Haunted. Heather Graham
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overly-stacked.
“I worked for Original Sins cosmetics, yes,” she said, again forcing her tone to be even. “I also have graduate degrees in American history and sociology from NYU.”
“I 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.”
“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 them, Dimple-face, began to smile.
“What?” she demanded.
“Oh,” he said, “I think Matt Stone definitely knows you were here.”
“Really?” she grated. “And why is that.”
Chisel-face spoke up. “Ms. Tremayne, I am Matt Stone.”
Adam Harrison would have handled it all much better. He would have found a way to be both dignified and smooth. But of course, if Adam had felt that he’d cast himself into a den of testosterone, he would have had managed to gain respect immediately, no matter what.
Darcy couldn’t quite diffuse the steam rising in her.
“Well, I’m sorry that I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, since you’ve done nothing but amuse yourself at my expense, Mr. Stone. And if you destroy this opportunity, it won’t hurt me in the least. My employer is the man who deems your house important.”
With that, she turned, exited, and let the door close behind her.
“Well, that was just great!” Mae said from behind the bar.
Matt set his sunglasses on top of his head and turned to Mae with a challenging look. “Mae, I didn’t know who the hell she was at first, and since it was my understanding Harrison was coming himself, she made me somewhat wary. We don’t need a bunch of crackpots thinking that they can come here and recreate a ‘Blair Witch’ scenario.”
“He’s right,” Clint said, grinning in a way that made his dimple deep, amusement lighting his eyes. “A goddess walks in—and he sends her out as rudely as possible. Good going, Matt.”
Clint was Matt’s second cousin, but though he carried the family name, his grandfather had been born on what they called the wrong side of the blanket. Probably a good thing; Clint’s commitment to enjoying life was often entertaining, but Matt was pretty certain that, had the property gone down to Clint, it was unlikely they’d be having this discussion now—the holding would have been long gone. Not because the fields might have fallen prey to plight or disease, but rather to the plague of gambling debt that never seemed to dampen Clint’s spirits.
Matt looked from Mae to Clint, shaking his head. “Doesn’t the concept of dignity mean anything to the two of you?”
“Not a hell of a lot,” Clint said cheerfully.
“Dignity? Do you think you allowed that poor girl to feel that she had any?” Carter asked.
“She’s accustomed to getting whatever she wants, I imagine,” Matt said with a shrug. “And don’t you tell me about dignity, Carter.” He admitted, only to himself, that he might have been rude—only a bit. But at least with reason. Still, he felt obliged to remind his friend about some of his own behavior. “If I remember correctly, you were so rude to your friend, Catherine Angsley, in this very bar, in front of far more people, that she left the county, never to be seen again.”
Carter shrugged. “At least I knew her first.”
Mae chuckled. “And you, young man,” she