Breaking Grace

by Rose Devereux

  Breaking Grace

  Rose Devereux

  Devereux Books

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1. Grace

  2. Bram

  3. Grace

  4. Bram

  5. Grace

  6. Bram

  7. Grace

  8. Bram

  9. Grace

  10. Bram

  11. Bram

  12. Grace

  13. Bram

  14. Grace

  15. Bram

  16. Grace

  17. Grace

  18. Bram

  19. Grace

  20. Bram

  21. Grace

  22. Bram

  23. Bram

  24. Grace

  25. Bram

  26. Grace

  27. Bram

  28. Grace

  29. Bram

  30. Bram

  31. Grace

  32. Bram

  33. Grace

  34. Bram

  35. Grace

  36. Grace

  37. Bram

  38. Grace

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Rose Devereux

  For my Family

  Acknowledgments

  To all of the readers and bloggers who support my work and love/hate/want my dominant alphas, thank you so much. I love and appreciate you all.

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Kathi Goldwyn and Zoraida Mills, for transforming the last four months of my life with your friendship and encouragement. You’re amazing. I’m so grateful for both of you every day.

  Thank you to Maureen Goodwin and everyone at The Dark Angels and Wicked Dirty Girls for making me feel so welcome, always.

  I’d be lost without Michelle Brown and Caroline Cogswell, PA’s extraordinaire. I don’t know how I lived without you! Thank you for putting up with my endless questions, and being so brilliant and kind.

  To all of the authors, bloggers, and readers of the Dark and Dirty Romance Book Club, I’m honored to be among your ranks.

  I’m endlessly grateful to my ARC readers, and the beautiful and dedicated women on my street team. Thank you to everyone in my reader’s group for appreciating the male form and loving steamy romance.

  To Amy Jay and Natasha Rivera, thank you for being my oldest and dearest friends, and for understanding when I vanish into writing for months at a time. I love you. John McCosh gave me great emergency writing advice, and knows more about story structure than I ever will.

  To all of the ladies who show up at my pages every day and comment and make me laugh – because of you, writing is never lonely. I write for you and all of my readers, and love every one of you. Thank you so much for reading my books.

  Prologue

  She walks into the courtroom and everyone stops breathing.

  Except for me. I breathe harder.

  Blood surges through my body like a dam just broke, flooding every distant vein. I flex my fists. The instinct to fuck on sight is so strong I can barely stay in my chair.

  It isn’t because she’s beautiful, though she is. Or dressed to kill, ditto. She’s wearing a cream silk blouse tucked into a skinny, ass-skimming skirt and high-heeled sandals that tie like a little suede rope around her ankles. If they’re supposed to make me think of all the things I could do to her, mission accomplished.

  Chin high, she strides past the first row of seats. Heads swivel. The chatter stops.

  Here she comes, the lovely grieving widow. Not exactly widow. Fiancé. And she’s practically a child, only twenty-three.

  When Dolly Parton wrote Jolene, she was imagining a girl like Grace Garrett. With flaming locks of auburn hair, with ivory skin, and eyes of emerald green. The lyrics are like Grace’s own personal Missing poster. Along with a list of the things I jerk off to every night.

  There are a few descriptives Dolly didn’t think of, like a click-bait body and a stern, craggy-faced minister for a father. This chick was born for social media. The press loves her. She’s got a good-girl pedigree, and she looks amazing no matter what she’s doing. Sitting, walking, crying, or wishing me stone-cold dead.

  That’s the part everyone is here to see. The silent explosion when our eyes meet. The epic, David and Goliath battle between her and me. Evil on one side, good on the other.

  That’s what makes me hard. What can I say? I’ve always liked contrast.

  Grace doesn’t care if I’m taller, richer, stronger, smarter, and better-looking than anyone she’s ever met. She knows the world loves an underdog, and she’s going to take me down. She’s here to show everyone what a monster I am.

  As if they don’t already know.

  My proclivities have been the stuff of gossip for years. When the jury looks at me, they think they know me. They put rumor and wishful thinking together, and create the perfect monster. And they love it. Something makes a brutal sort of sense in their world, and that something is me.

  If only they knew what Grace knows, and I know. They’d discover that they’ve got the story backwards.

  I’m not the villain in this tragic drama.

  She is.

  “Jesus,” I mutter as I watch her bend over to hug James’s parents.

  “What?” my lawyer says.

  “Those legs.”

  “You want to lose?” he murmurs back.

  “No,” I say. “And I won’t.”

  Her father’s not here. He came for opening arguments last week, but hasn’t been back since. He has too many people to preach to, I suppose, too many souls to save. Her mother sits beside James’s parents and they all stare straight ahead. The three of them look numb, half-dead inside. His mother’s eyes are vacant and helpless.

  She probably thinks I don’t notice. That I don’t care.

  I do care. And I’d put her only son in the ground all over again if I had to.

  Grace strides down the aisle, her heels clicking in the heavy silence. Everyone’s waiting for her to look at me. That’s when the fireworks will start.

  Her sea-green eyes flash in my direction. I look over just in time to catch her gaze.

