Saving Grace (2 page)

Chapter
Two

Walker

I pull into a parking
slot
, slip
the gear into neutral and yank up the emergency brake. The engine still roars
in my ears and I clutch the steering wheel, trying to get a grip on my wild
emotions. I won’t be any help to Grace if I come at her like a caveman. Not
that it isn’t tempting--grab her by the hair and drag her home where I can keep
her safe. I grin. Figuratively, of course. She’d cut my balls off otherwise.
Plus she’s hurt.

Fear makes bile rise in my throat. I finally, almost, have
the woman of my dreams, but I could have lost her with this incident. I force
the panic away and replace it with anger. At her. At the son of bitch who shot
her. At myself. She needed space. I gave her space. And look what happened. If
she wasn’t so damned busy pulling away from what is between us maybe I’d have
an idea what the fuck she’s up to. Maybe I could have kept her safe. What the
hell is she doing in Birmingham anyway? The answer comes to mind in an instant.
Something that got her shot.

My fist lands with a
thunk
against the steering wheel. Fuck! I look out the window at the building in
front of me. This isn’t helping. I need to be cool and in control when I go in
there. Forcing my breathing to even and my rioting emotions behind an impassive
mask, I exit the car.

The parking garage is across the street from the hospital
and I jog down the stairs and out to the street. It’s late, almost midnight,
and the place looks deserted. I glance up and remember one of the things I most
hated about living in Birmingham. You can’t see the stars. Even at midnight the
city is too bright. Why the hell is she here? In the city where I spent a
couple of my worst years, years I’m far from proud of? Shaking off the feeling
of doom, I cross the street, enter the building and look for an elevator.

I kept in touch with the nursing staff on the drive up.
Technically, they shouldn’t have told me anything but I said I’m her fiancé so
they made an exception. I know she’s stable and where to find her.

I find an elevator and slide through the closing doors just
in time. The occupants, two young women, edge away from me and I sigh, rubbing
a hand over my
stubbled
face. Yeah. I probably do
look a little rough. I rolled out of bed this morning, threw some clothes on
and headed straight for the garage. There is a ton of work to do and with Trace
and Lynn on their honeymoon, and only two hands to do it with. I’m not
concerned with how I look, though.

I worked straight through lunch and dinner, music cranked up
loud enough to wake the dead. I heard the phone ring in the lull between two
songs and almost ignored it. Some sixth sense made me pick up. Thank God. With
mounting terror and rage, I’d hurried through the shower and then grabbed the
first clean clothes I came across before dumping the rest of the basket into a
duffle bag and running for the car.

The elevator dings on my floor snapping me back to the here
and now and I step out, following a nurse’s directions to Grace’s room. A young
cop stands outside the door and moves in front of it when I reach him.

“Move,” I say, fury that someone tries to block my way to
Grace coloring my vision nearly red.

That is my woman in there, whether she acknowledges it or
not, and no one is keeping me from her. The cop crosses his arms over his chest
and eyes me suspiciously. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I look like a
thug, therefore I must be one, right? The younger man isn’t far off in his
assessment. I look the cop over. I can take him. I might have done just that if
not for the voice at my side. I must be slipping--I didn’t even notice the
other cop approach.

“Walker Graham. What are you doing here?”

I struggle to control the chill that runs through me at the
sound of that voice and turn to answer, but before I can a nurse hustles down
the hall. She stops and looks me over slowly, arching a brow and grinning. I
wonder what the joke is.

“You’re Walker?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turns a stern eye to the two cops blocking the door. “I
think you gentleman can wait to speak to Mr. Graham until he’s seen for himself
that his fiancé is okay.”

The nurse is an ally. Grinning, I turn back to the two cops,
hands on my hips and nod at the door. John Brady--the one I know--cocks an
eyebrow, but moves, pulling the younger cop with him. I push the door open and
behind me I hear Brady’s quiet question.

