Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (35 page)

Gabe had just ravished her against a wall. Or had she ravished him? She wasn't quite sure. One thing was certain, though, this wasn't the kind of thing she did. Absolutely not. Elizabeth Hunt did not seduce men. She did not carry handcuffs in her pockets. And she certainly did not masturbate in front of her lovers.

Except she had.

And she'd enjoyed every single nanosecond of it.

Gabe kissed her lightly on the head. The sweetness of the gesture made her insides melt. Her body felt limp as if all her energy had drained away. The poster bed was looking mighty appealing in all of its satiny, purple majesty.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"That bed looks like it's very far away."

He laughed, and she blushed.
Not your smoothest moment, Hunt.
Sex Kitten Elizabeth had decided to take a nap after her mind-blowing orgasms, leaving Awkward Elizabeth to handle the aftermath.

He held her face and gave her a long, lingering kiss. Okay, maybe Awkward Elizabeth could handle this after all. She stood unsteadily, her skirt still bunched around her waist, her camisole falling off her shoulder. Yep, Sex Kitten had definitely left the building.

Gabe, however, didn't seem to mind. He stared at her hungrily, and the look in his eyes made her shiver.
 
"You need to warm up," he said, his gaze turning gentle.
 

He found two robes hanging behind the door and held them up. They were both purple. He sighed heavily and took one. As he wrapped the fluffy robe around her, his finger grazed the edge of the camisole. Her nipple tightened and it wasn't because of the cold. She frowned at the tiny traitor. How? She couldn't possibly want him again so soon.

He smiled. "I've created a monster."

"And I've created an arrogant ass," she replied.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, laughing. "I've been arrogant for a long time." He looked down at her rumpled clothes in satisfaction. "Though I admit today did my ego no harm."

She had a witty retort on the tip of her tongue, but a sudden shiver ran through her body before she could speak.

Gabe tightened the robe around her. The garment was not only garish, it was quilted, and it puffed like a lavender marshmallow cloud. He looked at her, sighed regretfully, and kissed her nose. "Not as sexy as the Middleburg Inn yoga pants, but it'll have to do." He scanned the room. "Where's the restroom?"

Elizabeth pointed at an antique sink that sat in the corner.
 

"Please tell me you're joking."
 

She shook her head. "There's a full bath downstairs," she announced in the kindest tone she could muster.

"Downstairs?" He sounded appalled.

"Yes."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised this place is empty," he grumbled. "I hate to be unromantic, but you need to warm up. We should head home."

She gave him her sweetest smile. "We're not going home."

"I'd love to stay and ravish your lovely body all night long, but we aren't prepared for an overnight stay."

"Yes we are." She pointed at a colorful quilted bag sitting in a corner of the room. "I brought us some clothes."

"For me?" The quizzical expression on his face quickly turned into horror. "Are they purple?"

"No."

"Are you going to be wearing sweats?"

"No." Her smile grew broader.

"Well, the night may not be a complete bust then."

She shivered again. She loved the Rosemoor Inn, but the insulation left a lot to be desired.

Gabe noticed. "You're serious about staying here?"

In response, she caressed the belt of her robe enticingly. The Michelin Man robe didn't lend itself to sexual titillation, but judging by his torn expression, her sultry pose was having the desired effect.

He cleared his throat. "We could stay at the Middleburg Inn. It has a bath and central heat."

Elizabeth pouted. Sure, the Middleburg Inn had its charms, but she didn't harbor sexual fantasies involving horse-riding gear. "C'mon." She shrugged so the robe fell off her right shoulder. But the thick robe was too heavy and she ended up exposing most of her upper body. So much for Sex Kitten Elizabeth. "Live a little. There's no one else here, so we can walk to the bath in total privacy. It's just one flight down the stairs."

"You're serious." Gabe sounded horrified, but his gaze was fixed on her half-dressed body.
 

After a moment's consideration he surrendered, walked toward the sink, and grabbed one of the towels that hung nearby.

"Does this place at least have a kitchen? Can we order room service?"

Oh dear, she hadn't thought about dinner. She should feed Gabe, though. Did Pepe's Pizza still deliver? She had no idea.
 