  Every time she looks at me, it feels like sucking on jagged glass. Even though it hurts like hell, there’s something beautiful about it. I shouldn’t relish the way it cuts, but I do.

  Lips pursed, she takes in my suit, and then, the body underneath. She stares at the parts she shouldn’t, the large, powerful parts that could crush her. Hard as she tries to push her forbidden thoughts away, she can’t help but imagine what a man of my height and strength looks like naked. She wonders if I’d be as ruthless with her tiny body as I was with her fiancé.

  Yes, I mouth. A frown crumples her brow.

  The air is thick with her hatred, but I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone more.

  This is biblical stuff, her and me. First I killed her man, and now I want to fill her with my seed. Plant my flag on her gorgeous body and stake my claim.

  The whole city is on her side, and why not? I’m the wealthy scoundrel who’s up to his neck in big government contracts. I dispatch mercenaries around the world to retrieve dangerous information and make things, well, challenging for our enemies.

  She’s Scott Garrett’s daughter, a pretty girl with a touch of fire and brimstone inside her. All she wants is justice. She’s standing up for the little guy. Or in this case, the little girl.

  What crap.

  I could destroy her life in ten seconds. That’s how long it would take to prove what kind of person she is. A liar. A corrupt, money-hungry bitch.

  It would save me a lot of time and millions of dollars if I lose, which, contrary to my cocky bullshit, I just might. But I can’t do it. I can’t out her for the maliciou
s wench she is.

  She didn’t learn much from her Daddy, or maybe she did. People love a good story, whether it comes from the Bible or the mouth of a beautiful grieving girl. As long as it reaffirms their view of life, they don’t care if it’s true.

  Part of me would love to see her go down. It would be a triumph of truth and justice.

  But it would destroy her. Maybe her father’s church, too. And for some reason I can’t fathom, my gut won’t let me do it. Even if it means lying for her, which I’m about to do on the stand. Right hand raised.

  I swear, your Honor, I don’t have video of the incident. My property is wired with surveillance like a maximum security prison, but it happened to be on the blink that night. In that one place, right where the incident occurred.

  Grace sits down, her eyes glassy with grief. I pity the poor bastard who falls in love with her next. No one can compete with a ghost. He can take on any shape, infect the hearts of the living, haunt a woman’s soul all her life.

  In the split second before Grace looks away, I smile. She scowls back. We both know what I’m thinking.

  Your secret’s safe with me, sweet girl.

  But I’ll get something in return. Someday, somehow, I’m going to make you mine.

  Grace

  Eighteen months later…

  Thirteen hours before I get kidnapped, I go to work drunk.

  It was supposed to be my day off. I’d been dreading it for a week. An entire Tuesday, all to myself. Hours with nothing to do but think.

  Usually I spend my time off alone, organizing my already immaculate apartment and trying not to watch the clock. One more morning has gone by since James died. One more minute. One more second.

  But today, I had plans. Real plans, like a normal person. Last weekend was the two-year anniversary, and I’d decided it was time. Time to at least pretend.

  I had a full day scheduled. I would start with the Fine Arts Museum, where I’d try to be interested in art. Then I’d have lunch with my waitress friend who has weekdays free, and then look for new shoes. Later I’d go grocery shopping and spend an hour at the gym. I’d force myself to feel like a typical twenty-four year-old whether I wanted to or not.

  It was going to be a brand new day.

  I’d been awake for half an hour. I was sitting on the couch eating toast in my pajamas and watching the news, and then I saw him. I should have turned the TV off but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. My eyes were riveted to his face.

  He wasn’t on the news because something bad happened, like most people are. It was because his life is perfect. He’s untouchable. He’s about to get even richer, and he wants everybody to know it.

  A reporter was interviewing him outside his office. He was wearing a dark suit and a blue shirt that made his eyes look ash-gray. The sun had come out for a minute, and he was squinting in a way that made him look dangerous. Scary focused. Like he knew I was out there somewhere watching him.

  As if he cares. As if he ever thinks about me at all.

  He raised his hand to wave as he walked away, and I caught a glimpse of the chainlink tattoo on his wrist. I’ve seen it once before, in the courtroom, when he pulled up his cuff to check his watch.

  It always seemed like a metaphor. Like, everything real about him was hidden underneath.

  Smiling his smug smile, he vanished into the glass and steel Phantom Building. I turned off the TV and threw out the rest of my toast.

  Then I typed out the letter I’ve wanted to write for weeks. I signed it, stuck it in my purse, and went back to the kitchen. Before I knew it, I was pulling the Tito’s bottle from the freezer.

  One shot didn’t help, but three took the edge off. I was about to drink a fourth when I got the call.

  “Grace, is that you? Oh, thank God.”

  “Stephanie?” My heart raced as if she could see the shot glass in my hand.

  “Hannah just called in sick. Please tell me you can come to The Emerson Hotel. The Executive Council Luncheon is at noon and if you aren’t here to help I’ll die. I’ll die.”

  “I can’t, Stephanie. I’m…busy.”

  “No, you’re not. You hate days off.”

  Shit. She knew me too well. “What about Patrick?”

