Saving Grace (10 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Grace

I’m going stir crazy. Again. It is so similar to the
frustration I felt in the hospital, I almost laugh. If Walker doesn’t stop with
the hovering soon, I’m going to kill him. After repeatedly promising not to
leave the property, he finally relents and goes to the garage and I take my
first Walker-free breath in two days. But I have to resist the urge to throw
something against the wall when my anxiety level doesn’t lower.

Instead I pace and glare at the phone. It is a useless piece
of junk. I’ve spoken to everyone mentioned in all of the case files, and have
no leads. Zip. Zero. Nada. No one is this good at covering evidence or hiding a
trail. Someone knows something about the Beaumont case of course, and Brady’s
involvement in the murder. I’d bet money on it. But proving it? Not so simple
as making phone calls.

I need to go back to Birmingham, but between Lynn and
Walker, I’ll have to sneak out in the dead of night to do it. If it wasn’t for
feeling like a part of a team for the first time in years, I might have just
left. I’m surprised at how unwilling I am to do that, didn’t realize I’d missed
that from my Army days. I was so sure I wanted no more part of teams or
partnerships when I got out. Was that all just a self-preservation measure and
now I’m past it?

Shaking my head to clear away the unwelcome and disturbing
speculations, I pick up my laptop and carry it out back. Since I’ve exhausted
the phone possibilities, the only other thing I can do from here was surf the
‘net. I open the top and push the on button before going back into the kitchen
for a Diet Coke. When I return the machine is fired up and signing into the
high-speed wireless service set up at the garage. I grin, still surprised at
what a tech-geek Walker turns out to be when I think of him as a throw back to
last century so often.

I pop the lid on the can and pull out a chair, adjusting the
overhead umbrella to shield the screen before I sit down. I jerk my head up at
the loud splash from the water down the backyard’s slope in time to see Roscoe
swimming away, only a thin strip of his back and tail above the surface. I
shudder, reaching instinctively for my gun before shaking it off. Walker is
damned attached to that gator for some reason.

Refocusing on the laptop, I open the browser and navigate to
a Birmingham news website. I open a second tab on the browser, click on AL.com
in the favorites and switch back to the other tab while it loads. On the news
website, I search archives. I’ve been looking for references to Beaumont and
Brady for the last couple of days, but nothing jumps out at me. There is
nothing suspicious of Brady, nothing linking him to Beaumont other than
Walker’s memory. After entering the keywords and year, I hit enter and flip to
the other tab.

The headlines mostly center on Manning’s murder for the past
couple of days. But with nothing new to report I’m not surprised to see it move
down the list of reports. I briefly skim the first article, a report of two
Birmingham men found shot to death by hunters near Jasper, about an hour from
the city. One of the names is familiar and I switch to the other window to
search the news archives.

An uneasy tension fills me as I wait for the results. There
is nothing in the article to suggest it is connected to anything, but that
instinct is back shrieking at me that everything is connected. The computer
screen fills with results and I skim quickly. Both men are mentioned in reports
of drug and assault arrests, but I haven’t read these reports before and wonder
why one name is so familiar.

I shut down the computer, more certain than ever, we need to
go to Birmingham. All the answers are there. Carrying the computer in, I pause
to drop my can in the trash and the laptop on the table, then exit through the
front door. I walk across the yard and enter the garage with reluctance. Sick
of arguing about it, I wonder what the best approach will be, and I’m pissed at
myself for caring so much in the first place that I don’t just take off. What a
mess.

Walker has the radio blaring and I walk over to switch it
off, determination stiffening my spine as I walk. The sudden silence yanks him
out of the groove he’s been working in and he jerks up, banging his head
against the hood of the car I stand in front of.

“
Ow
! Shit.”

Walker

What the fuck does Trace want now? I turn, rubbing my hand
over the bump forming on top of my head, and barely hold back the harsh words
on my tongue when I see Grace. She crosses her arms over her chest and a look
of pure stubbornness crosses her face. Fuck.

“Sorry about that.” She nods towards the car.

Sorry about me cracking my skull, but not about the argument
she is fixing to start I’m sure.

“So what’d you do? Get up this morning and decide to talk me
into coming over in to work so you could figure out a new approach to getting
me to let you go to Birmingham?”

