equipment." He shrugged, flashing
a glance across the table. "Should the project go forward."
"David, nice to meet you," she said. "Justin, our office
manager, told me that he had talked to you."
"You don't have your own equipment?" Chisel-face asked.
"Of course, we have some very specialized equipment,"
Darcy forced herself to say politely. "But we like to rent video
cameras and tape recorders from local facilities. That keeps
anyone from suggesting that we've rigged anything. Mr. Stone knows
how we work and what we do-he was sent information on the
company."
Chisel-face inclined his head, and she wished that the idiot
wasn't wearing sunglasses in the middle of a smoky bar. "It's good
to hear that you think local facilities might offer you enough-you
know, equipment up to the par of your... investigative
techniques.''
"We've worked across the country-and abroad," she said coolly,
"and we have always maintained excellent work relationships in
every area."
"That sounds mighty fine!"
Darcy was startled when the voice came from behind her. She
turned to see that the pool player who had been called Carter had
come up behind her. He was taller than she had realized; she was
fairly tall herself at five nine, and in her heels, she had another
two inches. He wore a beard and mustache, and had intense green
eyes. And beneath his worn flannel shirt, he seemed to be in
exceptional condition. She did, however, feel as if she had
completely stepped back in time. Put a uniform on him, and he might
have been the cavalry general Jeb Stuart, having stepped off his
horse and into the local tavern. He stared at her with a strange
sincerity as he spoke. "Too many times, Yankees have come down
South and thought themselves like almighty gods. But, hey, you
know, this just might be the right one. Ms. Tremayne, I've seen
your face all over on billboards, too. You just may be the
one."
"Thanks," she murmured.
Yankees had come south?
She'd
done a lot of traveling, but she'd never felt a time warp such as
this before. "You know," she said quietly, "my company isn't really
headquartered more than two hours away."
"A popular face," Chisel-face murmured. "Forgive me-it just
seems so strange. A model. Hm. Maybe they sent you down to
manipulate Matt Stone. Not a bad idea? I mean, could you possibly
really
be the business end of this deal? You are an
exceptionally fine-looking Yank- even with a packet of degrees from
NYU."
Darcy felt fury suddenly take root in every limb of her body.
Get along with the locals! Like hell!
She'd had it.
Everything she'd learned in college, in business, and in life, fled
her mind, and her temper kicked
in.
"It's an excellent school," she said, rising. "And I'm afraid,
gentlemen, that the rest of the world has entered the twenty-first
century. The Civil War was lost during the nineteenth. We're all
one big country now, you might recall. Washington
D.C.-
where I'm based
-is extremely close. Busy. The world
goes on there."
"D.C," Chisel-face murmured, then grinned at his fellows. "I'll
bet the old boys considered it just one and the same as this area,
eh boys?"
She rose, hands planted firmly down on the table, and assessed
him coolly. Words seemed to spit from her before she took the time
to think them out. "You know, I did forget to return your rather
backward compliment. Actually, you're not too bad-looking for
a total asshole. You really will excuse me. In truth, none of this,
me, my credentials, my job here-is any of your business. I
need to discuss matters with Mr. Stone, and no one else." She
allowed her gaze to sweep with disdain over the lot of them and she
turned and walked with crisply clicking heels to the door, where
she turned back. "By the way, just for your information, the South
lost
the war. If any of you happen to see Mr. Stone,
perhaps you'll be good enough to let him know that I did come to
meet him. I'll be calling."
As she stared at the men, they rose, staring back at her. The
most friendly of
a glance across the table. "Should the project go forward."
"David, nice to meet you," she said. "Justin, our office
manager, told me that he had talked to you."
"You don't have your own equipment?" Chisel-face asked.
"Of course, we have some very specialized equipment,"
Darcy forced herself to say politely. "But we like to rent video
cameras and tape recorders from local facilities. That keeps
anyone from suggesting that we've rigged anything. Mr. Stone knows
how we work and what we do-he was sent information on the
company."
Chisel-face inclined his head, and she wished that the idiot
wasn't wearing sunglasses in the middle of a smoky bar. "It's good
to hear that you think local facilities might offer you enough-you
know, equipment up to the par of your... investigative
techniques.''
"We've worked across the country-and abroad," she said coolly,
"and we have always maintained excellent work relationships in
every area."
"That sounds mighty fine!"
Darcy was startled when the voice came from behind her. She
turned to see that the pool player who had been called Carter had
come up behind her. He was taller than she had realized; she was
fairly tall herself at five nine, and in her heels, she had another
two inches. He wore a beard and mustache, and had intense green
eyes. And beneath his worn flannel shirt, he seemed to be in
exceptional condition. She did, however, feel as if she had
completely stepped back in time. Put a uniform on him, and he might
have been the cavalry general Jeb Stuart, having stepped off his
horse and into the local tavern. He stared at her with a strange
sincerity as he spoke. "Too many times, Yankees have come down
South and thought themselves like almighty gods. But, hey, you
know, this just might be the right one. Ms. Tremayne, I've seen
your face all over on billboards, too. You just may be the
one."
"Thanks," she murmured.
Yankees had come south?
She'd
done a lot of traveling, but she'd never felt a time warp such as
this before. "You know," she said quietly, "my company isn't really
headquartered more than two hours away."
"A popular face," Chisel-face murmured. "Forgive me-it just
seems so strange. A model. Hm. Maybe they sent you down to
manipulate Matt Stone. Not a bad idea? I mean, could you possibly
really
be the business end of this deal? You are an
exceptionally fine-looking Yank- even with a packet of degrees from
NYU."
Darcy felt fury suddenly take root in every limb of her body.
Get along with the locals! Like hell!
She'd had it.
Everything she'd learned in college, in business, and in life, fled
her mind, and her temper kicked
in.
"It's an excellent school," she said, rising. "And I'm afraid,
gentlemen, that the rest of the world has entered the twenty-first
century. The Civil War was lost during the nineteenth. We're all
one big country now, you might recall. Washington
D.C.-
where I'm based
-is extremely close. Busy. The world
goes on there."
"D.C," Chisel-face murmured, then grinned at his fellows. "I'll
bet the old boys considered it just one and the same as this area,
eh boys?"
She rose, hands planted firmly down on the table, and assessed
him coolly. Words seemed to spit from her before she took the time
to think them out. "You know, I did forget to return your rather
backward compliment. Actually, you're not too bad-looking for
a total asshole. You really will excuse me. In truth, none of this,
me, my credentials, my job here-is any of your business. I
need to discuss matters with Mr. Stone, and no one else." She
allowed her gaze to sweep with disdain over the lot of them and she
turned and walked with crisply clicking heels to the door, where
she turned back. "By the way, just for your information, the South
lost
the war. If any of you happen to see Mr. Stone,
perhaps you'll be good enough to let him know that I did come to
meet him. I'll be calling."
As she stared at the men, they rose, staring back at her. The
most friendly of
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