was there. Most people were into themselves, projecting a particular face to the room—success, interest, openness—while casting out vibes at odds with those facades.
He sensed uncertainty … contempt … awe … remorse.
Unfortunately he could only take the crowd’s pulse. It would demand a face-to-face to get a clearer picture of how any particular emotion played out in a given situation.
Suddenly the tenor of the room changed, lust being the overriding emotion sizzling off the men around him. Declan turned, his gaze fixed on the entrance where he caught a glimpse of a gown that shimmered and glowed as brightly as the crystal chandeliers overhead.
Dressed in a backless tight column of red sequins, Grace Broussard entered the ballroom alone. She looked poised … relaxed … in charge.
All an illusion.
Declan wasn’t close enough to read her as accurately as he might like, but even at a distance, he sensed her anxiety and an underlying fear that, under the circumstances, was totally understandable.
Grace felt rather than saw heads turn when she entered the hotel ballroom. She was posing, pretending—not that she was someone else, but that she was as confident as she appeared. Inside, she was a trembling, pitiful mess. She probably should have had Declan escort her here.
Gazing around the room for the private investigator, she couldn’t miss the attention she was getting. For once she wished she could leave again, so she could go find a place to hide where she didn’t have to think about suggestive photographs and someone’s evil intent.
Was the blackmailer in the room now?
Would she be able to tell if she saw him?
How would she know when she couldn’t even look anyone in the eyes?
Spotting Raphael was a relief. As usual, her employer was dressed in black. And as usual, he wore ruby studs in his ears and a gold snake with ruby eyes on the middle finger of his right hand. His slicked, long, black hair accentuated chiseled features and slightly slanted brown eyes.
Raphael gave her a high sign before turning back to his young male companion.
Then she spotted Corbett and made straight for her brother.
As usual, his tux was perfectly tailored and not a strand of his golden-brown hair was out of place. His eyebrows shot up and his hazel eyes widened appreciatively.
“Grace, won’t you kick up Mama’s ulcer tonight.”
“If she actually had an ulcer, this dress might do it,” she agreed. “So, are you here alone?”
“I am. Although I have my eye on an interesting woman new to the political game in this town. What about you?”
Thinking of Declan again, Grace felt her pulse rush, but she said, “Alone for the moment, as well.”
“Well, this little event might be interesting, after all.”
“I’m hoping.” Grace tried to keep her tone casual so she wouldn’t warn Corbett something was wrong. “Anyone I should know to be careful around? Someone with a grudge against you or Mama?”
“Grudge? Not exactly. But there is Larry Laroche. He’ll be running against me for my seat on the city council.”
“Sounds as if you have reason to not like the man.”
“I don’t have proof of anything of course, but rumor has it he’ll do anything to win.”
“Anything?” Grace’s interest picked up. Like hiring someone to take questionable photos of his opponent’s sister?
“He smeared his last opponent, Tommy Ryan, the other candidate in his own party. His colleagues weren’t too happy with him, but he just shrugged off the censure.”
“Smeared Ryan how?”
“Sent a reporter to the bordello where Ryan was … well, occupied.”
“A sex scandal? How did I miss it?”
“Because it never hit the media. Tommy bought off the reporter. But word got around, courtesy of Laroche, and the next thing you know, Tommy is no longer in the running. He concedes and the victory goes to Laroche.”
“And you’re sure this information is accurate?”
“As sure as I can be of my sources. So don’t go getting yourself into some big scandal before the election or Laroche will use it against me.”
Grace swallowed hard. Corbett was dead serious. Knowing his temper, she hoped she could keep word of those photographs from getting to him forever.
“I’ll try to contain myself for your sake.”
Corbett grinned at her. “Good, and if you have the chance, chat up Jill Westerfield. See what you can find out about her.”
“Is that the woman new to the game?”
“One and the same.”
Grace followed her brother’s gaze to a woman who was tall, curvaceous and wore her blond hair short, scraped back from her face. Something about the blonde ticked at Grace, but she couldn’t place her. A simple black sheath and hornrimmed glasses did little to distract from Jill Westerfield’s attractiveness. The blonde stopped next to Laroche and put a possessive hand on his shoulder. The politician smiled at her and immediately wrapped an arm around her waist.
“Um … looks like she has a date for the evening. With a married man.”
“I can overlook that,” Corbett said, a predatory gleam in his eyes.
Wondering where Laroche’s wife might be, Grace couldn’t fathom why her brother was interested in a woman who would go after the sleazy politician. “Nothing like picking someone totally inappropriate.”
“Perhaps I’ll get her to cross the line, come over to my way of thinking.”
It had been years since her brother had seemed so focused on a woman—Naomi had been pre-Katrina—and Grace didn’t want to discourage him. For years he’d had “safe” dates, none of whom had ever put that particular gleam in his eyes, so she kept her thoughts to herself. Maybe she was just misreading the relationship between the Westerfield woman and Laroche.
“What about Mama?” she asked. “Does she have to be careful of someone, too?”
Corbett gave her his you-should-know-better-than-to-ask expression. “Her name is Helen Emerson. She sells