And here I was thinking she’s given up on that crazy idea.
She clenches her fists so tightly her knuckles turn white and I see anger flash
through her eyes. If looks could incinerate, I’d be a pile of ash on the floor.
Stepping forward, she sucks in a long breath and I wonder briefly if she is
going to hit me. It isn’t something I particularly want to go through, but if
it makes her feel better it might be worth it.

“First of all, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need anyone to
let
me do anything. You can get that idea out of your tiny little brain right now.”

My own anger stirs. That’s taking the insults a bit too far.
But I’m also pleased. She is completely unafraid of me, and hopefully she’ll
realize it one day soon. Not today though. Her expression doesn’t change at
all. Crossing my arms, I widen my stance. She is really looking for a fight,
isn’t she?

“And second?” I ask coldly.

The anger deflates out of her, her arms fell to her sides
and her shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry.” She walks over and sets a hand on my arm. As
usual, my body throbs in recognition of her touch. “I know you’re worried, but
I can’t let this go. I’m not the kind of woman who needs to be taken care of.”

Anger that has been beginning to lessen bubbles back up, hot
and molten. Am I ever going to reach her? Glaring down into her eyes, I step
away, too angry to be swayed by her touch and determined to bring her around to
my way of thinking. Or at least make her see it.

“Oh, there’s where you’re wrong, baby. You need someone who
wants to take care of you. That you can depend on, lean against. Everyone does.
And maybe one day--soon God willing--you’ll accept it and we’ll finally quit
fighting about it. In the meantime, you’re stuck with me.”

She blinks up at me, then starts laughing. And laughing.
Wrapping her arms around her stomach, she doubles over. What the fuck? I don’t
see what is so damned funny. When the fit subsides, she straightens, tears
streaming down her face and smiles. A brilliant radiant smile that lights her
from the inside out and makes my brain go numb.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of devotion,
but I’d be pretty stupid to walk away from it, huh? You’re wondering what’s so
funny?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I’m still wondering how to walk away. Really dumb move on
my part.” She shrugs. “At least I recognize that. I guess it’s a good thing
you’re as stubborn as me.”

She steps closer and lays the palm of her hand against my
face, a sad smile across her face.

“And despite all that, I’m
fixin
’
to piss you off again, sugar.”

I sigh, lean my head back and close my eyes. Just fucking
wonderful. She isn’t smiling anymore when I look back at her.

“Alright. Let me get cleaned up and we’ll get this over
with. It’s lunch time anyway.”

I scrub the grease from my hands and arms and follow her
over to the house. Inside, she goes straight to the kitchen and starts making
sandwiches. I see her laptop on the table and know she’s been searching
archives again. Thank God, I managed to keep my name out of the papers all
those years ago. She knows about my past, has meticulously gone through my
arrest records, but nothing would make it more real than reading an old
newspaper account.

“Turn it on and go check the Birmingham headlines. Two men
were killed in Jasper a couple of days ago. One of the names is really
familiar, but I couldn’t find him in the archives or in the case files. I
thought maybe you’d mentioned it lately.”

“Maybe it’s not connected,” I say, firing up the computer.

She finishes the sandwiches, puts them on plates and carries
them to the table.

“Maybe.”

I take a bite of the turkey and mayo, waiting while the
wireless connects. When I am online, I open the browser and pull the page up
from her favorites. I skim the headline and first sentence, but the names of
the two men jump out at me and the food I’ve just chewed turns to grit in my
throat.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

While I’ve been sitting here waiting for Brady to come to
us, the bastard has been taking care of loose ends, ensuring I’ll come back.
But are Jonas and Becker old loose ends or new? One thing is clear to me--Grace
and I are also on that list. Jonas and Becker were my men, my two most trusted
men from the days when I worked for Beaumont. If Brady killed them, and there
is no doubt in my mind that he did, it is a message to me. A resounding
make
your woman
back off or she’s next, bubba.
But it is too late for
warnings. It is more like a challenge and I am getting sucked back into my old
life whether I like it or not.

I have to go to Birmingham. I have two friends to bury and
their families to take care of. I feel responsible. I am responsible. My men.
My problem. I’d walked away, and my absence left a void. Neither man liked
Brady, Jonas especially. But if they’d killed Manning--and I bet the police are
already working that angle--they were hired to do it. Jonas would have to be
pretty desperate to take any work from a man he disliked and didn’t trust. I
don’t believe it for a minute. Neither of them were exactly good guys, but they
sure as hell weren’t killers either.

