Saving Grace. Patricia Rosemoor

back into the crowd, Corbett following. Grace hoped her brother knew what he was doing, consorting with the enemy so to speak.

      The enemy … how far would they go? Had Larry Laroche or Helen Emerson paid to have those photos taken of her? Was one of them planning on blackmailing her brother or mother? Grace couldn’t let their political careers be hurt because of her … but if Laroche or Emerson was behind the blackmail scheme, how could she stop them?

      She would look for an opportunity to talk to the two politicians in question in person tonight.

      Would they look at her with practiced politician expressions? Would one of them have a secret smile behind his eyes? Knowing she would come face-to-face with the person responsible for those photographs made it hard to take a deep breath.

      Approaching Larry Laroche, who still stood at the edge of the dance floor, Grace wondered if she could get him off guard. When she heard him tell a companion, “You just have to find the right weapon, but you can manipulate anyone into doing what you want,” she had to fight back the urge to face off with him, right then, right there. Was his weapon a photograph?

      Her mouth went dry and her throat tightened and her feet suddenly felt as if they were filled with lead.

      “Excuse me,” came a familiar voice, “but I feel as if we’ve met before.”

      Starting, Grace glanced to her right to see Declan dressed in a black tux with a black collarless shirt. He was as stunning a man as any in the room. More so. Her heart beat faster even as she took a quick look around. People were watching, so, taking a calming breath, she went along with him.

      “Perhaps we’ve met at another fund-raiser.”

      “We’ve met in my dreams—the ones I have after seeing you in those Voodoo ads.” He held out his hand. “Dance with me?”

      Grace lowered her voice. “I don’t want to give Mama any ideas. If she thinks there’s anything going on between us …”

      Not that she’d seen Mama yet, but Grace was certain her mother was here somewhere in the crowd.

      “Oh, come on, let’s give her something to chew on.”

      As Declan smoothly swung her into his arms and onto the dance floor, Grace couldn’t escape his touch without making a scene. She shut down that part of her mind that would seek a vision. Practiced enough at it over the past dozen years, she was relieved when nothing untoward happened. He turned her in his arms, and she glimpsed her brother on the sidelines. No blonde. The Westerfield woman had either gotten away or turned him down. Her loss, Grace thought, as Corbett gave her a thumbs-up.

      A moment later, when she was facing her brother again, Mama was next to him. Beaming. Just great.

      She would have to explain Declan, only she didn’t know how when she couldn’t explain him to herself. “This isn’t a date,” Grace reminded him. “I never said it was.”