Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (4 page)

But her happy mood deflated as her eyes landed on the PRoVE map, still propped up in its high-tech easel. Even Winston Churchill wouldn't be able to convince Gabe to buy a
haunted
house, and all the homes in her current inventory suffered from what the Historical Preservation Committee euphemistically called "interactive historical features," i.e., ghosts.
 

She tightened the lid of the lemonade jar, but the stupid lid wouldn't screw on. She frowned at it and tried again. Still nothing. The lid was broken.

"Too true." Holly laughed. She put the projector in a cupboard and rolled up the screen. "Well, I'm done. How about you?"
 

Elizabeth looked around. She was ready to go home, where she could stare at her phone all night pondering whether to call Gabe and try out her sales pitch.
Spacious colonial with great bones. Fabulous location. Barely haunted.

Fun times.

"I've got to take the lemonade back to the bakery," she said. "Are you ready to leave?"
 

"Yes. Are you sure
that
—" Holly glanced meaningfully at the lemonade jar, "—will fit in your little clown car?"

"Hey, don't mess with my car. It's a classic."
 

But Holly was right. Her car was cute, but tiny. The ginormous jar would take up most of the passenger seat.
 

"It's a Honda and it's orange," Holly responded not unkindly. "Face it, it's never going to be a classic."

"It's a del Sol." Which meant it was a convertible with a fabulous targa top and a scrumptious makeover, courtesy of Virginia Vintage Motors, the local auto shop. Her ride was pimped out, and Holly was just jealous. That was what driving a minivan did to you, even if it had reclining seats and several TV screens. "And the paint color is called Tangerine Dream. It's a collector's car. They don't make them anymore."

"Yes, and there's a reason for that." Holly shook her head in mock exasperation, and then turned serious. "Let me know how it goes tomorrow, okay?"
 

Hearing the worry in her friend's voice, Elizabeth's tone softened. "It's going to go great. Really."

Her friend looked doubtful. "That house is a hard sell. It's going to take a lot of luck. Actually, it's going to take a miracle."

"It's the best house in Banshee Creek, and your brother did a great job fixing it. The chandelier looks fantastic. Don't worry, I'll sell it." Holly and Liam had sunk all their money into remodeling their family's ancestral mansion, the Hagen House. They were counting on Elizabeth to sell it, and she couldn't let them down.

"That thing is Satan's own light fixture." Holly sighed and brushed an errant curl out of her eyes. "Just, you know, be careful in that house."

"Why would I need to be careful?"

"You know why." Holly said. "I hope you sell it, Elizabeth. But I'll totally understand if you can't do it."

"Don't worry. You'll be closing in thirty days," Elizabeth promised. Of course she'd sell the house. She owed it to her friend. "Now let's lock up so you can go take care of my godson. Don't worry about the house."

They turned off the lights, locked the door, and walked to the parking lot.

The night was cool and quiet, and the moonless sky was dotted with stars. Elizabeth smiled. Her hometown had its eccentricities, but she couldn't deny that it had its good points too. The night sky was spectacular. Main Street was empty, and the lampposts cast a silvery glow over the gray cobblestones. The town looked dark and magical, rather like a modernized fairy tale.

Until a shrill screech pierced the twilight quiet. The sound, high and sharp like the cry of a tortured soul, made her jump and she almost dropped the lemonade jar.

"Are you okay?" Holly asked. "It's just an owl."

"I know, I know." She straightened the jar and resumed her walk toward the parking lot.

"You've been back for two years now. You should be used to them by now."
 

Elizabeth stifled a sigh. The ubiquitous barn owls, also known as banshee owls, and their eerie screams gave the town its name. The Banshee Creek natives were all used to the sound, and she was no exception. "Of course I'm used to them. It just startled me, that's all."
 

"Do you want me to drive you home?"

"Don't be ridiculous. The stupid owls don't scare me. Go take care of your little boy. I'll be fine."

Her friend looked concerned, but Elizabeth smiled reassuringly. They reached the parking lot and said their goodbyes. Holly got into her minivan and drove away, and Elizabeth carried the lemonade jar to her car.