And what am I going to do with Grace? It is one thing for
her to investigate Hugo’s murder, but this is a completely different animal.
I’m going to have to let her see the other me. The guy I am when I work for
Hunter, that I was when I worked for Hugo. I don’t want her anywhere near that
man. I’d been so sure I could keep them separate. Keep her from seeing it. But
I can’t leave her here alone, and I’m not dragging anyone else into this mess
unless I have no choice.

“What’s wrong? You got all grim and broody.”

“Pack a bag. We’re going to Birmingham.”

I don’t have any choice.

Chapter Fourteen

Grace

Walker orders me to pack, and I’m tempted to take exception
to that until I look in his eyes. Cold and lifeless, they are not a reflection
of the man I’ve come to know and I realize how much he keeps from me. This is the
guy who is into dangerous criminal shit. Silent. Viciously controlled. Icily
furious. I’m not afraid of him but I am a little wary. So I bite back my retort
and go into the bedroom, throwing things together as quickly as I can. In the
next room, I hear him calling Trace to get the garage covered and then the
muffled sounds of a second and third phone call. Who are they to? I guess I’ll
find out soon enough.

He comes into the bedroom and pulls his one and only suit
out of the closet, then carries it and the two bags I’ve packed to the front
room, where he does the most shocking thing I’ve seen from him yet. He unlocks
one side of the big buffet that stretches across the back of the room, and
opens a drawer it conceals. He stares into it a minute, then pulls out a
Glock
and two magazines. And my ability to pretend this
side of him exists flies right out the window.

I should be afraid. Where is my fear? He stands and slowly
turns to face me at my post by the door and something flashes across his face.
Unease or uncertainty maybe, as if he is worried about how I’m taking this
change. My Walker is still in there somewhere after all.

He doesn’t move from his position, or speak. Instead he
inserts one of the magazines in the weapon and chambers a round, then tucks the
Glock
into the back of his jeans. I can’t help but
wince. At least he tucks it in back and not the front. He must have noticed my
reaction because he grins.

“Don’t worry it won’t stay there long.”

I frown. It really isn’t something to joke about. I’m
trained to respect firearms. He obviously isn’t.

“You need a holster for that thing.”

Never mind the fact I am deeply disturbed to see Walker with
a gun. Why does that bother me so much? I’ve spent a large part of my life with
men who carry side arms. The image of Walker carrying doesn’t quite gel in my
mind, though.

“I have one in the Mustang.”

I nod, sling the straps for one of the bags and my purse
over my shoulder and step outside. I wonder which car we’re taking. Walker has
several, mostly restored classics and a couple newer vehicles. Then there is my
car, the rental. Maybe it would be best. Anonymous. I step down the front walk.

“My rental?”

“No,” he answers, turning to the building that houses his
personal collection. “The Mercedes.”

We get on the road and the remote mask settles back into
place. Those are the last words he speaks to me on the long four hour drive
north. When we arrive, he exits the expressway and drives into the parking lot
of a Holiday Inn. I reach for the door handle but before I can open it, he
turns and pins me with a gaze glittering with command.

“Wait here. I’ll get us a room.”

The silent treatment has me so on edge, so
pissy
that I almost snap out
separate rooms
, but I
know that won’t fly. Why waste a fight on something I can’t win? Within minutes
that feel like hours, we are inside the room. Standard hotel issue--a dresser,
night tables, desk, mini-fridge, and one king sized bed. Since the parking lot
is almost empty I guess he’s making his position on sleeping arrangements clear.

Sighing, I drop my bag on the bed and remove the slacks and
blouse he told me to pack. I hang them on hangers in the closet, too late to
avoid wrinkles, but I don’t anticipate wearing them anyway. I place his suit
next to them and turn to see him studying me.

“Ground rules,” he says and I bet my eyebrows rise clear to
my hairline. Ground rules? Is he kidding?

“Excuse me?” I don’t try to keep the outrage from my voice.
Looks like it’s time for another one of those you’re-getting-too-bossy
conversations.

