But Darius would not permit that.
He'd always wanted a son of his own.
NINE
TWENTY MILES OUTSIDE OF CHARLESTON,
SOUTH CAROLINA
"Holy . . . shit. They got some kind of trees here."
Well, yeah, that summed it up. As the Paranormal Investigators satellite-link van eased off Rural Route SC 124, Gregg Winn braked and leaned forward over the steering wheel.
Fucking . . . perfect.
The plantation house's entrance was marked on both sides by live oaks the size of RVs and Spanish moss hung off all those massive branches, swaying in the soft breeze. Down at the end of the framing alley, about half a mile away, the columned mansion sat pretty as a lady in a chair, the noontime sun painting her face in lemon yellow light.
From the back, PI's "host," Holly Fleet, leaned in. "Are you sure about this?"
"It's a Band B, right?" Gregg hit the gas. "Open to the public."
"You called four times."
"They didn't say no."
"They didn't get back to you."
"Whatever." He needed to make this happen. PI's prime-time specials were on the verge of breaking through to the next advertising- dollar level at the network. They weren't in American Idol territory, true, but they'd kicked the shit out of the most recent Magic Exposed episode, and if that trend continued, the money was going to get thicker than blood.
The long drive up to the house was like a trail that led not just deeper into the property, but backward in time. For God's sake, as he glanced around the grass-covered grounds, he expected to see Civil War soldiers and antebellum Vivien Leighs strolling beneath the scarved trees.
The gravel lane took visitors directly to the formal front enterance and Gregg parked off to the side in case any other cars needed to pass by.
"You two stay here. I'm going in."
As he stepped out from behind the wheel, he covered up his Ed Hardy shirt with a black windbreaker and pulled the cuff down over his gold Rolex. The van with its PI logo of a magnifying glass over a black, shadowy ghost was flashy enough, and no doubt the house was owned by a local. Thing was, Hollywood style wasn't necessarily a value-add outside of L.A.--and this gracious place was about as far from plastic surgery and spray tans as you could get.
His Prada loafers shifted through the stone confetti of the driveway as he walked over to the entry. The white house was a simple three-story box with porches on the first and second floors and a hip roof with dormers, but the elegance of the proportions and the sheer size of the damn thing were what put it so solidly in mansion territory. And to top off the grande dame routine, all the windows were framed on the inside by jewel-toned drapes, and through the leaded glass, he could see the chandeliers hanging from high ceilings.
Hell of a bed-and-breakfast.
The front door was big enough to belong on a cathedral and the knocker was a brass lion's head that seemed nearly life-size. Lifting the weight, he let it fall back into place.
While he waited, he checked to make sure Holly and Stan were where he'd left them. Backup was the last thing he needed when he was on what amounted to a sales call--especially when the hello-my-name-is was an unwelcome one. And the truth was, if they hadn't just been on an assignment up in Charleston, he might not have tried a face-to-face, but for a half-hour drive that wasn't even out of their way, it was worth the effort. They weren't due to start setup for the special in Atlanta for a couple of days, so there was time for this. More to the point, he would kill to--
The door swung wide and he had to smile at what was on the other side. Man . . . it just kept getting better. The guy had English butler stamped all over him, from his shiny shoes to his black waistcoat and blazer.
"Good afternoon, sir." And he had an accent. Not quite British, not quite French--high-class European. "How may I help you?"
"Gregg Winn." He put out his hand. "I think I've called you a couple of times? Not sure you've gotten the messages."
The butler's shake was fast. "Indeed."
Gregg waited for the man to continue. When there was nothing coming, he cleared his throat. "Ah . . . I was hoping you'd allow us to do some investigating of your lovely house and grounds. The Eliahu Rathboone legend is pretty remarkable, I mean . . . the reports from your guests are amazing. My team and I--"
"Permit me to interrupt. There will be no filming or recording on the premises--"
"We would pay."
"--at all." The butler smiled tightly. "I'm sure you can understand that we prefer our privacy."
"Quite frankly, I don't. What's the harm in allowing us to poke around?" Gregg dropped his voice and leaned in. "Unless, of course . . . you're making those footsteps yourself in the middle of the night? Or suspending a candle in that upstairs bedroom by fishing wire?"