Maguire ran one of those wonderfully spooky walking tour companies in the old Southern city of Savannah. Lynnette had never taken such a tour, but the adventurous part of her told her she’d probably love being scared out of her wits while standing on a darkened street late at night. Jade had told them a few fascinating, ghostly tales when she’d come to see Lynnette about the painting that used to hang above the fireplace.
“Imagine,” Lynnette murmured aloud, looking at the now-empty wall where the beautiful portrait of a young woman had hung. “We had stolen property.”
Lynnette’s great-great-grandfather had stolen the portrait from a plantation during the Civil War. Jade had produced positive proof—letters, a copy of a social column from an ancient newspaper, even a copy of the wrinkled, yellowed, hand-written bill of sale from the artist.
Jade had asked Lynnette and her husband to consider donating the painting to the Savannah Historical Society, either now or in the future. Lynnette had immediately agreed, not only because it was the right thing to do but also because she was already trying to figure out a way to get her grandson Ryan to go visit the painting in Savannah.
Not likely. He’d certainly never do it because she asked him to. He’d know something was up and would suspect a romantic fix-up.
So she had to be careful. Tricky. Never ever let Ryan know she was trying to bring him together with Jade Maguire.
“How?” she whispered, still staring at the empty place on the wall. And suddenly, as with most of her really good ideas, it simply popped into her head
She was smiling as she reached for the phone. Smiling as she dialed and listened to the ring. But when Ryan answered, she quickly mustered up a quivery, weak, old-lady voice and some tears. He wouldn’t be taken in by much. Her grandson had always, however, had a soft spot for a woman who cried.
“Ryan?”
“Grandmother, what’s wrong?”
“I need you,” she said. “You see, I’m afraid I’ve been swindled.” Crossing her fingers behind her back and sending up a promise to say an extra Act of Contrition the next time she went to mass, she proceeded directly to the biggest whopper of her life. “A dreadful con woman has stolen the painting my father left me.”
1
JADE MAGUIRE CIRCLED the ballroom of the historic old Medford House Inn and Museum, socializing with the Savannah elite, but never taking her eyes from her prey. He stood out, impossible to miss amongst the ladies in glittering gowns and the men in their pressed tuxedos. Though he’d made the concession of allowing the customary gardenia bloom to be tucked into his lapel, he no more resembled the spoiled, wealthy pillars of Southern society than Jade resembled a Barbie doll.
Though his elegant suit fit his tall, hard form with tailored precision, it was a dark navy instead of the de rigueur black. That only drew more attention to his already striking looks. His shoulders and chest were too brawny to be considered tasteful. His dark hair too long over his brow for most men of high standing. His eyes—which from a distance appeared light, a nice contrast against his hair—moved constantly over the crowd. Searching, hunting, seeking, though she didn’t know what.
His body shifted with an almost-disguised impatience that hinted at boredom. But every once in a while his gaze found her. And lingered. She always looked away, aware of the full force of his attention from across the crowded room. It was accompanied by masculine appreciation, which was good considering her plan. But it also unnerved her. It dug at her, prying into her life, silently looking for answers to unvoiced questions. Hinting that he wasn’t just a simple mark, an easy quarry for her scheme.
All in all, he was much too attractive for a miserable, loathsome creep.
“Ryan Stoddard,” she whispered, tasting the hated name on her lips for the dozenth time today.
“Have you met him?”
She immediately turned her attention to Tally Jackson, local matriarch and Jade’s godmother. Jade didn’t have to ask who she meant. Every woman here tonight had been giving the tall, dark stranger second looks. And third ones. “No.”
Tally flapped her fan, which matched her old-fashioned, hoop-skirted evening gown. She’d chosen to come in full costume, not mere formal wear, since she was representing the historical society at tonight’s gala. “But you want to.”
“Not particularly.”
The older woman gave a sound of disbelief too elegant to be called a snort, but not far from it. “Well, he certainly appears to want to meet you.” When Jade shrugged, Tally added, “Or just to want you.”
“Maybe he’s going to get his wish,” Jade murmured. “But only when it comes to meeting me.”
Tally smirked, obviously thinking the man could get around any woman’s defenses. Including Jade’s, which had been in place for quite some time now. “If you say so.”
Tally was a distant cousin—like many others in Savannah—and seemed to think she knew Jade as well as she knew herself. Maybe that was true. The older woman had, after all, helped shape the woman Jade had become. A fixture in her life since childhood, Tally had long cultivated Jade’s love for local history. Along with Jade’s mama, and great-aunt Lula Mae, Tally had told her endless stories that had enthralled and captivated her as a little girl. The three women had instilled in Jade a sense of belonging, of home, of pride, until Jade had come to understand that Savannah’s history was inextricably wound with her own.
This place defined her.
From her earliest childhood memories, Jade had felt the presence of generations of Dupré women who’d preceded her. She’d seen herself in every role—matriarch to mistress, slave to debutante. Like Savannah, the Dupré women were dark but graceful, sometimes ruthless but always elegant. Genteel but often boiling with emotion and passion.
When they loved, they loved hard, and usually only once. When they lost, they grieved but moved on. They seemed destined to never fill an emptiness inside that longed for a certain something out of reach—whether it was a way of life, or a loved one—but they found a way to live with it.
Jade had learned that lesson at a young age, too, when her father had died.
“Now, aren’t you glad you came?” Tally asked. “If only to see that lovely man? I don’t believe I’ve seen that look in your eye in a good year, young lady.”
“You’re imagining things.” Then, because she didn’t want to offend Tally, she added, “But yes, I’m glad I came.”
Tally was the one who’d talked Jade into coming to this party tonight. Thank heaven she had, given Stoddard’s presence. Normally Jade avoided such functions. But since she’d just helped arrange for the return of a long-lost sapphire necklace—which had been stolen from this plantation home during the Civil War—Jade had allowed Tally to persuade her.
“I wish you’d let me introduce you and reveal your help in getting the necklace donated.”
Jade immediately shook her head. “Not part of the deal. I don’t need recognition. You know that’s not why I do this. Mama likes the spotlight, I don’t.”
Her work provided satisfaction enough. Researching and tracking down historical items and persuading their