With the presentation behind her she could focus on the next challenge, selling the Hagen House. Lost in thought and struggling with the unwieldy container, she collided with...something. She stopped short, but the lemonade jar, following its own momentum, crashed into a tall, well-dressed man. She watched, horrified, as pale liquid ran down his expensive, obviously bespoke, jacket. The jar fell to the ground, cracked, and its contents oozed out onto the cobblestones.

Elizabeth babbled apologies as she looked around for napkins, towels, or a place to hide. The stranger turned to face her. Dark brown eyes, brown hair, perfect face save for the rakish bump on his nose.
 

Elizabeth's heart stopped beating. This was no tourist.
 

His face was as familiar as the thick sheaf of Historical Preservation Regulations she kept by her desk. She knew every curve, every dimple, and every chiseled angle. And she remembered that nose bump very well. That bump was what happened when your best friend's kid sister noticed you watching a play rehearsal, got nervous, and dropped a giant, glittery spaceship ramp on your face.
 

It was Gabe Franco.
 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

G
ABE
WAS
dressed in slacks, a dress shirt, and a dripping jacket, and his expression was a mix of confusion, exasperation, and amusement. The clothes were different and he looked older, but the expression was familiar. He frowned at her in exactly the same away after she'd dropped the spaceship ramp on his head.

She braced for a scolding. He wouldn't scream at her. Gabe never screamed. But she expected a sharp lecture on public safety and dark parking lots and the irresponsible handling of faulty food containers.
 

But it didn't happen.

Instead, he smiled at her. He looked pleased—no,
delighted
.

What was going on? And why did his smile make her melt? Damn it, she was an adult now, not a love-struck teen. But Gabe's smile still made her giddy. Gabe's smile meant that disaster, whether a collapsing spacecraft or a movie stunt gone horribly wrong, had been averted. There might be a visit to Banshee Creek Urgent Care, her unofficial home-away-from-home, but such visit would be followed by a slice of Franco Pizza's mushroom special with banana peppers and a root beer float.

Gabe's smile made her feel safe.
 

"I'm so sorry," she said for the fourth time. Yep, mistress of eloquence, that was her. "Don't worry. It's only Patricia's gourmet lemonade. It's practically water."

Rats. Gabe's smile shouldn't render her speechless. She'd spent many hours with L.A.'s finest psychiatrist-to-the-stars to deal with her safety fetish and assorted Daddy issues. She should be immune.

He leaned and picked up the now-empty jar, and Elizabeth couldn't help noticing that he didn't have an ounce of fat anywhere. Wasn't he trading stocks and writing memos and doing weird finance stuff now? Why was he in such good shape? It should be illegal to look this good.

But she shouldn't be susceptible to a handsome façade. After years in the L.A. audition circuit, she was used to handsome men. They were mere backdrop.

But not Gabe, her personal superhero.

"At least you weren't carrying grape juice." He looked at the cracked container. "That appears rather sharp. Are you hurt?"
 

His eyes traveled up her body slowly, his gaze warm and admiring, and she frowned in confusion. Gabe didn't look at her that way. She'd seen the look before. She'd seen it in pictures trained on lingerie models and glamorous starlets. She'd seen it in person when aimed at coltish cheerleaders and busty debate team members. But she'd never seen Gabe aim it at her.

Gabe had always had a particular way of looking at her, a "do I have to take this crazy girl to the ER?" expression. It annoyed her immensely. She didn't want Gabe to think of her as an accident-prone pest he had to take care of. Why did he always have to be the one who got her out of scrapes? The Spaceship Pinafore had been one of many unlucky entanglements growing up, and Gabe had, sadly, been there for every single one. There was the disco-themed
Phantom of the Opera
pep rally, where the giant disco ball had crashed to the floor of the gym and bathed the senior class in plate-sized silver sequins. And who could forget the ill-fated pyrotechnics display at the Ridley-Scott's-
Aliens
-meets-
Grease
extravaganza. Her performance as Rizzo had been fabulous, well worth the second-degree burns in her opinion.

Unfortunately, Gabe hadn't agreed.

Yep, she was used to Gabe's "what did I do to deserve this?" attitude. But that wasn't what she was seeing now.

