Haunted (6 page)

“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 said to Clint. “You sent that beautiful Texan, what was her name? Salela Bennett, running all the way back to Texas!”

“Sasha,” Clint corrected.

“Sasha, that's right.
Sasha
. Why can't I ever remember that name?” Mae asked. “Oh! Maybe it's because no one could possibly keep track of the women who come and go through your ever so charming lives!”

“Mae! We're just looking for true love,” Clint said dryly.

“My foot! You're looking for the next great body. But I think that the two of you could be left in the dust by this new visitor,” Mae informed them with a sagely spoken pleasure.

“Well, of course, because with Matt's brand of charm, she'll be heading straight back to Washington,” Carter said with a sigh. He arched a brow to Matt. “I can recall a few times when you might have been a little rough on Lavinia.”

“At least he married her first,” Mae said.

“I was never that rude to Lavinia—even in the midst of divorce,” Matt said, irritated with himself that he was still feeling defensive, and now being reminded of his disastrous marriage.

“See, Mae? You can't rush into marriage,” Carter said. “Look at the whole Lavinia thing. There she was—the most gorgeous thing breathing on earth, and what a manipulative witch.”

“We just didn't have the same concept of a life well lived,” Matt said, wondering why in the hell he should suddenly defend
even his ex-wife. Simple fact, Lavinia had been a bitch. Rich, spoiled, and heedless of anyone around her.

“We're all missing the point here,” old Anthony Larkin suddenly pointed out. “Mae, seems to me the world has changed a lot since I was a young man. Hell, yes, these young people should find out if they're going to make it in an affair before tying the knot. Divorces are too easy these days, and they're still hard as hell on people. Especially on their kids!”

“Well, thankfully, Matt and Lavinia didn't have kids. A devil's tail might have shown up on one of them,” Clint said. “I think Lavinia's had plastic surgery to get rid of hers, but genetically, it would have still been there.”

“Lavinia is gone, and it's over,” Matt said flatly.

“That Sibel, Shana, or Sheila girl Clint was dating wasn't a bitch,” Mae said with a sniff. “Opinionated, and intelligent, and ready to take care of herself. But she wasn't a bitch.”

Clint offered an exaggerated sigh. “Mae, her name was Sasha. Sasha Bennett. And the problem with our great affair was that she wanted me to move to Texas! And wait a minute—we're getting off the subject here.”

Anthony shook his white head in a way that made his beard rake back and forth over his chest. “All right, here's my opinion from an old geezer, Matt. Let's forget about past transgressions—committed by the lot of you. Every woman isn't a potential affair. This one seems darned regal and intelligent. She was sent here to work. Matt, you're having trouble up at your place. You told me yourself, you called your grandfather's old friend Harrison after you received his letter. Key concept here—
you
called
him
. So—just why were you such a jerk to that girl?”

“She looks too much like Lavinia,” Clint said.

“No, she doesn't,” Carter argued. “She has the walk, the movement…kind of like a natural grace. That's all that's the same.”

Matt scowled at them both. “Hey, looks have nothing to do with anything, gentlemen.”

“Gentlemen?” Mae said with a sniff.

“I'm unhappy about the whole thing, I suppose. And yes, I called Adam after I got the letter, but that's the point—I expected Adam Harrison himself,” Matt admitted ruefully. “And then again, maybe it all did have something to do with her appearance.” He glared at Clint and Carter. “Not that she resembles Lavinia in any way.”

“She doesn't. She's really much prettier,” Mae put in.

“But,” Matt continued. “She doesn't look like any hard-core investigator, does she?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Carter said.

“Hey, they say you're going to let Liz do a seance,” Anthony Larkin reminded him. “How hard-core would that be?”

“Liz was close with Gramps, too,” Matt said. “A really great nurse to him toward the end. I owe her.” He shrugged. “She begged when I told her that I had people coming down who were supposedly ghost experts. She wanted first crack at a seance, before any out-of-towners took over. She also holds her Women's Town Meeting in the house once a month, and it's a big event that makes the house a good income.”

Anthony shrugged. “Figured it had to be something like that. I ran into her down at the drugstore. She said that she'd been pleading with you, just for herself, since she's so sure she feels all that cold stuff, especially in the upstairs bedroom. And she said that the writer could come in, and the new guy from the Chamber of Commerce. So…it's a crock if you're keeping out that pretty girl because she's more about ghosts than finding out if something natural is going bump in the middle of the night.”

“And damn, but she is good-looking,” Clint supplied.

Matt nodded slowly. They were all right—and he had been one hell of an ass to the woman. She had just hit a raw nerve with him, he supposed, looking as if she had just stepped off a
fashion page, heels clicking on the floor, manicured nails expressive in the air as she spoke, her face that of a sophisticated angel—or siren, one or the other.

Redheads were always trouble.

“I'm just irritated, I guess. Maybe I do owe her an apology.”

The phone rang stridently from the bar. He felt a surge of anger. She was already calling. Mae picked up the phone.

“Hello…yes, Penny, he's here. He's got his cell phone turned off again, huh? Well, he's sitting here, sure as can be. Shouldn't have that cell phone turned off, Matt, you know that,” she said, her hand over the receiver.

“Shirley at the station knows where I am, and that's all that matters,” Matt said.

“Penny knows you're here now, come on over and talk to her! Please!” Mae insisted, seeing the stubborn set to his jaw.

Matt cast Mae an evil eye, then rose to accept the receiver from behind the bar. Penny came on the line.

“Yes?”

“Matt, I heard you gave that girl from New York an absolutely wretched time!”

“Penny, I really did no such thing. And how did you hear so fast?”

Matt looked around. Sure enough, Marty Sawyer—Penny's nephew—who had been watching Carter's pool game was now nowhere to be seen. He'd slunk out already.

“Matt Stone! There is so much good to be done here! Principal Joe from the grade school was telling me how much the schoolchildren just loved the living history productions we did last summer, and you know as well as I do that you can't keep that kind of program going if we don't make sure that the house is entirely safe. And you've already agreed that we can let the seance go on.”

“Because even though I don't believe in such a thing as a ‘medium,' I like Elizabeth!” he said irritably.

“You're going to make a tiny percentage off Elizabeth—compared to what Adam Harrison is paying to investigate your property. He usually charges people for his services. Now you know that I personally think that the ghosts are wonderful, but even I'm getting nervous here. Think about poor Clara's face—and don't go telling me she bumped into a wall. We need our ghost stories, some of them are so great. Passion, spurned lovers, murders, suicides! But…there's something not at all right going on as well. Oh, Matt, please! If you really love the house and our history and want to keep the place open, not to mention in the family!—please let this girl come and get started on her investigations, no matter what it is, exactly, that she does.”

He gazed back at the bar. Everyone was staring at them. Penny was speaking loudly. They could all hear. “Penny—you're right. Murders and suicides. The woman in white who's been seen floating around the staircase. You know what? It isn't going to matter what I do—the stories are going to circulate forever.”