Darkest Journey by Heather Graham Page B

He’d been nineteen.
    He’d filled out since the last time she’d seen him. Character seemed to have been etched into his face. He’d been a striking teenager, but this Ethan, with those green-gold eyes, dark hair and features that could have been painted by an Old Master, was something else altogether. His hair was cropped short now, his eyes had a sharper edge to them, and his chin had squared. He’d been a boy, she realized. Now he was a man.
    As he walked up to them, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the brutal rays of the sun, and suddenly he became a total stranger.
    â€œEthan Delaney,” her father said in an unreadable tone.
    â€œMr. Moreau,” Ethan said, his voice now deep and rich. “Hope you’re doing well, sir.”
    â€œWe were doing well enough,” Jonathan said gruffly. He turned and looked at Charlie again, then nodded toward the two of them and started to head down the slope.
    He stopped after a moment and turned back. He stood very tall and straight, and said, “Don’t let her get involved in this, Ethan. You watch out for her. Don’t you let anything happen to Charlie.”
    â€œI didn’t before, sir,” Ethan said quietly. “And I won’t now.”
    Charlie watched her father go, feeling a little ill. She loved him so much.
    Then he was gone, and she was left alone with Ethan Delaney.

3
    T hey stood some distance apart still, neither one rushing forward to initiate a warm old-friends’ hug.
    It had been a long time.
    But, looking at her now, Ethan wished he could just walk over and take her in his arms.
    Charlie had changed.
    He would never forget the way she had looked when he’d found her that night—truthfully, he would never forget anything about that night. Charlie had always been beautiful.
    She had become more so over the last ten years. The bone structure of her face was sharper. Her eyes, the deepest blue he’d ever seen, seemed even larger. She had delicately shaped brows, a nearly perfectly straight nose and a generous, well-defined mouth. She was tall—five-ten, at a guess—and carried her height well. She was thin, but had all the right curves. Everything about Charlie was...
    Pretty damned perfect. Her hair was a rich chestnut. She wore it long, and it seemed to move with her at all times, even when she was standing still. In fact, when she’d had a crush on him, it had seemed like manna from above.
    But, of course, he’d been nineteen. In college. She’d been sixteen, still just a sophomore in high school. Any thought of a relationship was simply doomed. And so, despite every objection posed by his heart—and his libido—he had turned her away. He wondered if, with age, she’d understood. He hadn’t seen her since Frank Harnett’s trial. She’d never tried to contact him.
    Until now.
    He wondered if she had any clue to the way she had haunted his dreams. The way he remembered her face when she’d looked up at him, her beauty, her hope—her faith.
    â€œSo how are you doing?” he asked her quietly. “Other than stumbling across a dead man.”
    She smiled. “Good. Thanks. In a nutshell, college, performing-arts major, some theater, some webisodes, a few nicely paying commercials. I’ve really been enjoying filming here. I love the project, love that we’re all a part of the production as a whole—and glad to be home again. I don’t get here often—not on purpose or anything. It’s just I’ve been living in New Orleans, because that’s where most of the work is. But it’s great being here, because I get to see more of Dad, though the Journey ’s home port is NOLA, so I get to see him when he’s in town. I’m talking too much. Sorry. How about you?”
    He shrugged and smiled. Talking too much? She’d managed to cover ten years in a pretty compact nutshell.
    â€œCollege,