Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(29)

As they launched into a detailed recitation of all the "incredibly amazing things" that were so "incredible and amazing to witness" during 81

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their "incredible . . . ," the butler's eyes narrowed into slits. Clearly, his manners overrode his urge to kill as he stepped aside to let Gregg meet up with the departing pair, but the temperature in the foyer had dropped into chilly land.

"Wait--is that . . ." The male guest frowned and leaned to the side.

"Holy crap, are you with that show--"

" Paranormal Investigators," Gregg filled in. "I'm the producer."

"Is the host . . ." The guy glanced at his lady friend. "Is she here, too?"

"Sure is. You want to meet Holly?"

The guy put down the suitcase he was carrying to tuck in his polo shirt a little more tightly. "Yeah, could I?"

"We were just leaving," his other half interjected. "Weren't we. Dan."

"But if I--we--have the chance to--"

"Get on the road now, we'll be home by nightfall." She turned to the butler. "Thank you for everything, Mr. Griffin. We've had a lovely stay."

The butler bowed with grace. "Please do come again, madam."

"Oh, we will--this is going to be a perfect place for our wedding in September. It's incredible."

"Just amazing," her fiance tacked on, like he wanted to be back on her good side.

Gregg didn't push the meet-and-greet with Holly as the pair went out

the front door--even though the guy paused and looked over as if he were hoping Gregg would follow them.

"So I'll just go get our bags," Gregg said to the bulter. "And you can get our room ready, Mr. Griffin."

The air around the man seemed to warp. "We have two rooms."

"That's fine. And because I can tell you're a man with standards, me and Stan will bunk together. For propriety's sake."

The butler's brows lifted. "Indeed. If you and your friends would be good enough to wait in the drawing room to your right, I shall have the housekeepers ready your accommodations."

"Fantastic." Gregg clapped the man on the shoulder. "You won't even know we're here."

The butler pointedly stepped back. "A word of caution, if I may."

"Hit me."

"Do not go up to the third floor."

Well, wasn't that an invitation . . . and a line right out of a Scream movie. "Absolutely not. I swear to it."

The butler went off down the hall and Gregg leaned out of the front

door, motioning for his crew. As Holly got out, her double-Ds bounced 82

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under the black T-shirt she was wearing, and her Sevens were so low-cut her flat, tanned belly flashed. He'd hired her not for her brains, but for her Barbie dimensions, and yet she'd proven to be more than he'd expected. Like a lot of dummies, she wasn't completely stupid, just largely so, and she had an eerie ability to position herself where it would most suit her advancement.

Stan slid the van's side panel back and stepped out, blinking hard and shoving his long, straggly hair out of the way. Perpetually stoned, he was the perfect person for this kind of work: technically adept, but mellow to the point where he took orders well.

Last thing Gregg wanted was an artiste running the camera lenses.

"Get the luggage," Gregg called over to them. Which was code for, Bring not only your overnight bags but the small-scale equipment.

This wasn't the first site he'd had to talk his way into.

As he ducked back inside, the couple who had departed were driving

past in their Sebring convertible, the guy watching Holly bend into the van instead of where he was going.

She tended to have that effect on men. Another reason to keep her

around.

Well, that and she had no problem with casual sex.

Gregg walked into the drawing room and did a slow around-the—

world. The oil paintings were museum quality, the rugs were Persian, the walls were hand-painted with a pastoral scene. Sterling-silver candlesticks were on every surface and not one piece of furniture had been made in the twenty-first or twentieth . . . or maybe even nineteenth century.

The journalist in him sat up and hollered. B and Bs, even first-rate ones, weren't kitted out like this. So there was something going on here.

Either that or the Eliahu legend was putting a helluva lot of heads on those pillows every night.

Gregg went over to one of the smaller portraits. It was of a young man in his mid-twenties, and painted in another time, another place. The subject was seated in a stiff-backed chair, his legs crossed at the knees, his elegant hands off to one side. Dark hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon, revealing a face that was a stunner. The clothes were . . . Well, Gregg was no historian, so who the f*ck knew, but they sure as hell looked like what George Washington and his ilk wore.

This was Eliahu Rathboone, Gregg thought. The secret abolitionist

who had always left a light on to encourage those who needed to escape to come his way . . . the man who had died to protect a cause before it even took root up in the North . . . the hero who had saved so many, only to be cut down in the prime of his life.

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This was their ghost.