Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (6 page)

"Hmmm," Elizabeth murmured. She was still looking at him with beautifully expectant, but terribly familiar, hazel eyes. "Should we take this somewhere else?" she whispered.

"No." He took a deep breath. Then he took another. "We're not taking this anywhere," he heard himself say. Oh, good, some part of his brain was still functioning.

She frowned. Oh yeah, he knew that frown. It was her "oh no, I got caught" frown. He'd seen it several times as he and Cole had saved Elizabeth from her many ill-fated projects. Her shoulders slumped and her head hung. She looked down at her crazy, sexy, mess-with-Gabe's-brain shoes and sighed audibly.
 

The gesture was so familiar it made his heart hurt. How many times had he rescued Elizabeth after one of her hare-brained plans went awry? Too many to count. And he'd seldom escaped unscathed. That stupid spaceship ramp had broken his nose, the hot air balloon thing had almost strangled him, and he'd spent hours at the clinic wincing as the doctor had pulled disco ball shards out of his back. He could now add a refreshing lemonade bath to that list.

Yes, Elizabeth Hunt was trouble with a capital
T
.

"You figured it out," she said, almost pouting.

"Yes." He took yet another deep breath. Being around Elizabeth required a lot of deep breathing. She should have a yoga school named after her. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in L.A."

"My mom wasn't doing well, so I came back." Her voice was flat, her face carefully blank.

He felt a surge of sympathy. Mary Hunt was a close friend of his mother's, so he'd heard about Mary's condition. Depression was a horrible illness, and Mary, devastated by her son's death, struggled with its effects. The situation must be dire indeed, if Elizabeth had felt the need to return. That was a big sacrifice. But, like her brother Cole, Elizabeth would do anything for her family. He respected that. But it didn't dampen his anger.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked, fists clenched at his sides. "You can't just go around picking up strange guys."

Her eyes widened in outrage, and her spine stiffened. "Don't be an ass," she sneered in what he now recognized as her Alpha Centauri princess voice. "I knew it was you."
 

She was annoyed now. Good, annoyed was better than aroused.
 

"You're the one who didn't recognize me," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "That means
you're
the one picking up strange girls in parking lots."
 

She had a point, but he wasn't about to admit it.

"You can't pick
me
up," he snarled. "You're too young."

"Three years, Gabe." She raised her hand with the requisite number of fingers splayed out, like he was a very slow kindergartner.
 

"It's not the years."
 

Age didn't matter. She was
Elizabeth
, shy little Elizabeth who came up with crazy ideas and always got into scrapes. Except she wasn't shy little Elizabeth anymore. She was now glamorous and assertive and...

Tempting. She was way too tempting.

"I'm not a virgin, you know," the siren crooned.
 

"I really, really don't want to know about that," he stammered, running his hand through his hair.
 

He really didn't want to picture sexy Elizabeth doing who knew what with other men. Actually, given the way she'd reacted to the feel of restraints on her ankles, he knew what she'd been doing, and he didn't like it. He tried to hold his temper in check, but Elizabeth wasn't making it easy. The lemonade had splashed her blouse, turning it transparent, and he could see her lacy bra underneath.

Her eyes narrowed in exasperation. "You're impossible," she hissed. "I can't believe you're lecturing me on ethics, Mr. Go-Behind-Everyone's-Back-and-Take-Over-the-Town."

"Don't be silly. You're overdramatizing the situation. I've got nothing to hide."
 

This was familiar ground. He had often found himself scolding Elizabeth after her adventures failed. Of course, she hadn't usually talked back.

"Really?" she asked, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Is that why you were skulking around the library, making sure no one saw you? I bet you were lying low in the science fiction nook where Cole used to go so he could ogle the boobs on the Frank Franzetta covers in privacy."
 

Cole's baby sister had developed serious sass. No, she'd always had sass. But she'd never aimed it at him. Well, she was sniping with it now.

When had this transformation occurred? How had the sweet, albeit speechless, goth girl turned into Boadicea, Queen of Banshee Creek?
 

