Grace Under Fire

Jaron hated his life and hated himself for ever being stupid enough to get sucked into this sewage of corruption and mayhem. He wanted out. He'd been part of the syndicate operation since he'd been eighteen and had been looking for an easy way to earn a fast buck. He had brought Charmaine into this cesspool, this underbelly of society. He blamed himself that she was now tied to Booth Fortier for life. His wife. His whore. His slave.

There was only one way to escape-money. Lots of money. Enough to fake his death and Charmaine's and set them up for life in South America or Europe. He'd been making plans for over a year and yesterday he'd driven into New Iberia and mailed a letter to St. Camille. Step #1-make contact with the wealthiest woman in Louisiana.

He had written just enough to whet her appetite, to make her curious. By now, Grace Beaumont had probably read the letter and was trying to decide if what he'd told her was true or not. But after she thought things over, she'd come to the only logical conclusion. Once she had accepted the accusations against the governor and Booth Fortier as the truth, she'd be ready to bargain with him for the proof that would prove her husband's and father's deaths hadn't been an accident. He didn't have the original documents, of course. Booth kept everything locked away safe and sound at the bank. But he had photocopies in his home safe. Almost as good as the real thing. Enough for Grace Beaumont to take to the police; enough for a judge to issue a search warrant.

Once he had the five million, he'd tell Charmaine about his plan. She'd be scared. Hell, who wouldn't be frightened out of their mind at the thought of double-crossing Booth. But they really didn't have much choice. It was either risk everything, including their lives, or continue living in hell.

Jaron hurried along the hallway that led to the den. On the far side of the room, a set of French doors stood slightly ajar. When he drew nearer, he heard his sister's muted laughter, as if she'd covered her mouth with her hand. She couldn't even laugh out loud for fear it would displease Booth.

Someone else laughed. Louder. Robust. A man's deep-throated chuckles. Someone not afraid for Booth to hear him.

Jaron eased open the French doors and glanced outside. Stretched out on a padded wooden chaise, Charmaine lounged by the pool. Her round, voluptuous body was ta

A big, masculine hand shoved Charmaine's waist-length auburn hair to one side, then lathered her back and shoulders with colorless suntan lotion. She turned her head slightly, just enough so she could glance up and over her shoulder in order to look at the man who was touching her so tenderly.

Damn, they were fools! What if Booth saw them? Would Charmaine be able to explain why Ro

Jaron stepped outside onto the deck that ran the length of the sprawling old house. A hundred and fifty years ago, the place had begun as a large raised cottage, and had been expanded over the years into a six-thousand-square-foot house. Booth's father had purchased the house and twenty acres for back taxes when the widow whose family had owned the house for generations fell on hard times. Booth's daddy had been a shrewd businessman-and every bit the heartless bastard Booth was. At least that's what folks around these parts said.

"Booth's home, isn't he?" Jaron said, his question more a warning than anything else. "I heard him talking to someone-"

Charmaine gasped when she saw her brother standing only a few feet away. Despite the surprise in her eyes, she managed to smile. "He's holed up in his office with Ollie."

"Ollie? You mean Oliver Neville, his lawyer?"

"Yes, silly, what other Ollie do we know?" Charmaine flopped over on her back. Ro

"You're welcome, Mrs. Fortier."

Ro

Was Booth out of his mind giving Ro

Another reason he'd had to put his plan into action a bit earlier than he'd figured on. He had originally thought he'd send the letter to Grace Beaumont a couple of months from now so she would receive it on the fourth a

Ro

Jaron shook his head, declining the offer. "You need to be more careful," Jaron said, his voice only a whisper.

"Huh?" Ro

"I can see what's going on with you and Charmaine," Jaron said. "If Booth ever picks up on any vibes-"

"There's nothing going on between Mrs. Fortier and me. You're way off base with that kind of accusation."

"I'm her brother. I love her. I don't want anything bad happening to her," Jaron explained, not buying Ro

"You've said too much," Ro

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Theoretically your allegiance is to Booth, but-" Jaron glanced decidedly at Ro

Charmaine sat up quickly and glared at Jaron. "What are you two talking about? You both look so serious."

"Business," Jaron replied.

"Business, business, business." Charmaine's full, pink lips formed a sassy pout, then when she was certain both men had seen her sultry expression, she sighed. "That's the only thing y'all ever talk about. Booth's always sending me out of the room so he can talk business."

"Did I hear my name mentioned?" Booth Fortier stood just inside the open French doors.

Jaron swallowed hard, then turned to face his brother-in-law. Booth Rivalin Fortier wore only the finest clothes. He had his own tailor in New Orleans. He kept a barber and a manicurist on retainer. The man prided himself on his personal appearance. With a strenuous exercise routine, he kept his five-eleven, fifty-nine-year-old body in prime condition. Vanity, pure and simple. Booth was a proud, vain man. When he'd started going bald in his mid-thirties, he'd tried a toupee and even considered plugs, but at forty, he'd shaved his head, giving his appearance a Yul Bryner exoticness.