"And putting on this little act will get us what?"

"Seventeen years ago you desperately wanted to help us bring Booth Fortier down. Here's your chance to help us do that and also protect Grace Beaumont's life in the process. Once Dundee 's starts digging, it's only a matter of time before her life is threatened. We both know that."

"Why not send one of your agents?"

Moran clicked his tongue, but said nothing.

"You've already got someone in place, someone working undercover in my uncle's organization."

Moran remained silent.

"Damn you, Moran! Something's gone wrong with your inside man."

Moran's expression didn't confirm or deny Jed's statement.

"You need a contact person between your guy and the Bureau, someone with a personal connection to Fortier," Jed said. "Booth might question my motives, but deep down he'd want to believe that he has a chance of making things right with me. My uncle has a warped sense of family, so he'd like nothing better than to bring me back into the fold."

"Then you'll do it, won't you?"

"Yeah, I'll do it. You knew I would." He glanced around the room, his gaze pausing on each man in turn.

"We were fairly confident that we could count on you," Sawyer said.

"Retribution's been a long time coming, Tyree," Moran told him. "But with your help, we stand a good chance of splitting Fortier's crime syndicate wide open."

Grace emerged from the white Mercedes, locked the vehicle, smoothed the wrinkles from her coral linen shirt and headed into the airport terminal. More than once during the past ten years, St. Camille's little airport had been put on the extermination list, coming close to being shut down. But every time, the influence of local politicians and Sheffield Media, Inc. managed to keep the planes flying in and out of the small Louisiana town.

Having arrived early, Grace waited inside the terminal. She sat in an uncomfortable, hard plastic seat and checked her watch continuously. Her entire support contingent had offered to come to the airport with her this morning-Joy, Hudson, Elsa and Uncle Willis-but she had declined their offer. Nolan had wanted to drive her here in her father's Rolls, but she'd nixed that idea immediately. She wanted her first encounter with the Dundee agent to be just the two of them. In the next few weeks-or perhaps even months-she and a man named Jed Tyree were going to be working together to prove the validity of the accusations against Governor Miller and Booth Fortier. It was imperative to the mission that he and she form a bond of trust and cooperation.

The minutes ticked by, each moment seeming like a dozen, as she waited impatiently. Finally twenty minutes later, the arrival of Jed Tyree's flight was announced. She joined the dozen or so others who were meeting that flight as they congregated together to greet the incoming passengers. Grace watched as, one by one, men and women disembarked. Four, eight, twelve. There he is, she thought. She wasn't sure exactly how she knew that the man she was looking at was Jed Tyree, but she knew. He was tall-probably six-three-with shoulders that would fill a doorway. His dark, curly hair appeared to have been combed with his fingers. A day's growth of beard stubble covered his cheeks and chin. And his attire was casual. Very casual. A light-blue cotton knit shirt clung to his broad chest and muscular arms. And a pair of well-worn jeans hugged his hips. With every move he made, Jed Tyree's body screamed, "I'm a man!"

Grace swallowed. The very idea that she would be even remotely affected by this man's blatant masculinity unnerved her. Not once since Dean's death had she felt the least bit attracted to another man. You're not attracted to this man, she told herself. You've simply noticed how virile he is.

The man glanced around, obviously looking for her. He scanned the few remaining people waiting, then zeroed in on her. His eyes widened. He grinned. But suddenly the grin vanished, replaced by a worried frown.

She took a tentative step toward him. "Mr. Tyree?"

He nodded.

"I'm Grace Beaumont." She held out her hand.

He hesitated. She heard a low rumble coming from his throat and thought he'd murmured something that sounded like "son-of-a-bitch."

When she continued holding out her hand, he finally grasped it and gave her the quickest handshake she'd ever exchanged.

"We can pick up your luggage and then-"

"This is all the luggage I brought." He hoisted the black canvas bag over his shoulder.

"Oh. All right." She motioned for him to follow her. "I'm parked in the adjacent lot. I'm afraid we don't have valet parking here."

"Lead the way."

Grace glanced over her shoulder-once-and caught him staring at her behind. Feeling self-conscious, she tried to not sway her hips as she walked.

When they approached the Mercedes, she punched the button on her keyless entry pad and the trunk flipped open. Without being told what to do, Jed dropped his bag inside, closed the trunk lid, then hurried around to the driver's side and waited for her to unlock the door. The moment she pushed the pad again, he opened her door for her. He didn't look like a gentleman, Grace thought, but by this gesture alone he showed he could act like one.

"Thank you." She smiled at him. He returned the smile. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. This wasn't happening! No way. What was wrong with her? Why did he make her feel like a young girl encountering her first real man?

Grace slid behind the wheel, strapped her seat belt, started the engine and turned on the air conditioning. Although it wasn't quite June yet, it was already warm and humid. The minute Jed fastened his safety belt, she backed out of the parking slot and drove onto the city street.

"Have you ever been to Louisiana, Mr. Tyree?" Grace hoped some idle chitchat might relieve the tension tightening inside her.

He didn't respond immediately, as if he had to think about his answer. "Please, call me Jed. And as a matter of fact I was born and raised in Louisiana."

"Really?" Grace forced herself to keep her eyes on the street, to not sneak a peek at her passenger. "Where are you from?"

"Beaulac. It's a little place between Baton Rouge and Lafayette."

"Beaulac's not far from here. We have a radio station there."

"Sheffield Media, Inc. is a pretty far-reaching empire. I understand it spreads over into Mississippi, Oklahoma and Texas."

"Have you done your homework on me?" Grace hazarded a glance at him. "I'm afraid I don't know much about you other than your name and that your boss, Mr. McNamara, assured me you were the right man to head up this job."

"Not much to know, ma'am. I joined the army at eighteen and stayed in for fifteen years. I've worked for Dundee a little over a year. No wife. No kids. Never been married."

"I suppose you know my personal history."

"Yes, ma'am. Dundee 's always compiles a file on all clients. Just basic stuff. Nothing too personal. Not unless it affects the case."

"Murder is very personal, isn't it, Mr. Ty-Jed? So I suppose you know the facts about the car wreck that killed my husband and my father."

"I'm sorry about what happened. I understand you almost died, too."

"A part of me did die," Grace admitted, then wondered why she was so forthcoming with a stranger.

"I think I understand."

No, you don't understand, Grace wanted to shout. You can't possibly understand. No one can. Not unless they have survived an accident that killed the other members of their family. Not unless they, too, have lain in a hospital bed, and silently prayed to die.

Grace whipped the Mercedes through early morning traffic, which wasn't terribly heavy in a small town like St. Camille, but dense enough to slow their progress from the city limits out into the country where Belle Foret was located.