“Walker’s her fiancé?”

I ignore him, my gaze riveted on Grace. It’s worse than I
fear, seeing her in the hospital, wires and tubes everywhere. My feisty, sweet,
stubborn
Grace. A lump clogs my throat and I angrily push it down. It
won’t help anyone now. Maybe later I’ll give in to the urge. Approaching the
bed, I sit on the side picking up her hand and smoothing her hair away from her
face.

Her eyes flutter open and she smiles.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hey, baby.” My voice is hoarse from unshed tears. I have to
do better than this.

She looks around me and arches an eyebrow.

“How did you keep Honor and Lynn away? Joanne?”

Honor is her twin sister though you’d never know it looking
at them. Grace is petite and curvy with long pale blond hair. Her sister is
tall, model thin, with dark blond hair. Lynn is their cousin, recently married
to my brother Trace, and Joanne is her mother. They are Grace’s only family.
I’m less worried about her asking for them while I’m right there and more concerned
that she doesn’t recall where they were.

“They’re still out of town. Remember?”

Confusion briefly mars her brow.

“Ah. Yeah. The honeymoon and the cruise.” Joanne and Honor
had decided to take their own trip while Lynn and Trace are gone.

She yawns and her eyes close. “So tired.” She smiles again
and whispers. “Glad you came, Walker.”

I lift her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles before
answering. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else, baby.”

She is asleep again so I stand and face the room’s other
occupants. My cold mask is firmly back in place, but I see from Brady’s
expression he’d seen it slip. I jerk my head at the door and we leave the room.

“Lynn?” Brady asks out in the hall. I’m not surprised he
noticed the name. He knows Lynn and I are friends.

“Lynn Jameson. Lynn Graham now.” I smile. “I’m sure you
remember her.”

Brady’s eyebrows shoot to his receding hairline.

“She married your brother?” he asks in disbelief. It
is
an unexpected match. Lynn used to be a cop and Trace is an ex-con. He did ten years
for killing a man in a bar fight when the idiot was stupid enough to make a
grab at Lynn. Years later, Lynn and Trace mended the rift her father, the judge
who’d sent Trace away for so long, caused, but they are definitely good now. I
cross my arms over my chest and grin.

“She did. She’ll probably be here tomorrow unless Trace can
talk her into waiting.”

“What’s her connection to Ms. Monroe?”

“Cousins.” Have to love Alabama. Everyone is connected to
someone you know from one end of the state to the other.

“I’ll be damned,” Brady mutters.

If memory serves, and I’m pretty sure it does, John Brady
was Lynn’s shift sergeant years ago when she started working for the Birmingham
Police Department. After only a couple of years at the BPD, she moved on to the
state police before eventually deciding to take a detective’s job in our
hometown. I wonder what Lynn would think about running into Brady again,
especially under these circumstances. She and Grace are as close as sisters and
have always both been on the side of the angels, while Trace and I are
definitely
not
. We all have one thing in common though: we take care of
their own. Lynn is probably be raising hell about right now.

My grin turns feral as more of my memories of Brady intrude,
more complicated and unpleasant than Lynn’s must surely be. My relief that
Grace is going to okay evaporates. I don’t want this man anywhere near her,
don’t want the less than legal parts of my life touching her.

“She still a detective down there?” Brady asks. Speaking of
my new sister-in-law. Lynn. The woman who defied a small town to marry an
ex-con.

“No.”

I don’t elaborate. I don’t see how that is any of Brady’s
business. His gaze narrows on me in a calculating look. The look raises my
hackles. I’m not here to get sucked into whatever game he’s playing at.

“And you? What have you been up to?”

I smile and watch the younger cop, the one I’ve never seen
before, jerk at the expression. I know it is cold and savage, a look I
occasionally find useful.

“Fine. Running my own garage. Completely aboveboard.”

I’m lying through my teeth and Brady’s doubt is clear on his
face. I just shake my head.