  “He’s scouting venues with a broker. He’s the one who told me to call you.” Her voice got high and whiny. “Please?”

  The vodka bottle sat accusingly on the kitchen counter. “I don’t feel well.”

  “You sound fine.”

  “I’m lightheaded.”

  She huffed. “You’re lying. Why are you lying?”

  I almost told her right then. I almost admitted that I’m so tired of feeling lost, sometimes I drink when I shouldn’t. I almost said I was on the wagon until I saw Bram Russell’s face. But if I said it out loud, then it would be real. It would officially be a “problem,” and I can’t handle another one of those.

  “Two hours,” she said. “You can be busy and sick later.”

  “I’m in no condition. Seriously.”

  She took a deep breath and went in for the kill. “Remember when you sent that wedding cake to Martin’s Lane instead of Martin’s Circle, and I drove all the way to the outskirts of town to get it? Like, willingly? With an amazing attitude?”

  I winced. “And I said, anytime you need a favor, or my first-born child…”

  “Yup, you did.”

  She was right. She’d saved me more than once. When Divine Events first hired me and I was a clueless ingenue, she taught me everything. She encouraged me to take risks and follow my instincts, even if only half my broken heart was in it.

  “Two hours max,” I said, flipping the coffee pot back on. “And I need to take a shower.”

  She let out a shriek. “I fucking love you.”

  I grab a mug out of the cabinet. “I really did have plans, you know.”

  “They’ll still be there on your next day off. Now get your ass down here and help me. I’ve got forty banksters showing up in an hour.”

  It’s twenty minutes until showtime. Stephanie is across the room checking the sound system. I’ve set up the podium, vacuumed stray crumbs off the chairs, and stocked the buffet tables. Two cups of coffee have made me feel tipsy and wired, but I’m doing a good job of faking sober.

  Vodka and Bram Russell be damned. This thing is going off without a hitch.

  The servers file in, chatting and tying their aprons. One of the guys, a tall blonde with biceps that strain at his white shirt, shoots me a crooked smile.

  I give him a semi-inebriated stare. Please. Minister’s daughter, virgin, dead fiancé. He’d have better luck with a Kardashian.

  “Excuse me?”

  The assistant to the event host roars up behind me with a murderous look on her face. She’s tall, with a waist-length sheet of raven hair. She’s wearing a form-fitting red midi-dress no one under forty should be able to afford. It looks amazing on her.

  I unpeel my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “How can I help?”

  “The lunch is about to start,” she hisses. “Where the fuck are the flowers?”

  “Last I checked they’re on the way, but I’ll be happy to check again.”

  Pressing my headset clumsily into my ear, I call the florist’s driver for the third time. For the third time, it goes to voicemail.

  “They must be in the Larson Tunnel,” I say. “But I promise they’ll be there.”

  “Did the food come at least?” she asks.

  “The caterers are in the kitchen prepping right now.” I touch her arm and give her my best soothing smile. “Everything’s under control.”

  “It’d better be,” she says, bright red lips twisting. “Patrick told me he only hires the best. If this event isn’t perfect, heads will roll. Including mine.”

  She turns and walks out. My chest deflates. I should only be so fashionable, so on the ball, so disgustingly perfect.

  As I put out place cards, two words keep piercing the shell around my heart. The
best.

  Once I thought the best applied to me. When I was majoring in hospitality in college and planning events at my father’s church on the side. When I still had ambitions beyond surviving each day without cracking.

  Before life lost all meaning, and barely functional became my new normal.

  I squeeze the back of a chair until my hand aches. One day I’ll be that girl again. I’ll have dreams and ambitions and a reason to wake up in the morning. Time heals all wounds, doesn’t it?

  Or not, according to the therapist my parents made me see, the one who said I had complicated grief.

  “Well, of course grief is complicated,” I said. “There is nothing about this shit that’s simple.”

  But she was talking about something else. The kind of grief that doesn’t go away by itself. Not for years. Decades, even.

  She said she could help me get better. I haven’t been back to see her since.

  I don’t want help. I don’t want to get better. I just want James back. If pain is all I have left of him, I’ll never let it go.

  Stephanie’s assistant, Wendy, bustles into the room and touches my back. “Um, Grace? Patrick’s out in the lobby.”

  “He is?” I’m suddenly feeling a lot more sober. “Why?”

  “He had to meet a client down the street. He asked to talk to you.”

  “Now?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Okay,” I say, handing her my earpiece and tablet. “Can you keep calling about the flowers? We have eight minutes to make this happen.”

  She gives me a thumbs-up. “I’m on it.”

  Popping a mint into my mouth, I walk to the lobby. I head past the main desk toward the lounge. The polished marble floor feels like ice under my heels, and the pattern on the walls makes me dizzy.

  Okay. So I’m not in the best shape for a talk with my boss.

  Tossing back my hair, I take a quick, steeling breath. You’ve got this, Grace. You can do it. As long as you don’t completely fucking blow it.

  I see Patrick standing near a large gas fireplace with his back to me. His bomber jacket is speckled with rain. He turns, spotting me just as I step onto the carpet.