Sheri WhiteFeather - The Danforths - Toby, Lea and Adam - Cowboy Crescendo / Steamy Savannah Nights / The Enemy's Daughter

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 can’t exactly say that I saw her speak those words, but I distinctly heard each one conveyed loudly and clearly in my mind. It’s the second time I’ve seen her,” she admitted. “First from a distance standing beneath a huge tree on the outskirts of Crofthaven, and right here at Twin Oaks not ten minutes ago.”

“Miss Carlisle,” he declared without hesitation.

It was Heather’s turn to look startled.

“You know her?”

“Not exactly,” Michael assured her with a crooked smile. “But the woman you described sounds exactly like the same mysterious lady who accosted me a few days ago asking me for directions to Crofthaven. I was several miles away from there at the time. After pointing her in the right direction, I thought I heard her mutter the single word father before she simply faded away.”

Since Heather discerned neither malice nor ridicule in his words, she asked him to elaborate. The circumstances and settings of the appearances were sharply different, but the details regarding the specter herself were chillingly similar—right down to the gold locket worn on a chain about the ghost’s long, white neck.

Giving her a reassuring hug, Michael apologized for having pressing business that he had to attend to.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked before he excused himself.

Heather gave him a wobbly smile. “I’ll be just fine as soon as I get some fresh air to clear my head.”

Toby was sorry Heather had run off before he’d been able to catch up with the reporter who made the mistake of interrupting the most romantic moment of his life. Undoubtedly she would have enjoyed seeing him grab the man by the strap around his neck and rip the film from his camera.

“Get lost, you disgusting little parasite,” Toby told him before giving the fellow a kick in the pants for good measure as he slunk away into the shadows muttering about inquiring minds having “the right to know.”

By the time Toby turned around to assure Heather that she need not worry about appearing in print any time soon, she was long gone, leaving him to search the crowd, all the while cursing the notoriety of the Danforth name.

He was unprepared for the surge of jealousy that exploded in his heart and flowed like molten lava through his veins at the sight of Heather enveloped in another man’s arms. That Michael Whittaker looked nothing like wimpy Freddie Prowell did little to dampen the urge to ram a fist right through the other man’s dark, handsome face. Toby had heard rumors that the man was ruthless, but he hadn’t thought that reputation extended to the opposite sex. Years of hard physical labor outside a fancy gym would more than make up for the difference in their size. Toby might not be as big as his uncle’s bodyguard, but he damn sure was a match for anybody when his testosterone kicked in.

He was just about to take his tuxedo jacket off and roll up his shirtsleeves when Michael Whittaker saved him the trouble by abruptly leaving. Heather wandered off in the opposite direction. Toby was familiar enough with Twin Oaks to know that a secluded terrace lay outside the very door through which she left. Perhaps it had been an innocent embrace explainable by any number of simple circumstances, he thought.

He curbed his impulse to make a scene. If Heather had been so distraught by the thought of their kiss gracing the pages of some sleazy tabloid, he imagined photographs of him involved in fisticuffs over her wouldn’t set well with her, either. Nor with the rest of the Danforth clan for that matter.

Toby had no desire to ruin Uncle Abe’s big night any more than he wanted to probe the intense feelings that his son’s nanny evoked in him. Having openly professed to be done with women forever, he couldn’t understand his own volatile reaction to seeing Heather with someone else, especially considering what a short time he had known her. Envy wasn’t something that often came calling on Toby. His ex-wife bitterly claimed he didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. Sheila’s outrageous attempts to goad him into a green-eyed fit, intended to affirm her desirability more often than not, left her looking foolish in public and incensed in private.