“I’m serious.” I nod towards the room Grace is in. “She used
to be in the Army. Military police. Think she’d have me any other way?”

Brady’s expression clears and he nods understanding if not
belief. I’m growing impatient with the chit chat. Enough of old home week
.
We walk down the hall to a small waiting room and I sit down.

“Now tell me what happened here, Brady.”

The other man shrugs and sends the young cop for coffee
before continuing.

“Not much to tell. Looks like a run-of-the-mill carjacking.”

“Where?”

“Downtown. A few blocks from the station.”

I scowl and mutter. “What the hell is she doing in
Birmingham?”

I didn’t intend to voice the question, don’t expect an
answer from Brady who cocks an eyebrow in response.

“Don’t you know?”

I just stare the cop down. No way in hell am I going to
admit I don’t know what my woman is up to. Brady knows the tactic for what it
is and grins maliciously. I hate being at a disadvantage with this guy and he
knows it.

“Not much to tell. She was asking questions about Hugo
Beaumont at the station...”

The voice drones on but I can’t hear what is said over the
roaring in my ears. Answers about Hugo Beaumont would inevitably lead to me and
how I supported myself when I lived here. Why the hell is she asking about
Hugo? What is she working on? Not much to tell my ass.

“...looking for Hugo’s killer.”

That snaps me out of my thoughts and I meet Brady’s gaze, study
him. He has a good poker face, but it is obvious he doesn’t want anyone looking
into Hugo’s murder either. The cop’s smile is grim.

“I don’t think either one of us wants that past dredged up.”

“No skin off my back.” I shrug as I answer, careful to keep
my expression neutral while my gut twists in knots and I see the future I
imagine with Grace going up in flames. “I didn’t kill him.”

My hands fist. I need to focus on the present. Carjacking? I
don’t think so. I glare at Brady, pinning him under a cold and angry gaze.

“There’s no way this shooting is a coincidence.”

I stand and step close to the other man, suspicious and
furious. Reaching out, I grab Brady’s shirt and pull him close. Brady tenses,
his body telegraphing anger, but he makes no move to defend himself.

“I will find out who did this. And then I’m going to take
him apart piece by piece.”

I let him go, pat one hand over the cop’s chest. My tone is
purposefully condescending. “Better hope it wasn’t you, Brady.”

Brady’s eyes narrow, his anger morphing into something more
dangerous, aggressive and deadly, and I roll to the balls of my feet. I’d love
an excuse to pound on something and the cop is just as good a target as any.
Better than most in fact. Brady shoves me, pushes me into the wall and gets in
my face. I see red.

“
I
didn’t do this. I know you want a target to vent
your anger at, but this was just random shit. It happens.”

He backs off, putting space between us while I struggle
against my instinct to lunge for him. Getting my ass thrown in jail for
assaulting an officer--even a dirty one--won’t help Grace. Brady gives me a
knowing look.

“Which doesn’t change the fact that neither of us, and a
whole
lotta
other people, don’t want Hugo Beaumont’s
murder dredged up. Especially you, if you really have gone straight.” He turns
his head, watching the young cop come down the hall towards them, and lowers
his voice. “Take her home, Graham. Distract her. Make her give up this
investigation.”

He starts to walk down the hall to intercept the kid but
pauses, turning to level a gaze on me.

“It’s safer for her…for everyone that way. And you know it.”

Chapter
Three

Grace

“I’m going crazy. I have to get out of here.”

I flinch at the whine in my tone, but after a week cooped up
in the hospital I have a major case of cabin fever. I’m standing in front of
the room’s long window, a crutch tucked under one arm, and turn to hobble to
the bed. Lowering myself gingerly on the edge, I glare at Walker. His Zen-like
calm is driving me up the freaking wall and I wish he’d just leave. He sits in
a chair by the door reading
Car and Driver
as if he doesn’t have a care
in the world. I clench my jaw and jerk my head around to stare out the window.

