Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (22 page)

"Here we go." Gabe opened the door for her and followed her into the room. Like the rest of the inn, his suite was decorated in vintage British Equestriana, with lots of leather, saddlery, and carefully chosen taxidermy samples that were, frankly, a bit creepy. Two leather Chesterfield sofas flanked a stone fireplace, where a fire had been lit. A large pile of wood lay next to the hearth.
 

"I'm not dying of hypothermia, Gabe," she said a bit testily.
 

But she still sank into the sofa, unable to conceal a sigh of relief. Sure, Gabe's reaction was ridiculously over the top, but it felt nice to have someone take care of her for a change. And she really was cold. Even the warmth of the fireplace couldn't keep the chill at bay. And the beady eyes of the stag head on top of the fireplace didn't help.

That thing could definitely use a unicorn horn, a sparkly, multicolored one, with ribbons.

"Why are we here? I want to go home." She hated the whiny tone in her voice, but couldn't help it. She was wet, she was cold, and a dead ungulate was staring at her.

"Because I can't take you back to Banshee Creek looking like something a particularly undiscriminating feline dragged in."
 

He was standing next to the desk, checking e-mails. Another deer head hung on the wall behind him. So, correction,
multiple
dead ungulates were staring at her.
 

"The concierge will bring you a dry set of clothes," he continued. "And I'll take you home after you warm up."

"I hate this place," she hissed. Oh well, loathing was a definite improvement over whiny.

"Don't be a child, Elizabeth," Gabe said curtly, walking toward the antique desk in the corner.

She tried not to pout. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. And he was right. She was acting like a child. She couldn't just lie back and enjoy having someone else take care of her, could she? Her house was cute, but it didn't have a fireplace like this, or a leather sofa, or—she eyed the landline phone on the desk—room service.

She wrapped the blanket around herself and settled back on the plush sofa, feeling the warmth return to her body. She could let herself enjoy this. She'd gone from workaholic actress—unlike A-listers, the B-movie crowd had little downtime—to stressed-out caretaker-cum-town-savior.
 

Maybe it was time to take a break and explore...other things. Things she'd always been intrigued by but had never felt safe enough to try out.
 

This particular train of thought let straight to the grotto movie. Which, in turn, led to thoughts of chains and restraints. Which made her squirm uncomfortably on the seat. The kind of uncomfortable that would be great if she were heading home to a hot bath and a battery-operated personal appliance. The kind of uncomfortable that wasn't so great if she was going to spend some quality time at the Middleburg Inn.
 

The movie itself wasn't causing the discomfort. Sure, the film had startled her, but only for a minute. Then she'd realized she was soaking wet and freezing cold and the gate to the grotto was open.

And that Gabe was looking at her.

And then she saw his face.
 

He was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. She would never forget that face. Just thinking about it made her feel jittery and aroused...and scared.
 

She leaned forward, closer to the fire, and the blanket fell off her shoulder. She shivered and pulled it back. Sitting at the desk, Gabe almost sighed with relief, and Elizabeth noted the reaction with interest. Perhaps the inscrutable Mr. Franco wasn't entirely immune to her wet, clingy clothes.

She gestured toward one of the deer heads. "I see that you like the Ralph-Lauren-meets-Hannibal-Lecter look."
 

Gabe chuckled. "Hey, it's no pagan grotto, but it's home."
 

Her brow arched.
 

"For now," he clarified.
 

"You could always buy the Middleburg Inn," she said, assessing their opulent surroundings. "It's huge. I don't know if it has ghosts, though. You should ask PRoVE to take a look."

She laughed at her own joke, and the movement made the plaid blanket slip from her shoulders once more. This time she let it fall, exposing her silky shirt plastered over her breasts like a second, translucent skin. Gabe stared at the shirt, transfixed. The look on his face made warmth seep through her body.
 

He cleared his throat and looked away. "Oh, I don't need to bring in PRoVE. The Middleburg Inn is certified ghost-free."

The languid, pleasant feeling disappeared.

"Certified?" she asked sharply. "How can they certify something like that? And why would they?"