"We're not talking about me," he growled. "We're talking about you. It's basic self-preservation. You can't just go around coming on to random men."

"Even if the random guy is you?"

"
Especially
if the random guy is me." He bit the words out. He knew he wasn't making much sense, but he didn't care. "You're Cole's sister, for pity's sake."

She sighed. It was a long, dramatic sigh, about as convincing as her twisted ankle. No wonder she'd ended up selling real estate; her acting was atrocious. The sigh pressed the lacy bra against the see-through blouse, and his fists clenched. That blouse was driving him insane.

"What does being Cole's sister have to do with anything?" she asked, crossing her arms and tilting her hips.
 

He stared at her, not knowing what to say to that. She'd rendered him speechless. Damn it, he was
never
speechless.

"Why are you walking around with a giant jar?" he asked, trying to change the subject. Elizabeth attracted chaos like honey did flies. She didn't need to be carrying things around. She needed to sit somewhere and stay out of trouble. Preferably while wearing a thick, wooly sweater.

The trouble magnet grimaced. "I'm taking it back to Patricia's bakery," she said, shifting her feet. He scanned her legs, searching for an injury.
 

Her ankle seemed fine, but those shoes were seven stories tall. "You need new shoes."
 

Flat shoes. Or maybe those orthopedic clogs nurses wore. Or clunky nun loafers. Yes, nun loafers. Even Elizabeth couldn't get into trouble in ecclesiastical footwear. And he wouldn't be rendered speechless if she were wearing them.

"I appreciate your concern," she said, grimacing as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. "These are my lucky audition heels. I had to wear them tonight."

Only Elizabeth would have lucky audition shoes. And only Elizabeth would have lucky audition accessories that actually
worked
.

"Yes, well, you did a good job on behalf of the Historical Preservation nutjobs," he admitted.

Elizabeth's face darkened. "We're not nutjobs," she said in a steely voice.
 

"We?" he asked, brows raised in surprise. "You're in cahoots with the crazies?"

"We're not crazies. We're trying to keep this town alive."

"Well, you're going about it the wrong way." He sighed with exasperation. "You're making the same mistake the Banshee Creek Cidery made. It's the best cider in the country. But no one bought it. You know why?" He didn't wait for her answer. "Because apples are boring. Heirloom apples are even more of a snoozefest. But now? Now, the cider sells out every season. You know why?" Again, he didn't wait for her answer. "Marketing. The cidery now has amazing marketing."

It should. He'd slaved over that marketing plan. He'd obsessed about how to make a humble apple drink distinctive and new. He'd pored over campaign proposals with generic autumnal themes. Apples, hay, golden leaves. Boring, boring, boring. Then, finally, the light bulb moment.
 

"You know why the marketing is so effective?" he asked. "Because of the ghosts. A small town with lots of legends and folklore is interesting and attractive. It allows the imagination to gallop—straight into a cash register. Your Committee's history lesson is tedious and boring. I know you like to shake things up. But you shouldn't change things that are working well."
 

Elizabeth's narrowed eyes focused on him. Gabe braced for impact. "It's working well?" Her eyes flashed and she took a deep breath. "It's working well when we have enough families moving into town to keep it alive in the spring and summer. It's working well when we have enough kids to keep the high school open. It's working well when our insurance rates don't go through the roof because some kids decided to vandalize the local church in an attempt to attract a Lovecraftian entity."

He tried to muster a counter-argument, but Elizabeth didn't pause. Her eyes blazed and she dug a finger into his chest as if she were about to perform a particularly gruesome pagan sacrifice.

"It's working well when my mom's business isn't falling apart." Dig. "It's working well when my mom isn't lying on a sofa all day." Dig. "It
would
work well if my father weren't off on another interminably long business trip that's more important than taking care of his wife."
 

She took a final, long breath. It looked like she was trying to calm herself down. That was good. Gabe really, really wanted her to calm down.

Unfortunately, the breathing didn't do the trick.
 