That isn’t fair. He came to Birmingham as soon as he heard I
was shot, and has stayed with me the entire time. He dropped everything, even
closing the garage until Trace gets home from his honeymoon to reopen it. He
puts up with me whining and sneaks me cheeseburgers when the nurse isn’t
looking. Walker obviously does care for something. Me. I feel bad for taking
out my lousy attitude on him, but the remorse is typically short lived.

I roll my head and shrug my shoulders in an effort to relax.
It doesn’t help. I need to be
doing
something. I’m not the idle type and
I’m bored out of my mind. I’m anxious to get back to work and find out who shot
me and why. That day is a yawning black hole in my mind. My memory is just
gone. I frown thinking over the doctor’s explanation and prognosis.
Due to
the trauma of the event or maybe the bump on your head
, he says.
It’ll
come back in time, probably in bits and pieces.
It is making me
batshit
crazy not remembering.

I look at Walker again and repress a sigh. Some distance
between us isn’t such a bad idea either. I can’t get too attached. Gorgeous and
sexy as hell, he has the ultimate bad boy vibe going on. Because, oh yeah, he
is. But damn is he hot. He’s slouched down in the chair, long denim clad legs
stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He wears black leather work boots and
a tight black T-shirt that showcases bulging, tattoo banded biceps. Throw in
that sexy grin of his and I am a goner. It’s just a matter of time before he
talks me into turning our casual affair into something much more serious.

He’d probably claim it already is. He’s driven to Atlanta
several times since Christmas. I vow to myself each time that I’ll refuse to
see him again, but I always break the promise. He calls, tells me he is coming
in a few days, and I spend those days waiting, dreaming of his touch. He’s
become a compulsion. An addiction. I’m not sure how long I can keep fighting
it, but any kind of commitment is sure as hell out of the question.

I don’t do serious, thank you very much. Serious requires
trust and I don’t trust any man as far as I can throw him. My ex-husband saw to
that. I ignore the twist of bitter yearning in my chest--it is what it is--and
focus on how to deal with Walker’s determination.

He is a complication I don’t need, especially now when I
have no idea what is going on. I have an uneasy feeling about him that is more
connected to my case than our personal relationship. He seems relieved that I
don’t remember anything, and I avoid answering his questions about the
investigation I was hired for. I never speak of my work with him and he seems
to have let it go, but I suspect this isn’t over. He’ll ask again, probably
pester me until I break down and tell him the who, what and why. The idea of
Walker getting in the middle of the case makes me a little queasy for some
reason, and I wonder what the fuck I’m not remembering. Something important,
the nagging voice inside my head insists. Something to do with Walker and Hugo
Beaumont.

What the hell does Walker have to do with Beaumont? I’m not
an idiot. We’re from the same town, despite occupying two entirely different
worlds in it. Mine is the country club and they’d invented the wrong side of
the tracks for people like the Graham brothers. He may own a very successful
garage but that isn’t where most of his money comes from. I haven’t asked
questions and I don’t think he’d answer any. I’m pretty sure he steals and
strips cars for Hunter Wallace and probably collects gambling debts for the man
too. And I
know
he’s into underground fighting. That much was confirmed
to me by other people, namely Honor and Lynn.

I know what he is and I still can’t resist him. As a
teenager I was fascinated by him. I’d even spent one wild weekend with him at
the beach before going to basic training. That one weekend, that small
rebellion was my attempt at exorcising him--the hold he had over my
imagination--and my need to live on a risky surge of adrenalin. It didn’t work.
I’d gone into the Army as an MP. Not exactly a safe and easy career path, then
followed it up with private investigations, which is certainly safer but as my
current case demonstrates, not always.