"They had a group from Edinburgh come in. The certificate is available upon request. It says so in the hotel brochure." He picked up a glossy sheet of paper sitting on the desk and opened it. "Here it is."

They put it in the Visitor's Guide? Oh, this was not good.

"Middleburg is located in the heart of Virginia's Hunt Country," Gabe read from the brochure. "A region known for its natural beauty and love for sportsmanship."

"Sportsmanship?" Elizabeth scoffed. "As if shoveling horse poop was a sport."

Gabe ignored her and continued reading. "However, we are aware that neighboring towns have acquired a different, more unconventional, reputation."

"That sounds ominous. What do they mean by 'unconventional'?"

Gabe kept on reading. "In an effort to reassure our guests that our facility is free from stigma—"
 

"Stigma?" Elizabeth exclaimed. "We have stigma?"

He shrugged, trying to hide a smile.

"This is ridiculous. The Middleburg Inn is technically within the Banshee Creek boundaries. The so-called stigma applies to them too."

"Well, they disagree." He pointed to the brochure. "The title of the Visitor's Guide is
Hunt Country, not Haunt Country
."

"Very funny," she said, not at all amused. "This is all your fault, you know. You and your PRoVE maniacs are the reason why we've 'acquired' our 'unconventional' reputation."

He laughed. "Give me a couple of years, and the Middleburg Inn will be boasting of its paranormal pedigree."

She snorted. "That will be the day." She glared at the dead deer on the wall. "Too bad you can't buy the inn and bring it back to Banshee Creek. That would definitely get the Town Council on your side."

"We'll see," he said, chuckling. "But not tonight. The nurse said you should have a warm bath. I'll take you back home after you dry up."

"
You
said I should have a warm bath," Elizabeth corrected. "The nurse just looked at you weirdly."
 

Undeterred, he leaned forward to check her temperature. In spite of her anger, she smiled. He was being ridiculous, but it was, all things considered, very sweet. It made her feel safe and protected.
 

He touched her forehead lightly, his fingers warm, but not overly so. But the contact lasted only a second, and he stepped back as if burned.

His reaction made her bold. What was the point of having a safety net, if you weren't going to use it?

Gabe cleared his throat. "Just take the bath, Elizabeth," he said, studiously avoiding her eyes. "Your clothes will be here soon. Then we're done."

"We're done?" Her voice was a whisper. The bath seemed to be a pretext. He wanted to get rid of her.
 

But she definitely didn't want to go. Not yet.
 

"Yes," Gabe muttered. He cleared his throat one more time and resumed speaking in a normal tone. "I'm buying the grotto house. I'll go back to Manhattan, and you can go back to your life. That's the plan."

"The plan?" Elizabeth repeated, stepping forward.
 

"Yes, the plan." He tried to lean back and give her some space, but she reached for his shoulder and drew him closer. "I think," she said, and the whisper was completely gone. Her voice was firm and her brown eyes narrowed. "There's going to be a change in the plan."

And then she leaned forward and kissed him.

She was surprised at her own aggressiveness, and she wasn't the only one. She'd shocked Gabe into stillness. But stillness was good. It gave her the chance to explore him slowly. Very slowly. She wanted to enjoy this for as long as it lasted. She expected cool, rational Gabe to recover quickly and start lecturing on the many reasons why they shouldn't do this. He had a list, she was sure.
 

She wasn't surprised when he broke away from her. He put his hands around her arms and gently pushed her away. Oh well, it was good while it lasted. She ran her tongue over her lips, trying to taste him again.
 

And Gabe's own lips were held in a tight line. He'd stopped the kiss, but it had cost him. She felt somewhat flattered about that.
 

"Elizabeth." Her name growly whispered made a delicious shiver run down her spine. He paused to take a breath.
 

Well, how about that? She'd taken Gabe Franco's breath away. Not bad for a drama geek.

Gabe's dark eyes bored into her. She waited for the interminable list of reasons why they shouldn't do this. She was Cole's sister, blah, blah, blah. Their families would hustle them to St. Michael's, blah, blah, blah. He wasn't a romance kind of person.

