Carolina Heat (9 page)

“My stomach hurts, I laughed so hard,” she admonished him.

“Then it’s time we left.” He rose to pull out her chair. “After a few blocks, your feet will be so sore from the dreaded cobblestones, you’ll forget all about your tummy ache.”

Minutes later, they stood on the wide, old-fashioned porch of the Haley house. Mark held firmly to Annabelle’s hands.

“I won’t beat around the bush, because I’m sure Mrs. Haley will be out here in a moment, ready to whisk you inside like a proper Southern belle.”

Annabelle beamed at the thought. “At home I have a doorman, but he usually just watches any improprieties that occur. Mrs. Haley makes me feel pampered.”

“She makes me feel about seventeen,” Mark admitted. “So before we’re interrupted, I need to tell you that you fascinate me. I also need to find out how soon we’ll repeat this evening?”

Annabelle put a hand on the railing and took comfort in its solidity to ground herself. The man spoke like a poet. As she listened to him, it was all she could do to not glance down to check if her toes were covered by a hoop skirt.

“As I said earlier, you certainly made an impression. In all honesty, I even enjoy arguing with you. Sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

“Not a bit,” Mark shook his head emphatically. “You spoke your mind, without a care as to the possible reprisals. I admire that greatly.”

Her guard automatically snapped back into place. “You’ve made it clear lavish compliments flow like water down here, and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but don’t you think you might be laying it on a tad thick? You’re making huge generalizations after spending a matter of hours with me. I’ll be gone in a few days.”

“Which is exactly the problem. I don’t have time for a slow, conventional courtship.” Mark wrapped his arms around her snugly. “And I won’t try to monopolize every minute of your day. I know you have work to do, and as a matter of fact, I have to work tomorrow also. But I’m thirty-four years old, and you intrigue me in a way no other woman ever has. I don’t intend to miss this chance.”

“I don’t think men like you even exist in New York.” Without forethought, she kissed him briefly, and just as quickly stepped out of his embrace. “Tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely. But don’t wear fancy dress. We’ll be dining outdoors. I’ll be here at seven. Oh, and you’re downright addled if you think a peck constitutes a goodnight kiss.”

He pulled her back into his arms smoothly and gave her a long, deep kiss. It only took an instant for her lips to soften and curve into his. He immediately pressed his advantage, and the softness of the kiss changed to a passionate exploration of her lips and neck.

Annabelle let out a brief murmur of surprise. Then she gave up thinking, gave up practicality, gave up her caution and matched every bit of his need with her own. Her hands moved restlessly up and down his back. His hands buried in her hair, anchoring her in his embrace. It was a give and take of all the passion which had built since the first moment they met, coursing through their kisses. Their feet shuffled around in a lazy circle, each trying to push closer to the other. Annabelle felt the hard ridge of the doorway against her back. Immediately Mark stepped away.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to push you into the wall.”

Annabelle looked at him dazedly. “No, it was an accident. I’m fine.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow night. Sleep well.” Mark loped down the walk through the gate, and was quickly out of sight.

It took Annabelle a few more minutes to collect her whirling thoughts enough to walk through the door and up the stairs to her room. Once there, she went onto the small balcony overlooking the harbor. She breathed in deeply and forced herself to remember why she was in Charleston. First and foremost, she was here to find her missing friend. On a secondary level, she was here to write a story. She was
not
here to fall in love. Even with a persistent, persuasive, intriguing hunk of a man.

Annabelle went back inside, methodically reviewed her list of tasks for the next day, and brushed her teeth. The simple routine soothed her, and as she lay in bed her last thoughts were of the search she planned so meticulously. But her dreams were all of a tall, laughing man kissing her senseless in a moonlit garden.

CHAPTER SIX

Annabelle glanced at her watch for the third time as Tucker, the costumed tour guide, enthusiastically described the Georgian Palladian architecture of Prescott Hall right down to the moldings and pillars. Hopefully, the tour would break for lunch and she could duck into the library for a quick look.

After her meeting with Davis Shaw, Annabelle went back through Vanessa’s last email to
Wanderlust
. Sure enough, the itinerary included a stop at Prescott Hall. It was far too coincidental. Obviously, something in this house led both people to their eventual disappearance. Vanessa must have stumbled across whatever Tad found. With her negligible knowledge of the Civil War, whatever she found must have been fairly apparent. Annabelle hoped to find something large, brightly-colored, and marked
clue
in the library.

“We’ll resume the tour right here in an hour. If you follow the cypress walk past the stables, you’ll find our garden café.” Tucker ushered the group toward the front door. “Be sure to save some time for the souvenir shop!”

Annabelle lagged behind, but Tucker was apparently well-versed in rounding up stragglers. “I’m sorry, miss, but you aren’t allowed in the house without a guide, and it’s my lunch break, too. There’ll be plenty of time to see everything later.”

“I understand it’s possible to sneak a private look through the library.”

Tucker frowned at her. “I don’t know where you heard it, but we prefer everyone stick to the tour. There are no deviations.”

“Even with the right credentials?”

“Oh, are you with a museum?”

Annabelle handed him Vanessa’s business card from
Wanderlust
. “I’m profiling Charleston, and a friend of mine who’s a curator viewed your library last month and told me it was not to be missed.”

He thrust his hands in his pockets. “True, our collection is superb. I suppose if you left something with me as collateral an exception could be made.”

“I have just the thing,” she said, slipping a fifty dollar bill into his hand. Tucker’s demeanor changed instantly.

“It’s interesting you wish to see the collection. Your friend the curator must really be spreading the word. You’re the fourth person in a month asking to see it. Usually we get maybe one inquiry a year. Are you all part of a club or something?”

