gesturing to her.
She looked remarkably like the mysterious lady whom Heather had spied under the big oak tree back at Crofthaven on the day of their arrival. As this was a formal affair, Heather could have easily mistaken a modern floor-length gown for the period clothing she thought she’d seen the woman wearing that day. In the shadowy light, it was easy to imagine quite a lot of things, including the draft of cold air that raised goose bumps up and down the length of her arms.
Nevertheless, Heather was drawn down that dark hallway.
“Wait!” she called out as the woman disappeared around yet another corner.
Hoping she was winding her way closer to the lobby, Heather gave chase. As she rounded the next corner, a scream died in her throat.
In front of her appeared a young woman with dark hair, very pale skin and eyes rimmed with pain. The shadowy figure seemed to float in the air. A golden locket at her throat glinted in the flickering light. Having never seen a ghost before, Heather nonetheless recognized this apparition for what it was.
Stumbling against the wall, she felt a drip of hot wax fall upon her shoulder from the wall sconce. She winced.
As tempted as she was to run screaming back down that hallway, both Heather’s voice and feet failed her at once. Her heart pounded out of control as the specter stared through her with sorrowful black eyes. Without moving her lips, she relayed a message to Heather.
“Don’t fail his little boy like I failed my charges….”
The voice resonating in Heather’s head lacked the Southern tone which she expected.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Don’t fail the boy,” the woman repeated, blowing a frightening puff of breath directly in her face. “Or your own heart.”
With that, she vanished altogether, leaving Heather to wonder if she hadn’t imagined the whole ghastly encounter.
Seven
By the time Heather found her way back to the hotel lobby, she was questioning her own sanity. What other explanation could there be for a delusional encounter with the other side? Considering that she had been nursing a glass of ginger ale for most of the night, it certainly couldn’t be attributed to alcohol. Heather supposed it went without saying that a hotel as steeped in history as Twin Oaks was bound to evoke eerie feelings in its guests, especially one overwrought by the prospect of falling in love with her employer.
That the same sad-faced woman would appear to Heather both at Crofthaven and Twin Oaks seemed further proof that her imagination was playing games with her. All that nonsense about not failing her charge and her heart was probably just her subconscious sorting through her conflicted emotions. Between overloaded hormones and better judgment.
The only other explanation was one that chilled Heather’s blood and left her visibly shaking as she accepted her first glass of alcohol all evening from a bored-looking waiter. She tossed it back like a seasoned drunk and set the empty glass back on the fellow’s tray in one fluid motion. Scanning the premises, she hoped the fireworks display was coming to an end, marking the official end of a long evening. She, for one, was ready to call it a night.
A deep masculine voice intruded on her thoughts. “Most everybody’s still outside in case you were wondering.”
Heather wheeled around and bumped into a solid wall of masculine chest. Craning her neck, she peered into the eyes of a tall, well-built stranger. That his brown eyes beheld her with amusement left her feeling both disadvantaged and tongue-tied. She hoped he wasn’t expecting a response from her.
“It won’t be long,” he continued, “before Abraham Danforth makes his speech. After that, the party should begin to wind down, except for the diehards, who are certain to be here until the sun comes up.”
Heather hoped nobody expected her to stick around that long. She was even willing to use Dylan as an excuse if it would get her out of here any sooner. Ever since they had arrived in Savannah, family members had been so eager to spend time with him, and he had been so preoccupied with his cousin Peter, that her services had scarcely been needed. Nonetheless, all Heather wanted to do right now was head back to Harold and Miranda’s house and fall into bed. With any luck, the entire night would seem like a bad dream by morning.
Her voice was as shaky as the hands she hid behind her back. “Will you be among them?” she ventured to ask. “The diehards, that is?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said in a strong, slow drawl. “I expect I will.”
He didn’t strike Heather as someone inclined to excessive partying. Yet he had just admitted that he would remain at the fund-raiser with the last of the diehards. She couldn’t help but wonder why he was there. Alert as he was in scanning the premises without drawing attention to the fact, the man’s emotions appeared as tightly coiled as her own. Feeling an odd sense of kinship with him, she offered him her hand along with her name.
“Michael Whittaker,” he rejoined, growing suddenly solemn. “Good Lord, your hand is as cold as ice. Are you all right? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Funny you should put it that way…”
Heather’s bones suddenly turned gelatinous. Michael reached out to grab her by the elbow. Concern illuminated his dark eyes as he led her to the nearest love seat and positioned himself next to her.
“What happened?”
Heather shook her head. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I doubt that.”
The hard look that accompanied those terse words provided Heather a strange sense of comfort. Still, she hesitated to relay the vision that congealed her blood and left her babbling to herself. Thinking back to that dark, haunted hallway, she took necessary precautions before baring her soul.
“You aren’t by any chance a reporter, are you?”
The smile that broke across the man’s distinctive features assured her that he found the very idea preposterous.
“A security specialist. Who better to trust?”
Indeed. What harm could there be in sharing a ghost story with a stranger at this late hour? What difference would it make even if he thought her mad? In a few short days, she would be a thousand miles away from here, well on her way to ridiculing herself for being frightened by a figment of her imagination.
Heather let her breath out slowly and took a chance on a stranger’s seemingly benevolent curiosity.
“As a matter of fact, I think I did just see a ghost—if that’s what you’d call it.”
Seeing no sign of derision in Michael’s manner, she continued haltingly.
“She was a young woman. Dark but not particularly menacing. And she was intent on delivering a message to me.”
Michael leaned forward. “What message?”
Bolstered by the intensity of his interest, Heather described the strange clothing the woman was wearing and relayed her message word for word.
“I
