Charming Grace Read Free Page A

funerals. I want to lay there lookin’ pretty while a street band plays Dixieland jazz and my friends get drunk on bourbon. If you shoot me in the head, it’ll put a damper on the festivities.”
    The voice was deeply Southern but not mountain-grown; dialects and accents in the South are as varied as chocolate, and this one came from some lowland coast where English duked it out for dominance. It made an exotic melody on a cold Thursday morning atop plain gravel.
    “Who are you?” I demanded.
    “My name’s Noleene. Boone Noleene. I work for Mr. Senterra.” He slid a wallet from the pocket of his jacket. “I have I.D.” His hand stopped in mid-air when I raised the tip of the shotgun toward his head. He looked from it to me. “You can take my word for it.” He put the wallet away.
    “What do you do, besides spy on me from down in laurel thickets?”
    “Some people say I’m in charge of Mr. Senterra’s personal security. I say I’m just a bodyguard. Either way, it’s my job to let you shoot me instead of him .”
    Trickles of ice ran down my spine. No limo caravan. A tattooed thug steps out of the woods. He doesn’t look surprised to see me and my gravel blocking the road. He works for Stone Senterra. I’ve been had.
    “I’d prefer to shoot Mr. Senterra. And his spies.”
    “Yeah, I know. But you won’t. You planned this thing here to get his attention. You’ve tried everything else. You never give up. Your history with your husband shows that. When push comes to shove, you’ll risk everything for a showdown. But you’re not a law-breaker, Mrs. Vance. Even if you were, your husband wouldn’t want to see you in jail, and you’ll honor his memory.”
    “You’re wrong. The ends justify the means.”
    The tall, breathtaking Boone Noleene didn’t budge. “You’re not mean,” he said. “And this isn’t the end.”
    I tucked the shotgun deeper into the crook of my shoulder and aimed at his crotch. “It is for you , if you take one more step.”
    He slowly eased one soft shoe in the edge of the gravel, then another. When I didn’t fire he began to climb. I stopped breathing, but refused to lower the shotgun. He never took his gaze off mine. His eyes were dark and thickly lashed, almost boyish in a face that had been used to break some fists. I was thirty-four. He might not be much older, except for that gladiator face.
    He reached the top and stopped no more than an arm’s length away me. “Okay,” he said, “If you’re not going to shoot me, let’s talk. You’re a smart woman. You know how to work the media. You used to be a TV reporter. You can get what you want without pulling a trigger.”
    I kept the gun trained on his crotch. “I was just a beauty queen running a morning talk show. Not a journalist. A glorified party hostess. More reckless and less ethical than you think.”
    “No. I’ve seen the tapes of your show. There was a lot more to you than good looks and a big smile.”
    “You think better of me than I do.”
    “Must be mutual. Otherwise, you’d have shot me by now. Since you haven’t, I’m goin’ to sit down right there. Nice and easy. Don’t worry; you keep the shotgun, and I’ll keep my distance.”
    He slowly sat down beside me. Only Dancer, the wild pink orchid, separated us. I was left pointing the shotgun at empty air. After an awkward moment, I lowered it to my knees and frowned at him. He looked at the ladyslipper. “Hello, Dancer.”
    He knew the name of my orchid.
    The amazing stranger, this Boone Noleene, propped his long, brawny forearms on his updrawn knees and focused with what appeared to be polite patience on the gray-green mountains in front of us. “Believe it or not, Mr. Senterra wants to honor your husband. He wants do right by him.”
    “ His idea of right. His idea of making a serious drama instead of a head-banging cartoon. He thinks he can direct a movie and start an artsy new phase of his show biz career. That people will forget he’s