Heart Of Evil. Heather Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ Hey there, remember me?” Whitney said, nudging him.

      “Just a second,” Jake said. He knew that the man would finish his spiel about St. Louis Cathedral, and then allow the group to take pictures.

      This guide, however, apparently liked to hear himself speak. He added in several personal anecdotes regarding the cathedral, before allowing his group to disperse for pictures.

      When the group finally thinned, Jake approached him. The fellow, in his mid-twenties, saw them coming.

      “The tour offices are actually on Decatur, sir, if you’re interested in any of our offerings. We do history tours, ghost tours, vampire tours, plantation tours—”

      “Actually, we’re locals and could do the tours,” Jake said, interrupting him with a pleasant tone. “I’m just curious—why did you all change tour guides at the last minute?”

      The man frowned. “We didn’t. I’ve been scheduled for over a week to do this tour.”

      Jake frowned. “I saw a woman with your group. She was dressed in antebellum clothing, bonnet and all.”

      “Oh, she was probably heading for Le Petit Theatre,” the tour guide said. “They’re doing several performances of Our American Cousin. She’s a bit early to be in costume for the matinee, but I imagine you saw one of the actresses.”

      “Oh, well, thanks,” Jake said.

      “Why?”

      “Oh, I just thought she was trying to tell me something,” Jake said.

      “If she was trying to tell you something, wouldn’t she have just done so?” the man asked.

      Jake was irritated by the tone; frankly, he hadn’t liked the man since he’d heard him giving his own life’s history along with the tour.

      He felt Whitney’s hand on his arm.

      He forced a smile. “Thanks, thanks for the help,” he said.

      Whitney pulled him along. “Jerk,” she said.

      “Ass,” Jake agreed.

      “I meant you,” Whitney teased. “No, sorry—he was a jerk. But come on now! We don’t have any reason to go to the theater.”

      “But we’re going to pass it!” Jake protested.

      “Let it go, Jake. You saw an actress, and you thought she had something to say. Without sounding just as jerky as that jerk, it’s true—if she’d really wanted to talk to you, she would have come on over. I don’t want to help you stalk a woman, Jake.”

      “I don’t want to stalk her. I want to know who she is,” Jake said.

      But they did pass right by Le Petit Theatre. He couldn’t help but stop to read the playbill and look at the pictures of the actors in the show.

      “She’s not here,” he said.

      “Well, God knows, this is New Orleans. Maybe she’s just a kook who likes to dress up in Southern belle attire, though God knows why, the heat can be a bitch. Forget it, Jake.”

      Jake agreed. He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much that he’d seen the woman and hadn’t been able to talk to her.

      That wasn’t true. He did know. There had been something vaguely familiar about her, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was.

      “Jake? Are you okay?” Whitney asked.

      “Fine.”

      “No, you’re not.”

      “It’s nothing, really. Hey, nothing that car bombs tonight after dinner with the group won’t cure, right?” he said, setting an arm around her shoulders as he led her down the street.

      Car bombs weren’t going to fix anything. He was truly disturbed by the woman.

      Why was she so familiar? Was she real, or was she in his imagination? Had he brought his dream world to the surface, and did he want her to be from Donegal?

      It was absurd, even for a ghost hunter, to believe that someone from the past was calling out to him, trying to reach him.

      Logic—and then feelings. That was Jackson Crow’s motto. It was only logical that he think about Ashley now, and logical that even after all these years, he wanted her to need him.

      Logic …

      Somehow, it just wasn’t working. Feelings were taking over. And thoughts of Ashley and Donegal Plantation.

      2

      Ashley surveyed the expanse of the property one last time; everything was going extremely well. Children were playing and laughing, the camp looked wonderful and there were activities going on everywhere.

      She headed for the house. It was time for her to become Emma Donegal and get ready for the evening’s battle.

      But as she walked toward the house, she slowed, paused and looked over at the cemetery. The gate was locked.

      Still, a creeping feeling of unease swept over her.

      She shrugged it off; a dream was a dream. Good God, she’d dreamed once that she’d kissed Vance Thibault in high school one day, and she loathed him! She hurried on toward the house, trying to forget her unease.

      Her grandfather, Frazier Donegal, was sitting on the back porch. She grinned; he looked spectacular, she thought. Frazier was eighty-three, but he showed little sign of slowing down. Today he was dressed in a frock coat, pinstripe breeches and high riding boots—a pure gentleman of the age with his full head of snow-white, a Colonel Sanders mustache and goatee, and bright blue eyes. She worried about him constantly; his health was good, but he was eighty-three.

      He was really in the mood today, though, she thought. He was sipping a mint julep. He didn’t even like mint juleps.

      “There you are!” he said. “I was starting to wonder.”

      Ashley sat in one of the wicker rockers across from him. “Last-minute details in the stables,” she told him. “Charles Osgood didn’t want to be a Yankee.”

      Frazier rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It works, you know, for the property, it works. But why on earth everyone always wants to be on the losing side, I’ll just never know. Did he finally accept his assignment?”

      “He did—but Ramsay Clayton stepped in at the last minute to let him play Marshall Donegal,” Ashley said.

      “Oh?”

      “I don’t think Ramsay cares. It’s all play to him,” she said.

      “Ramsay is a good fellow. You think he was trying to appear magnanimous in front of you?” Frazier asked.

      Ashley СКАЧАТЬ