Haunted by Heather Graham Page A

NYU.”
    â€œI heard that Adam Harrison would be coming here himself,” Chisel-face said.
    Darcy gritted her teeth. “Yes, Mr. Harrison will come down at some time during the investigation. He’s been delayed. At the moment, he is tied up with business in London.” She stopped, irritated that she’d felt herself obliged to explain anything to these men.
    She was about to rise when the fourth member of the party—the man with the decent haircut and store-bought clothing suddenly leaned forward, extending a hand to her. “Sorry, we should have introduced ourselves, especially me, right away. I’m David Jenner, Jenner Equipment—and someone from your office approached me about renting some recording and video equipment.” He shrugged, flashing a glance across the table. “Should the project go forward.”
    â€œDavid, nice to meet you,” she said. “Justin, our office manager, told me that he had talked to you.”
    â€œYou don’t have your own equipment?” Chisel-face asked.
    â€œOf 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 idiotwasn’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.”
    â€œWe’ve worked across the country—and abroad,” she said coolly, “and we have always maintained excellent work relationships in every area.”
    â€œThat 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.”
    â€œThanks,” 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.”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œIt’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.