He stalks across the room towards me, his panther-like
approach smooth and graceful. I take a moment to admire the movement until he
stops inches from me and sets his hands on my shoulders, giving me a little
shake.

“Do not fight me on this, Grace.” He steps back and starts
ticking points off on his fingers. “You don’t go
anywhere
alone. As a
matter of fact, I don’t want you out of my sight for a minute. You don’t go
anywhere unarmed. No one knows what you do for a living or that you’re
investigating Beaumont’s death
or
that you were shot up here a few weeks
ago.”

Shocked, confused, and not a little bit angry I can only
think of one response to that litany of rules.

“What the fuck?”

“Do what I tell you to do or I will tie you to the damned
bed the entire time we’re here!”

The statement starts calm, but ends in a yell. As I watch he
takes a deep breath and regains his equilibrium. After moving away a few feet,
I cross my arms and resist the urge to tap a foot.

“You were bound and determined to keep me away from here,
then in an all-fired rush to get here. Dragging me along, I might add. Those
guys in the paper? You know them I take it? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “But
I’m going to find out and the less I have to worry about you while I do it the
better. So you’re going to do what I say.”

“Yeah, ’cause I strike you as being weak and defenseless.
And let’s not forget stupid and obedient.”

He glares at me before turning and retrieving a phone
charger from one of the bags. He stalks towards the bathroom counter.

“I’m willing to give you almost anything you ask, Grace. The
ability to put yourself in even more danger is not one of them.”

“I can help you, Walker.”

When he comes back into the room, the flat emotionless cold
that disturbed me so much earlier is back in his gaze. Telling myself that I
don’t have anything to fear from him, I step closer and take his hand, pulling
him to sit down on the edge of the bed next to me.

“At least tell me what’s going on. Who were they to you? The
men in the paper? That’s why we’re here right?”

“Jonas and Becker.” He drags a hand over the short stubble
on his face. “They were mine. Loyal to me, not Hugo.”

“And someone killed them.” I think it over. Coincidence? Or
something else? “That could be completely unrelated, you know. Unless they knew
who killed Beaumont? And if they knew presumably you would know.”

I arch an eyebrow, daring him to ignore the question.

“I would know if I’d spoken to them lately, but I haven’t.
I’ve been a little preoccupied,” he says with a pointed look of his own.

I roll my eyes. When will he be convinced I don’t need a
babysitter? If he is this bad now how will he be when I get my business up and
running in River City? That train of thought screeches to a halt when he takes
off his clothes.

“What are you doing?”

He walks to the closet and gets the clothes I just hung up,
tossing them to the bed.

“Get changed. I need to go see Janine and you aren’t staying
here alone.”

“Janine?” An old employee? An old girlfriend? I ignore the
shaft of jealousy and push the idea aside.

“Becker’s wife.” He sighs deeply and continues at my look of
surprise. “Even criminals get married, you know.”

“Well. Yeah.”

Deciding it is best not to pursue that, I reach for the snap
on my jeans and strip them off, pulling on the slacks, then repeating the
process with my tank top and the blouse. I hesitate over shoes but finally
select the low-heeled boots I packed on a whim. Pumps would look better, but I
can’t run in them and you just never know. Better to be prepared. The blouse is
hemmed straight across the bottom, designed to be worn out not tucked in, and
easily conceals the gun in the waistband at the small of my back. I step up to
the bathroom mirror, run a brush through my hair and twist it up, securing it
in a bun with a rubber band and catching the loose strands with bobby pins.

Walker is quiet through the whole process. When I turn to
face him, it is to see him waiting by the door, casually leaning one shoulder
against it. He is dressed, the suit jacket’s bottom button closed and his hands
are in his slack pockets. It is well cut, showcasing his broad shoulders and
narrow waist. It should have made him look less dangerous, but the effect is
just the opposite. The veneer of civility is thin, and its fragility is obvious
in the undercurrent of violence and anger that permeates the room. I look him
over, head to foot and up again, finally meeting his gaze. The heat in his eyes
takes my breath. He might be a savage but he is
my
savage.

He straightens, standing with his feet braced apart and
slowly unfolds his arms. One falls to his side, but he holds the other out to
me in invitation.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

His voice is low, controlled. The question is about more
than my readiness to take the next step in the investigation. How I know that I
can’t say. I’m certain his real question isn’t are you ready to get this over
with, but something more along the lines of are you ready for me? Ready for the
man I’ve never really known. How can I answer that? I knew him years ago, as a
child, as a young woman in Panama City, have known we are on completely
divergent paths in life. Between then and now he hasn’t changed, and yet I’m
still so drawn to him. So in love I obviously can’t think straight when it
comes to him. And the steely determination I’ve always been so attracted to is
still firmly in place.

“Grace?” He arches an eyebrow. “It wasn’t a trick question.”

“Wasn’t it?”

I force a small smile and approach him, snagging the strap
of my purse as I go. When I stop mere inches away, he steps forward and pulls
me into the shelter of his arms. He lowers his head and I tilt mine back,
meeting the gentle caress of his lips. His tongue traces the seam of my mouth,
a lazy exploration that is interrupted by a pounding on the door. The shocking
intrusion makes me jump and curse.

“What the fuck,” Walker mutters.

Nudging me farther into the room, he twists around.
Instinctively, I place my hand on the butt of my pistol. The combination of my
last visit to Birmingham, Walker’s mood since we arrived, and the fact no one
knows we are here, at least as far as I know, make me nervous as hell. I pop
the safety snap on the holster and prepare to draw the weapon if it becomes
necessary. The pounding starts up again and Walker notes my stance, meets my
gaze and nods before yanking the door open.

His body goes still and I peak between the crack left
between the open door and frame. The man on the other side is huge, dressed in
jeans and chaps with a leather jacket over a black t-shirt. I slide my gun half
way out of its holster, when Walker steps back and allows the stranger in.
Grinning, he kicks the door shut behind him and grabs Walker in a quick hug,
pounding his back like a brother. Walker laughs and returns the gesture. The
two men step away from each other, and the newcomer looks over at me as I’m
sliding the pistol back into its holster.

“Well. Who do we have here?” he asks grinning at Walker.

“Mine,” he answers with a tight smile.

The other man laughs.

“Yeah. You always did get the pretty ones to yourself.”

Walker snorts and introduces us. “Grace Monroe.
Roddy
Daniels.”

Roddy
approaches me, hand held
out. He takes my fingers and lifts them to his lips, bowing low at the waist, a
wicked twinkle in his eyes. I bite back a laugh at Walker’s annoyed expression.
When
Roddy
straightens, he twirls me around as if we
are dancing before releasing me and turns back to Walker with a grin.

“Yep. You have all the luck. Beautiful
and
packing.”

“Ha ha. Funny,” I say.

He spreads his arms wide. “There’s nothing better than a
kick ass, pretty woman.”

I laugh. Good natured and flamboyant, it is impossible to
resist him. I doubt he lacks for female companionship. His appearance initially
put up my guard, but plenty of women love that bad boy biker look. My
attraction to Walker is evidence of that.

“I’m sure you aren’t lacking in that department.”

“Now
Miz
Monroe. You know a
gentleman never tells.” He winks at me, jerking his head towards Walker. “You
ever get tired of His Crankiness over here, let me know.”

Walker’s gaze darkens and I bite my bottom lip to hold in
the laugh.
Roddy
has him pegged and everyone in the
room knows it.

“Know him that well, do you?” I tease, hoping my Walker will
come back out. He grabs my hand and yanks me to him, kissing me quick, rough,
before tucking me up under his arm where I have a hard time seeing his face.

“He knows me well enough,” he mutters. “What are you doing
here,
Roddy
?”

The other man sobers under my watchful gaze, coming to
attention without actually clicking his heels. I look up but can’t get a good
look at Walker’s face.

“Janine sent me over. She’s at the viewing. Lots of people.
Cops everywhere.” His grin is cocky. “Couldn’t have planned a better homecoming
myself.”

Walker grunts and lets me go. “Let’s get the show over with
then.”

Walker leaves the room first with me in the middle and his
friend bringing up the rear. There is a vintage Harley parked next to the
Mercedes, but I don’t get the chance to look it over. As soon as we reach the
car, Walker puts me in and slams the door shut behind me. He stands outside the
door a minute talking to
Roddy
and I wonder if I can
glare a hole in his back. This new obnoxious Walker isn’t going to get far with
me. Finally, he shuts up and rounds the car.
Roddy
climbs on the bike and it roars to life.