"I don't think so," she said. "We could go out to eat, though." As long as dinner was quick and they came straight back to the hotel—after all, they hadn't even tried out the bed.

"I'd rather not leave the room," Gabe said, mirroring her thoughts. "I have plans." The word
plans
made her body tingle.
 

Unfortunately, his phone rang, interrupting their titillating conversation. He picked up the call with an exasperated sigh. An in-depth discussion of "plans" would have to wait.
 

"I'm not done yet, Salvador."
 

Elizabeth's ears perked up. This must be the Brazilian business partner Cole had talked about, the one with the pleasure dome estate in Rio and the string of jet-set girlfriends.
 

"How do you know about the house I'm buying?" Gabe asked into the phone. "What do you mean,
everyone
knows about that house?" Gabe listened for a second then shook his head. "It can't be that infamous, Salvador." More listening. "Your uncle Sandro was a guest? No, I haven't changed my mind, but I'll make sure it's fumigated before I move in, though. 'Bye." Gabe hung up. "What the hell is it with that house?" he asked, his voice dripping with disgust. "Now it turns out that Salvador's uncle got tipped to the Mexican Peso Crisis while undressing a Treasury official in the grotto."

"He told you not to buy it?" Elizabeth said hopefully.

"He wants to buy it himself. He says it's a lucky house for his family."

Elizabeth giggled. "Well, the farmhouse is still available."

"You have an unnatural affection for that place. Is it the aliens or is it the homicidal kitchen cabinets?" He shook his head. "Go take a bath. Then I'll feed you." His mouth quirked into a smile. "And after that, I'll get you dirty again."

Now
that
was a plan. And it got bonus points for not having to worry about feeding Gabe. She grabbed her toiletries bag and hurried downstairs to the bath. She took a long, leisurely shower, only turning the water off when it turned cold. She dried herself with a flowery towel and ran a brush through her hair. The afternoon's love play had left her hair a mess of tangles, and it took forever to comb them out.

Hair done, she tied the hideous robe around herself, stalked out of the bathroom, and climbed up the spiral staircase to the turret room. She'd already taken too long in the bath. Gabe would think she was primping up for him, and his titanic ego didn't need the reinforcement.
 

She paused by the door to the room. She could detect a faint, but very familiar smell. She tried to identify it, but the memory was elusive. She opened the door slowly. The tantalizing smell grew stronger.
 

Gabe was standing by one of the bay windows in a purple robe. He didn't look like a near-billionaire businessman anymore. Her experience with the financial elite was limited, but she was pretty sure billionaires didn't wear flannel robes with corduroy elbow patches. The horrid loungewear almost dimmed her lust. Almost, but not quite.
 

She entered the room. The smell remained unidentified but teasingly familiar. She took a deep breath then stepped forward.

"Where did you find grilled pimento cheese sandwiches?" she asked. That was what the smell was, cheddar with sweet roasted pepper and spicy tomato soup. It was the smell of her childhood, rainy afternoons with her brother slurping soup and gobbling triangle-shaped sandwiches with red-flecked gooey filling at the Hungry Owl diner.

But the diner had closed down years ago. Miss Jamie had retired, and the diner's once-coveted Main Street location was now a boarded-up eyesore.

"Trent, Miss Jamie's son, is one of my investments. He's opening up a restaurant in Leesburg. It's a gourmet fried chicken restaurant, but I asked him if he could make his mom's lunch special. He agreed, and the Rosemoor set it up for me." He looked ridiculously proud, like a little boy who'd pulled off an epic feat.

And epic was the right word. The Rosemoor couldn't compete with the Middleburg Inn, but under Gabe's direction, no doubt, it had done its best. The peg leg table under the window was now covered with an old-fashioned oilcloth tablecloth. A wicker basket held a bouquet of daisies, a pair of vintage thermoses (purple, of course), and a stack of flowered melamine bowls. Matching plates sat on the table, topped by sandwiches wrapped in wax paper held together with purple ribbons. The
pièce de résistance
was a vintage glass jar full of iced tea, ready to be poured into a pair of Mason jars.
 