I eventually decided the thrill-seeking side of me couldn’t
be suppressed. So when I ran into Walker at Lynn’s house this past Christmas I
didn’t resist his advances, wasn’t able to turn away from the drugging sense of
his possession. In bed at least. Out of bed is a constant struggle. Alone, at
night, I am tempted to just give in, to make that attempt at trust. My
certainty that I learned something here in Birmingham that compromises that
burgeoning trust, and that the information is now erased from my memory, pisses
me off.

The local police reconstructed my day the best they could. I
got up early in the morning in Atlanta and drove to Birmingham, stopped and had
lunch at a fast food place, and then dropped off their radar until I reappeared
late in the afternoon at police headquarters. At the police station, I spoke to
a detective named Brady about the old murder I was hired to investigate. It was
apparently a short conversation. He looked relieved that I don’t recall it when
he visited me in the hospital.

There is some weird vibe going on between him and Walker
too. It is obvious they know each other, have a history, but I don’t question
it. I have enough issues to work through and Walker’s expression during the
interview with the cop made it clear his history is off limits. To top it all
off my SUV and my bag are still missing, though not my phone, thank God. Any
clue to what I learned in Birmingham is gone with them.

At least I remember why I came here, if not the actual trip
or shooting. It could be random of course. I could have simply been in the
wrong place at the wrong time. That’s what the police think since my car is
gone. It could have been chance, but I don’t believe it. I’d bet money my
snooping into Hugo Beaumont’s life that is what landed me in the hospital shot
in the leg. The question is, was I supposed to die or be warned off? I don’t
have any proof, just wild and idle speculation.

The door opens with a soft swoosh and I turn to smile at the
papers in the doctor’s hand. They are releasing me today and I’m going home. I
stand and limp around to the other side of the bed to sign the paperwork. The
doctor speaks quietly about what to expect in the coming weeks, the need for
physical therapy, and finally instructions on my follow up appointment with the
surgeon in Atlanta. Walker catches my gaze, glaring and I bend my head to
scribble my name at the X’s.

I hand the papers back and wait while my copies are
separated from the pile. When it is done, I thank him for his care before he
turns to shake Walker’s hand. Then he is gone and I am free to leave. Silence
falls over the room.

“Are you ready?” Walker asks.

“Hell yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

He opens the door and steps into the hall. I see a nurse
waiting with a wheel chair and sigh. Too much to hope they’ll let me leave
under my own steam. Walker leans over and brushes his lips against mine. My
stomach flutters in response and I see answering heat flare in his eyes.

“I’ll get the car and meet you out front,” he says.

I smile. “See you there.”

Grace

I lean back against the leather seat and stare at the
passing farmland. The silence in the car is oppressive. We’ve been arguing for
days about where I will go when the hospital releases me. Walker finally
relented and agreed to take me to my condo in Atlanta but he is clearly unhappy
about it. I ignore a twinge of guilt. He is going to end up driving a giant
triangle. River City to Birmingham to Atlanta. Birmingham to Atlanta is the
shortest leg of the trip at about 150 miles. But River City is just over 200
miles from Birmingham and Atlanta.

I shift, wincing at the throb of discomfort the action
causes in my leg, to watch his profile. A clenched jaw is the only outward
display of his mood. One hand rests casually on the gearshift, the other on the
bottom of the steering wheel. Hard thighs, muscled chest, the cock I know so
well--all just out of reach. I press my lips together, moistening chapped lips
just as he glances over to meet my gaze. He shakes his head once.

“Don’t look at me like that, Grace. We still have an hour to
drive. And you’re hurt.”

I can’t help myself, though. Playing with fire, I reach out
to rest my hand above his knee, slowly trailing my fingers up his leg. When I
reach the top of his thigh, his hand grips mine and he gives me a stern look.

“Grace,” he growls.

“What?”

I try to pull off an innocent look but ruin it by grinning
widely. He rolls his hips in the seat and my gaze falls to his lap. He is now
sporting an impressive hard on. He isn’t trying to hide it, and in the tight
jeans it sure as hell has to be uncomfortable. How long has it been since his
last visit to Atlanta? Three, four weeks? It feels like an eternity. He must
have thought so too. Releasing my hand, he reaches down, unsnaps the button
that covers the top of the bulge. I see the top of the purple head straining
for release and my panties get wet. He is completely unselfconscious as he
looks over and holds my gaze. He knows exactly what the sight of him does to
me. Damn, the man is
hot
. And now I am too.

I squirm on the seat and know I’m in trouble when he flashes
me a wicked grin. Reaching over, he grabs the top of my seat belt and loops it
around the seat behind me. Pinned to the seat, I feel a moment’s unease. Kinky
foreplay at eighty miles per hour might not be such a good idea. Before I can
voice that concern, his hand slides up my thigh under the short denim skirt he
bought me to wear home.

“Spread your legs.”

I only move my knees a few inches apart just to see how he
reacts. I’d never admit it to him, but the caveman routine turns me on. Makes
me so much hotter than sweet vanilla sex. He pinches the sensitive inside of my
thigh.

“Ouch!”

“Wider.”

This time I open them as wide as the skirt will allow. He
glances over at me and holds my gaze a long second, before turning back to
watch the highway.

“Not enough. Pull the skirt up.”

I
suck
in a harsh breath and look
at the darkly tinted window. It’s not like anyone can see in. I pull the skirt
to the top of my thighs, panties clearly visible if anyone could look in, and
hold my breath waiting for his next move.

His hand moves to cup me, fingers pressed against the wet crotch
of my underwear and I groan. A long finger slips beneath the fabric and rubs
light circles over my clit before dipping into my pussy. He pulls back and
brings the finger to his mouth, licking my cream from it.

“You taste so good, Grace.”

His voice is low and rough. The look in his eyes is pure
predator. I am sure if we weren’t in this car he’d fuck me senseless. I get
wetter at the thought and wonder how far he is going to take this game.

“Panties off,” he murmurs. I hesitate and his voice grows
harder, coldly demanding. “Now Grace.”

The way he’s secured me to the seat only one arm has a great
deal of movement. I grip the top sides of the red lace--he bought them of
course--and tug downward, gingerly past the wound on my right leg but caught up
high on the left.

“I can’t really move here,” I say.

Using his left hand to drive, he pulls down on the side I
can’t reach with his right. Together we get my panties to my knees and I wiggle
them off, before spreading my legs wide again. His hand brushes over my pussy
and I jerk. He chuckles.

“So tense. You need to relax, baby.”

Yeah right. Like I’m going to relax spread out on the car
seat, naked from the waist down? My heart races and I hold my breath as his
hand slides back to my cunt. Using his fingers, he spreads the lips before
glancing down at his handiwork. Pink skin glistens against black leather. I’ve
never felt so exposed. With any other man, I’d be cringing in embarrassment,
desperately trying to get free. With Walker nothing ever seems taboo. This level
of trust freaks me out a little. Okay. A lot.

As if he can read my mind, his thumb finds my clitoris,
banishing my worries before they can take root. He circles the nub in lazy
strokes until it swells so much I roll my head against the rest and bite my lip
to keep from begging, demanding. Harder, faster, now
dammit
!

“How you doing over there, baby?”

I hear the laughter in his voice and bite back a curse. The
SOB knows exactly how I’m doing.

“Fine,” I answer through gritted teeth.

“Really?” His hand stops, damn him. “So you don’t need
this?”

“Oh God.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Walker, if you don’t
hurry it up, I swear I’m going to hurt you.”

He laughs in response and flicks the tip of his finger
across my clit. Once, twice. Not nearly enough. I moan and roll my head to the
side to watch him, begging him with my eyes. This is hardly the place to toy
with me, is it? Suddenly his fingers are pushing into my pussy. Gasping I try
to arch against him but can’t get any traction tied to the seat. He is in
complete control.