Darkest Journey - Heather Graham

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though. The Journey was heading on to Baton Rouge, Houmas House and then New Orleans, where her passengers would debark, new ones would board, and the cycle would begin again, NOLA to Oak Alley in Vacherie to Houmas House in Darrow to Baton Rouge to St. Francisville, Natchez, then Vicksburg. The itinerary stayed basically the same, but specific tours with different emphases were planned for aficionados of country music, history, art, theater and fine dining. As her father said goodbye and bent to kiss her on the cheek, Charlie really did intend to go home. But as he walked away toward his car, parked behind hers on the road just below the bluff, she noticed that someone was walking up the slope from that road. Her heart began to beat too quickly.

      It wasn’t because Ethan was back, she was certain. The years had stretched into an eternity between them. She hadn’t asked for him to come for any reason other than that she knew he would take her seriously when she said she’d heard the dead talking to her again.

      It was just that his timing was so damned bad.

      Her father turned and saw Ethan. And then he turned and looked at her, and she felt as if she’d run over a puppy or slapped an infant. Why couldn’t he let go of the past, of the way he’d felt about Ethan ten years ago...

      “You called Ethan?” he asked.

      “Dad, I called on a special group of FBI agents who are used to dealing with...insight. My friend Clara—you know Clara, she used to work for Celtic American, too—is seeing a guy who works with Ethan, so I asked her to contact him for me,” she said quickly. “Ethan’s law enforcement now, federal law enforcement.”

      It was actually impressive that she was making something resembling a living by acting, she thought, hearing the pleading tone in her own voice when she’d hoped to project confidence instead.

      “I see,” her father said, staring at Ethan as he approached them.

      He’d changed. The Ethan she’d known had been a tall boy, still slender with youth, not muscular like the man walking her way now. His hair had been on the shaggy side, and he hadn’t yet shed the small-town football-hero swagger half the young men she’d known at school had affected. He’d been nineteen.

      He’d filled out since the last time she’d seen him. Character seemed to have been etched into his face. He’d been a striking teenager, but this Ethan, with those green-gold eyes, dark hair and features that could have been painted by an Old Master, was something else altogether. His hair was cropped short now, his eyes had a sharper edge to them, and his chin had squared. He’d been a boy, she realized. Now he was a man.

      As he walked up to them, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses against the brutal rays of the sun, and suddenly he became a total stranger.

      “Ethan Delaney,” her father said in an unreadable tone.

      “Mr. Moreau,” Ethan said, his voice now deep and rich. “Hope you’re doing well, sir.”

      “We were doing well enough,” Jonathan said gruffly. He turned and looked at Charlie again, then nodded toward the two of them and started to head down the slope.

      He stopped after a moment and turned back. He stood very tall and straight, and said, “Don’t let her get involved in this, Ethan. You watch out for her. Don’t you let anything happen to Charlie.”

      “I didn’t before, sir,” Ethan said quietly. “And I won’t now.”

      Charlie watched her father go, feeling a little ill. She loved him so much.

      Then he was gone, and she was left alone with Ethan Delaney.

       3

      They stood some distance apart still, neither one rushing forward to initiate a warm old-friends’ hug.

      It had been a long time.

      But, looking at her now, Ethan wished he could just walk over and take her in his arms.

      Charlie had changed.

      He would never forget the way she had looked when he’d found her that night—truthfully, he would never forget anything about that night. Charlie had always been beautiful.

      She had become more so over the last ten years. The bone structure of her face was sharper. Her eyes, the deepest blue he’d ever seen, seemed even larger. She had delicately shaped brows, a nearly perfectly straight nose and a generous, well-defined mouth. She was tall—five-ten, at a guess—and carried her height well. She was thin, but had all the right curves. Everything about Charlie was...

      Pretty damned perfect. Her hair was a rich chestnut. She wore it long, and it seemed to move with her at all times, even when she was standing still. In fact, when she’d had a crush on him, it had seemed like manna from above.

      But, of course, he’d been nineteen. In college. She’d been sixteen, still just a sophomore in high school. Any thought of a relationship was simply doomed. And so, despite every objection posed by his heart—and his libido—he had turned her away. He wondered if, with age, she’d understood. He hadn’t seen her since Frank Harnett’s trial. She’d never tried to contact him.

      Until now.

      He wondered if she had any clue to the way she had haunted his dreams. The way he remembered her face when she’d looked up at him, her beauty, her hope—her faith.

      “So how are you doing?” he asked her quietly. “Other than stumbling across a dead man.”

      She smiled. “Good. Thanks. In a nutshell, college, performing-arts major, some theater, some webisodes, a few nicely paying commercials. I’ve really been enjoying filming here. I love the project, love that we’re all a part of the production as a whole—and glad to be home again. I don’t get here often—not on purpose or anything. It’s just I’ve been living in New Orleans, because that’s where most of the work is. But it’s great being here, because I get to see more of Dad, though the Journey’s home port is NOLA, so I get to see him when he’s in town. I’m talking too much. Sorry. How about you?”

      He shrugged and smiled. Talking too much? She’d managed to cover ten years in a pretty compact nutshell.

      “College, service, master’s degree, FBI Academy, a few years with a regular unit, and now the Krewe of Hunters.”

      “I heard.”

      He nodded. “So I gather. You’re friends with Alexi Cromwell and Clara Avery, right? You’ve all worked together in New Orleans?”

      “Yes, in Godspell,” Charlie agreed. “Alexi was the musical director, Clara and I were in the show. They’re both from the NOLA area. And I saw the news about what happened on the Destiny and the Fate, and how they were involved... So I knew from them what you’d been up to and the work you’re doing now.”

      He nodded. “I know about some of your work, too.” He grinned. “I’ve seen you on that new cop series they film in NOLA.”

      “It’s just a recurring role right now, but I keep hoping that I’ll get upgraded to series regular,” she said lightly.

      “I especially liked that condom commercial you did.”

      “Hey. I made good money on that!”

      At that, he took off his glasses, and they both laughed softly.

      Then the laughter faded, and they were left staring awkwardly at each other.

      Business, he reminded himself. He was here on business. To break the tension he said, “Okay, so our head honcho is getting me on the task force looking into the murders, but in the meantime, want to bring me up to speed on what happened the other night?”

      She nodded somberly. “I didn’t know anything about the first murder until one of my friends on the film told me about it after we finished shooting for the day. Apparently the information hit the news after I left for the set, and I’d been blocking

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