It wasn't a luxurious spread, like the Middleburg Inn tea service. But it made a lump rise in her throat.
 

"How..." Her voice shook and she cleared her throat hurriedly. "How did you know I liked it so much?"

Sure, she'd complained when the diner had closed, but that was four, or maybe five, years ago. She'd almost forgotten about the pimento cheese sandwiches. How had he found out?

"Cole used to complain about your attempts to replicate the recipe. You made him eat all the failed experiments."

"Oh." She cursed her Judas brother. Her culinary mishaps were supposed to be a family secret. "I wasn't that bad."

"You made Tabasco soup."

"Tabasco is definitely one of the main ingredients. I just couldn't get the proportions right."

"Like you did with the horseradish sandwiches?"

"Some pimento cheese recipes call for horseradish."
 

And sometimes people confused teaspoons and tablespoons. It was a reasonable mistake and, for an Army serviceman, her brother had shown astonishingly low pain tolerance.
 

"Where did you get those recipes?"

"The internet." She frowned as he burst out laughing. "And I didn't really kill his sinuses. Cole loved to exaggerate."

"Well," he said, gesturing toward the table. "These are the real thing."
 

She walked to the table and picked up a sandwich. She pulled on the ribbons, and the stiff wrapping unfolded slowly, unveiling its golden treasure of buttery bread, tangy mayonnaise, and red-flecked cheese spread. Yep, this was the real thing. Her mouth was already watering.

"What's the catch?" she asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

His eyes widened in faux innocence. "There's no catch."
 

She snorted. "Stuff it. I know when I'm being bribed." She bit into the sandwich, closing her eyes in bliss. It was delicious. "It's a good bribe too. So, what's the catch?"

"It's not a catch. It's more of a favor."

"Fine, so what's the favor?"

"I'd like you to go to a party with me."
 

She fiddled with the wax paper, trying to hide her unease. She didn't usually like parties, but a party with Gabe sounded like fun. She could pull out one of her old L.A. gala dresses. The silver fishtail with the plunging neckline would definitely knock him out. But he sounded oddly uncertain, which kindled her suspicions. Why was he nervous about the party?

"We're inaugurating the Haunted Orchard expansion. It's not a big party, just our investors, employees, maybe a couple of journalists..." His voice trailed off.

"You don't know your own guest list?" she joked, trying to hide her unease.

She didn't do business parties. Off-Broadway opening nights? No problem. L.A. wrap parties? Sure. But a formal business party where she'd be expected to behave herself and chitchat politely with the guests? That sounded too much like the kind of event her father would drag her to.
 

"I don't plan the parties. Salvador's in charge of all that crap. I just show up."

"With me? Why?"

"Because I want you to see what we're doing. It's fantastic and it's going to be great for the town."

"Oh, boy." She bought herself some time by folding the empty sandwich wrapper, taking a Thermos and pouring tomato soup into a bowl. This wasn't just a party. It was a party with the people whose business she'd just ruined. "Can't we just agree to disagree about the paranormalization of the town?"

His jaw tightened. "Give me a chance. That's all I ask."

Elizabeth drank her soup. It was hot and spicy and comforting. She was, in spite of herself, touched. Gabe had remembered something that was important to her and pulled a lot of strings to make it come true. Something inside her was warm and melty, and it wasn't the pimento cheese.

He was being sweet. Imagine that. It almost made her want to go to the paranormie party.

"Will there be chainsaws? Or fake blood?" she asked.

He laughed. "Absolutely not. Salvador would never go for that. There will probably be caviar. He always likes to have caviar. And some kind of complicated cocktail." He looked at her hopefully. "Will you go?"

She put down her soupspoon and regarded the picnic spread. Gabe had really gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this. He'd even ordered The Hungry Owl's signature lemon bars. She could go to a party and schmooze with his clients. It might even be fun.
 

She gazed into his expectant face and smiled weakly. "I'd love to," she lied.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

G
ABE
STEPPED
off the stairs and turned quickly into the tiny bath tucked next to the spiral staircase. His shoulder hit the narrow doorframe and his temple grazed the gaslight chandelier, but he successfully avoided getting caught out in the open in the purple plaid robe.