Annabelle’s heart plummeted. “Are you sure there’ve been
three
other people?” It meant someone besides Vanessa and Tad had visited. Whatever she was there to look for was probably gone by now.

“Oh yes, Mr. Prescott himself arranged for the last viewing about two weeks ago.”

“So Prescott Hall is still owned by the Prescotts?”

Tucker gave a disparaging look. “Haven’t you been paying attention to the tour? The Prescotts still own it outright, and even stay here on special occasions. Remember, you have to be finished when the lunch break ends.” Tucker went out the front door and closed it firmly behind him, leaving her alone in the mansion.

Twenty minutes later, Annabelle sat on the edge of an ancient velvet covered settee and rubbed her neck. Staring at bookshelves sideways had given her nothing more than a stiff neck. The library did contain numerous books on the Confederacy. Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to read each and every one, and none of the titles were very helpful. Certainly nothing as obvious as
A Historical Reference to All Those Who Served in the Confederacy
. Someone with Davis or Tad’s background would probably be able to make more sense of all the books, or at least narrow it down. On the other hand, Vanessa must have discovered something here, and her historical knowledge was just as rudimentary as Annabelle’s.

There had to be something. She looked at her watch and knew her time was running out. Annabelle rubbed her neck one last time and climbed the old-fashioned rolling ladder. Two top rows to finish before she’d be forced to admit defeat. Like the rest of the library, the majority of books were leather-bound and musty, at best.

She blinked in surprise. “I guess next time I’ll start at the top.” In front of her was yet another set of books glorifying the Confederacy. Except in the middle of this particular row sat a dust-free sixtieth anniversary edition of
Gone with the Wind
.

Even from her brief scan, it was easy to see no other book in the library had a copyright newer than the 1930’s. The obvious explanation was someone had come with the deliberate intention of stealing a book, and brought along
Gone with the Wind
so as not to leave a discernable hole in the stacks. It was impossible to read the titles without being on the ladder.

Voices rang in the hallway, and Annabelle knew her time was up.
At least now I know for sure I’m on the right track
, she thought. If only she knew where to go from here. Her tour group began to trickle past the library door. Annabelle stood slightly behind it, watching them pass so she could slip out without attracting Tucker’s attention.

She stiffened when she noticed a new addition to the group, a man sporting not only a Hawaiian print shirt but also a pair of binoculars. He was a dead-ringer for the man watching her the night before. Admittedly, that man had been all the way across the street, at dusk. In a police lineup, she wouldn’t be able to swear to anything. But it was quite a coincidence—and Annabelle did not, at all, believe in coincidences. The moment she’d seen him during dinner, all her senses had gone on alert. Instinct told her he wasn’t just another tourist. His appearance today was an affirmation, a not-to-be-ignored warning. If she was being watched, the danger level of this assignment ratcheted up several notches.

She waited until the tour group moved on, then made her way to the souvenir shop. One of the golden rules of investigative journalism was if you don’t know where to look, look everywhere.

“Do you have any books listing all the Confederate troops? I’ve started dabbling in genealogy, and want to lend a little fact to an old family legend.” Annabelle smiled her most guileless smile, but there was no need. The gift shop clerk, a tiny woman well past retirement, clearly delighted in the chance to chatter.

“Dear me, what a wonderful project! I find searching for your roots really grounds you. Why, I went to Ireland seven years ago to track down a fourth cousin accidentally left off our family tree. I was just tickled to meet him.”

Annabelle kept her smile firmly in place. Little old ladies were an invaluable source of information, if you could wade through the ubiquitous stories of grandchildren, great-grandmothers and health.

“My only problem is I really don’t know where to start.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you much, my dear. We have a rather limited selection of books. But I do have an idea.”

“I’m all ears,” said Annabelle, trying to contain her impatience.

“Mr. Lamont Prescott, who currently owns the plantation, has quite a reputation as a collector.”

“You mean the library?”

“Heavens, no. Most of those books were his granddaddy’s. Mr. Lamont keeps his personal collection at his home in town.”

Annabelle’s instincts clicked.
Definitely
on the right track. “Do you know how I’d be able to contact him?”

“If you call his office—he’s a partner at one of the oldest law firms in the city—I’m certain you could arrange a meeting. He’s a very nice man.”

“Do you recall the name of his firm, offhand?”

“Satterfield, Prescott & Boone. He should be back from vacation by now. I think he left a few weeks ago. Mother’s Day, I believe.”

“But that’s when….” Annabelle stopped herself before blurting out that was also the day Vanessa officially disappeared. “When I took a vacation, too. Quite a coincidence.”

If the older woman had noticed her momentary lapse, she didn’t let on. “Of course, you could always stop in at the Daughters of Charleston. They’re well known for their research. Every member has to prove their ancestors were truly members of the Confederacy.”

Annabelle politely ended the conversation by purchasing a box of Prescott Hall stationery. It was the least she could do after that sweet old thing handed her a lead on the proverbial silver platter.

Twenty minutes later the tour bus dropped her back in the center of town. Without conscious thought, her steps led her to the corner of Meeting Street where she checked her watch against the posted sign. A new tour was due to start in a few minutes. Just enough time for a quick hello to Mark. A chance to see if the persistent flutters nudging at her all day were really grounded in something. She sighed and wondered what it was about this man that so completely befuddled her.
Especially
now, when she had so many other, more pressing concerns.

There was his horse and buggy. She recognized it from the distinctive red and pink striped plumes decorating the horse. But there was someone else in the driver’s seat. It didn’t make sense. He’d told her he was working today, and scheduled their picnic accordingly. It was long past the traditional lunch hour, so where was he?