He stood, carrying the cracked jar easily. He walked to the library dumpster, threw it in, and walked back. Apparently, Mr. Megabucks hadn't forgotten his humble roots. His Dumpster-disposal technique wasn't rusty at all.
 

But what was he doing in the library parking lot...right after the ghost tours vote? Why would Gabe care about the ghost tours vote?

Her fists clenched and her back straightened into the fighting-readiness position her favorite stunt coordinator had taught her years ago.
 

Why indeed?

"Are you okay?" he asked, touching her shoulder gently.
 

She felt an electric current sweep through her arm. She resolved to ignore it and instead focused on the fact that Gabe, the hero of her youth, the subject of countless teen fantasies, was the scum behind PRoVE. Unfortunately, an image of shirtless, marmalade-covered Gabe popped into her head.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. The terse response made her wince. She wasn't the epitome of eloquence tonight, was she? She should be screaming at him for going behind everyone's back and ruining the town. What was it about this man that made her brains ooze out of her skull like jelly from an over-filled donut?

Gabe's eyes swept slowly down her legs and he chuckled. That was a very flirty chuckle. Flirty Gabe wasn't something she'd experienced before. And why was Gabe examining her legs like that? Had she cut herself? That wouldn't surprise her. She tended to do a lot of involuntary bleeding around Gabe. She glanced at her legs. No, she was miraculously unhurt.

"Those aren't country shoes," he said. "I saw your presentation. Great job. But I guess they didn't tell you about our town's unlucky streak when they asked you to help out. You must be from out of town. Middleburg?" he asked as his eyes swept over her body, lingering on every curve.
 

Elizabeth froze. He saw her presentation? He thought she was from neighboring Middleburg? And he was flirting?
 

Understanding dawned and she fought to keep her mouth from falling open.
 

He didn't recognize her.

"No," she said, mind racing. "I'm not from Middleburg." She cast a level glance at him, but Gabe's smile didn't waver.

No recognition whatsoever.
 

She knew her appearance was quite different. Her goth-girl style hadn't received a favorable reception in L.A., so she'd given herself a makeover with blonde highlights and contact lenses. But still, she wasn't unrecognizable, was she?

Maybe she was. After all, the
Cannibal Clones From Alpha Centauri
dress rehearsals, and the amazing work of the Princess Verdala glam squad, had been a revelation for her. She remembered spending most of the day staring in shocked disbelief at the glamorous stranger in the makeup room mirror.
 

"Well, wherever you're from, you're in Banshee Creek now," Gabe was saying. "You need to be more careful. Weird things happen in this town."

"Oh, those are just stories," she scoffed.
 

But dangerous thoughts were now forming in her head, and they had nothing to do with the local specters. Gabe didn't recognize her. She wasn't Elizabeth Hunt, the kooky drama dork who was his best friend's kid sister. She was just a cute girl who'd nailed a killer presentation.
 

This had possibilities. Sexy possibilities. Sexy possibilities that he totally deserved for turning into a super villain.

"Did you hurt your foot?" Gabe asked.
 

He sounded solicitous now. And no wonder—she was standing there, looking at him like an idiot. He probably thought she'd hit her head with the jar.

She took a deep breath.
 

She wasn't tongue-tied Elizabeth Hunt anymore. Would Princess Verdala al-Dorian let this jerk wave goodbye and return to juggling multi-billion dollar companies and supermodels?
 

No, she wouldn't. As the Alpha-Centurian princess would put it, revenge was a dish best served
now
.

She smiled tremulously and raised her left foot. "My ankle hurts a bit," she said, trying to sound as pitiful as possible. She'd spent good money on Stanislavsky acting lessons, and she was putting them to good use. Gabe's eyes narrowed on her perfectly healthy foot. "I'm sure it's fine," she continued, stressing the words at the end of each sentence to project wounded courage.
 

"You need to go to the clinic." Gabe said, still staring at her foot. "You can't drive on that. C'mon. I'll drive you." He led her through the parking lot toward a sporty red convertible.
 

Elizabeth didn't know much about expensive cars, but she knew this vehicle.