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Saving Grace
Patricia Rosemoor
Table of Contents
Thanks as always to the members of my critique
group—Sherrill Bodine, Rosemary Paulas, Cheryl Jefferson, Jude Mandell and Laurie DeMarino—who brainstormed with me through the tough spots.
June 22, 1919
Donal McKenna,
Ye might have found happiness with another woman, but your progeny will pay for ths betrayal of me. I call on my faerie blood and my powers as a witch to give yers only sorrow in love, for should they act on their feelings, they will put their loved ones in mortal danger.
So be it,
Sheelin O’Keefe
PATRICIA ROSEMOOR has always had a fascination with dangerous love. She loves bringing a mix of thrills and chills and romance to Intrigue readers. She’s won a Golden Heart from Romance Writers of America and Reviewers’ Choice and Career Achievement Awards from RT Book Reviews. She teaches courses on writing popular fiction and suspense thriller writing in the fiction writing department of Columbia College Chicago. Check out her website, www.PatriciaRosemoor. com. You can contact Patricia via e-mail at Patricia@ PatriciaRosemoor.com.
She was the most stunning creature he’d ever seen.
The raven-haired woman entered through a door that should have been locked. It was well after ten. Behind her, the street was muted with fog that curled over the pavement and up the streetlights. Declan McKenna stood frozen at the front desk of Vieux Carré Investigations and let the stapler he’d just picked up tumble from his fingers back to the desktop.
“I need you,” she said, her low, throaty voice sizzling down his spine.
“Then have me. I’m yours.”
A perfectly arched brow revealed her annoyance with his attempt at humor. “I need your services,” she amended. “Your professional services. You are a private investigator?”
“Forgive me. You took me by surprise.” He straightened. “Declan McKenna, one of the owners of Vieux Carre Investigations.” His cousin and partner, Ian, was out of town, the reason Declan had spent all night wrestling with paperwork. They didn’t have any other employees, not while they were working to get the business in the black, so they had to do everything from footwork to accounting.
“I’m Grace Broussard.”
Declan moved to his office door and held out an arm to invite her in. “Please.”
Closing the outside door, she stepped forward.
What an eyeful she was in a sleek black dress, both sides slitted to reveal glimpses of long, long legs. Her raven hair dusted her shoulders and came to a peak at her waist. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen her before. Mesmerized by the length of Grace’s spine as she moved into the office before him, Declan removed his jacket.
She was making him sweat.
Grace took a seat, and Declan rounded his desk, one of the many antiques adorning the office. Not Declan’s taste. Not Ian’s, either. They’d bought the business, lock, stock and furniture, from the previous owner. The decor was appropriate for a business situated in the French Quarter, so they hadn’t changed anything, not even the dark green paint on the walls.
Declan hung his jacket on the back of his chair and sat. “What can I do for you, Ms. Broussard?”
“Grace, please. I need you