Blah, blah, blah.

She wasn't a romance kind of person either. Her parents' marriage had cured her of that.

She steeled herself for a third rejection. Never two without a three, as her mother would say.

But Gabe just looked at her, an unfathomable expression on his face. "Just this."

She frowned in confusion and opened her mouth to speak.
 

He put a finger on her lips and shook his head. "Don't say anything. Just agree. No St. Michael's. No Banshee Creek Bakery wedding cake. Just this."

She nodded. She didn't trust herself to speak. No buts? No lectures? No pulling the plaid blanket around her, bundling her into the Ferrari and taking her home?
 

"Just this," he repeated. "Okay?" He sounded scared and vulnerable, two words she would have never associated with Gabe. A trickle of discomfort polluted her happy state of arousal. This was getting a bit too emotional, which was a bit scary.

But she didn't have time to ponder this. Gabe's hands cupped her face, a shock of warmth on her cool skin, and he bent down to kiss her gently.
 

"Okay," she whispered.
 

His hand cupped the back of her neck and his mouth traveled down her neck.

She trembled under his touch, giddy with excitement. They were going to do this. She wanted to touch him so badly she thought she'd die from a surfeit of desire, but she held back, fingers clenched tightly on the scratchy wool blanket. That was what she usually did during sex. She touched and explored and shared some pleasure.
 

And that was it. No emotions. No connection. That was the safe way, the L.A. way.

He nipped gently at her neck, sending shivers down her body.

She tensed, fighting the urge to fall back into her default sex script. She wanted this to be different. She was tired of being careful, of holding back.

This time she wanted to let go.

"Don't," she said.
 

Gabe pulled away slowly, confused.

She walked back to the sofa and sat down. Gabe ran his hand through his hair. The dark locks were wild and unruly and his eyes were dark with desire, but he kept his distance.
 

She straightened and took a deep breath. Now or never.

She let the blanket fall off her shoulders. Gabe's eyes widened, but he didn't move. She held his gaze and slowly started to unbutton her blouse.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
HREE

S
HE
LOOKED
like a dream, leaning against the sofa with one leg propped on the ottoman. Her hair curled wildly around her and her skirt barely covered her body. The plaid blanket lay on the floor, and he could see the outline of her lingerie under her still-wet clothes. This was an entirely different Elizabeth, one he would have never imagined.

Her boldness was streaked with uncertainty, though. And she played with a bra strap nervously until it slipped down her arm. He could have resisted the sensual onslaught, but the skittish gesture undid him.
 

He tried to think of reasons why he shouldn't do this. Why he shouldn't tear off her clothes, press his lips to her mouth, and kiss her. He had really good reasons for not doing those things, but none came to mind. All he could think about was Elizabeth. Confident-to-the-point-of-idiocy Elizabeth who now looked...hesitant.
 

He pushed the ottoman out of the way, and her leg fell to the ground. She stared at him as he kneeled between her legs. She looked a bit lost, but that was fine. He, too, felt unmoored, at sea. They stared at each other for an endless minute, then he put his hands on her knees. Her eyes widened, but her gaze held steady. He pushed her knees apart with exquisite slowness and felt her muscles tighten in sudden convulsion.

He smiled. She wanted this badly. He continued the gentle, and thoroughly unsatisfying, caress, eventually reaching her knee. There was a small tear on the right one where she'd scraped it on the rocks, coming out of the grotto. He pulled on the fabric and widened the tear.
 

Elizabeth bit her lip.

"Does it hurt?" he whispered.

She shook her head. He caressed the back of her knee softly. That was a sensitive spot.

She closed her eyes.

"No," he said. "Open your eyes."
 

She blinked and stared at him. Her eyes looked unfocused, lost. He'd never seen anything as beautiful as Elizabeth's hazel eyes, drowning in lust.

He tore the elastic fabric slowly, all the way up. Her hips jerked. His hand was pressed to the wet silk between her legs. He didn't move, though. He wouldn't give her the contact she craved. Instead, he felt for the seam of the tights. He smiled as he hooked his finger in the loose threads. He held his smile until the spasm subsided.