"It's
not
working well," she continued furiously, "when I'm here, propping up the family business by myself. It's not working well when said business is being decimated by stupid kids chasing fairy tales—" she paused, "—and I include my brother in that group." She paused again. "May he rest in peace."

The last sentence was whisper-soft and laced with pain. She frowned and rallied, continuing the tirade.

"It's not working well when Holly's library has no patrons except for the crazy ghost-hunters trying to take a picture of Good Sergeant Atwell, or when the Hungry Owl diner has to close down, or when Patricia's bakery has no customers." She was practically shaking with rage. And pain, there was a lot of pain in there too. "
You—
" she stabbed a finger at his chest, "—Mr. Not-Quite-Yet-A-Billionaire, you have to stop talking about stuff you know nothing about."

"Elizabeth," he started. He really hadn't meant to cause this avalanche of hurt.

"That's why the Historical Preservation Committee is doing this." With one last breath, Elizabeth calmed down. She looked worn out. "But it's going to take a lot of work to get the town back on its feet," she concluded with a frown. "Even Rafe at Vintage Motors is selling evil eye charms."
 

"Really?" Gabe asked. "I should buy one." Elizabeth looked appalled. "I know of an evil spirit I'd like to keep away," he continued. Hell, after tonight, he'd need a bucket load of charms to keep Elizabeth out of his mind.

"Oh, come on," she said, in a tired voice. "You can't believe in all those stories."

"I believe in customers, and the legends bring in customers."

"Not to us, they don't." Her voice rose. "Hunt Realty gets no clients. Do you know what that means? Elderly people can't sell their homes, young families don't move in, the schools have no kids, and the childcare center is closing. The rest of Northern Virginia is booming, but we don't feel it. Do you know why?" She was practically screeching now. "Because no one wants to buy a house with a resident ghost." She gestured toward Main Street. "And now, thanks to you, and my idiot brother—" She paused. "May he rest in peace." She took a breath and continued, "And your stupid friends, the whole world knows we have one hundred and thirty-seven of them."

"One hundred and thirty-eight," Gabe said in a quiet voice.

"What?"

"One hundred and thirty-eight," he repeated. "The Lady of the Falls was certified yesterday."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed in suspicion. She took a step back, tottered in her ridiculous shoes, then caught her balance and glared. "The Lady of the..." Her voice trailed off. "Your friends are loons."

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, Elizabeth," he said. "The town's hauntings will bring in tourists and business."
 

Her blazing eyes focused on him. "It's not working, Gabe. And I don't care if the supernatural fringe has brought in big money to back them up. The gig is up, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

"Elizabeth," he started.
 

"Never mind," she said between clenched teeth. "I'm going home. I'm meeting a client early in the morning." She straightened her spine and tightened her lips into a grimace that was probably meant to be a smile. "Nice to see you again, Gabe." She paused. "Goodbye."

Then she turned around and walked toward a small, beat-up car, a painfully familiar orange Honda. He knew that car very well. He'd spent many weekend afternoons trying to fix that deathtrap with Cole. He couldn't believe Elizabeth was still driving it. That thing was a suicide wish on wheels. He should stop her. It was definitely unsafe. But he paused because he wasn't sure whether he'd be stopping her because of the safety issue, or because he wanted to pull her back into his arms and kiss the hurt out of her eyes.

And maybe find out what was underneath that lacy bra.

Of course, the one thing he was terrible at was trying to kiss, or hug, or even awkwardly pat, any hurt away. And the one thing he couldn't allow himself to do was find out what was beneath Elizabeth's bra. Damn, he used to buy her pimento cheese sandwiches after school. He'd wait with Cole until she got out of the interminable Drama Club meetings, and they'd all go to the Hungry Owl diner and feast on spicy tomato soup and the diner's trademark cheese sandwiches. He shouldn't be fantasizing about her underwear.

Nun shoes. He had to think of nun shoes.

So he just watched her drive away. He would find a house tomorrow and leave town. Once he got back to Manhattan, he'd figure out a way to take care of the Banshee Creek Historical Preservation Committee. But right now he needed to get as far away from Elizabeth as possible.

Now
that
was a plan.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN