Saving Grace. Patricia Rosemoor

as she saw him in her mind’s eye and her pulse picked up a beat. “So don’t make this into a thing.”

      Minny pulled the hanger holding the corset from the rack. Seeming extra-intent, she gazed at the garment, then used her free hand to touch it. For a moment, Minny’s expression deepened into a frown that made the flesh along Grace’s spine crawl.

      “What?” Grace demanded, her voice strained, knowing her talented cousin could get psychic readings from objects, as well as from people.

      Minny shook her head, but her expression didn’t lighten. “Something strange … bad vibes … can’t quite get it. Maybe you shouldn’t wear this.”

      As if she didn’t want to touch the bad vibe bustier any more than necessary, Minny set the hanger back on the garment rack and separated it from the other designs.

      “A fancy bustier is giving you bad vibes?” The tension drained out of Grace. “Oh, come on, Minny, you have to do better than that if you want to scare me.”

      Something her cousin used to take delight in when she’d been a teenager and in charge of Grace and Corbett.

      “I’m not trying to scare you.”

      A chill ran through Grace, but she chased it away. Minny had always used her psychic abilities to make herself seem more mysterious and all-knowing.

      “I really do need to get ready for my shoot,” Grace said, all business now.

      Tension made it impossible to get her lipstick on just right—Minny wasn’t taking the hint and leaving!

      “Uh-uh, Grace. You haven’t told me about the psychic incident yet. Did you touch this Declan?”

      “What does it matter?” Grace asked, even as what she’d seen flitted through her mind. “I don’t have the ability anymore. I don’t want to be psychic.”

      “You don’t have any say in the matter. The sooner you come to terms with that, the better. So what was it? A real live look into the future? Or were you simply reading what was on his mind?”

      She hadn’t really thought about it before. Maybe Declan had been the one on the hormonal overload and she’d merely been picking that up. Not that the possibility made her feel any better. Psychic was psychic and she didn’t want any part of the supposed gift. Or maybe her imagination had simply been engaged. Declan was someone she’d hired to work for her, and that was that.

      “You encouraged me to use my touch before, Minny, and look where it got me,” Grace reminded her. “Humiliated in front of my classmates.”

      The last time she’d read anyone’s thoughts, she’d been fifteen. Years of predictions had made her a pariah amongst her peers because kids didn’t like anyone who was different. That last time, she’d made such a muddle interpreting what she’d seen that she’d sworn never to succumb to that particular temptation again. Her decision to abstain from mind-reading had relieved her family—all but Cousin Minny, of course. Minny understood Grace’s gift because she’d been the only other person in the family who’d had the touch since their grandmama had passed.

      “It takes maturity and practice to get things right,” Minny said. “It’s not like listening to a radio. Lots of times you have to untangle what you hear to make sense of it.” Minny leaned over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Try to chill, would you? And let me know when you’re ready to expand your mind again.”

       Which would be never.

      Still, Grace hugged Minny in return. She loved her cousin even if she didn’t want to be like her.

      “Remember what I said about the bustier,” Minny reminded her. “Bad vibes.”

      “I’ll remember.”

      But Grace meant to wear it anyway. It was her job.

      After putting on the bustier, she stood in front of the mirror and aligned it on her body.

      The garment really was sexy, pushing her full breasts up over the delicate material so that her flesh looked ready to spill out of the top. As she adjusted the shallow lacy cups, she couldn’t help but wonder how Declan would react if he saw her wearing this.

      Grace struck a sultry pose as she would in front of the camera and gave her imagination free rein.

      Suddenly it came to her again—that image she’d gotten when she’d taken Declan’s hand. Unable to help herself, she cupped her breasts as he might do. Her neck arched and her breathing changed and her breasts swelled until her nipples peaked over the top of the lace.

      She licked her lips and closed her eyes for a moment and indulged herself in a moment of fantasy about a sexy man.

      Suddenly, she got the weirdest sensation, almost feeling as if Declan were watching her. Her eyes whipped open and she stared at herself in the mirror.

      No, not Declan …

       Someone else.

      Having the same feeling she’d had several times in the past weeks, she tugged the bustier in place and gave the room a paranoid once-over, expecting to see a peephole in the wall somewhere. Nothing. Of course not. Her imagination was simply running wild.

      Thank you, Minny, she thought as she slipped into a robe.

      Shaking off the creepy feeling only with difficulty, Grace quickly finished getting ready for the shoot, all the while wondering what Declan might have found out.

      “IS MS. BROUSSARD EXPECTIN’ you?” the hefty woman in the gray uniform asked.

      “No, actually not …” Declan quickly looked at the uniform’s pocket where the woman’s name was scrolled. “Eula. But I have business with Ms. Broussard.”

      The guard narrowed her gaze at Declan before nodding. “All right, go on in. But if Ms. Broussard ain’t pleased to see you, you’ll answer to me.”

      “Absolutely,” Declan said, as he headed for the door with the Gotcha! sign.

      Declan entered the photography studio office and noted the unoccupied desk set in the middle of an empty and none-too-lovingly decorated room. The place was at best functional, though no receptionist guarded the gates to the inner sanctum.

      Music drifted from an open doorway to the right. Declan stepped inside the studio, following the strains of a sexy tune—a woman with a low, throbbing voice warbling in French. He stood back in the dark.

      Before him, in a pool of hazy lavender light, lying across a chaise lounge, Grace Broussard made love to the camera in time to the sensual music. And as she did, another woman with spiked, magenta-streaked brown hair, wearing shortshorts and a tube top, photographed her. This was Max? For a moment, Declan watched her work. Max Babin was a total professional and he got no bad vibes from her, so he turned back to the woman she was photographing.

      Dressed in a cream-colored bustier, lace cheeky panties, thigh-high stockings and sling-back sandals, Grace was every man’s dream. And what she did with her body as the camera whirled softly! Max barely had to encourage her to adopt poses that made Declan physically uncomfortable.

      This was work, he reminded himself. Not play.

      On her knees, she stretched like a cat….

      She turned on her side and lifted one leg in a seemingly impossible pose….

      Then she was on her back, both legs drawn over the top of the chaise, her upper body dangling, head down….

      The very atmosphere was charged with Grace’s sexuality, and Declan was a mere man, one who’d been without female companionship for too long. He wondered how he was going to work for Grace without getting himself in a knot around her.

      “That should do it,” Max said none-too-soon.

      “Good. I’m exhausted.”

      Grace