Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (45 page)

"The tours seem quite popular."

Patricia snorted. "It's not just the tours. PRoVE brought in new vendors and they're all out-of-towners. They're stealing all of our business. We think the Town Council should have something to say about that."

"Is that why you brought me here?" she asked, brows raised. "So I can start a fight about the new vendors? It just lost a fight. Why would I start another one?"
 

Her friend gave her a sheepish smile. "But you're so good at it," she pleaded. "Won't you please help?"

"Forget about it. I don't need the aggravation."

They finally reached Main Street. It was packed. She waved at Holly and Ben, who stood on the opposite sidewalk surrounded by college students in
Hauntings and Hoaxes
T-shirts. Patricia was right. PRoVE had brought in an army of food trucks. Holly and Ben were waiting in line for a Ghostcake-on-a-Stick, a ghost-shaped slice of cheesecake covered in chocolate. Caine and his posse rode, more like crawled, their bikes through the crowd. A flag with PRoVE's purple-eyed logo fluttered in the back of Caine's bike. Caine was frowning at a Haunted Orchard truck that was serving hard cider sangría in souvenir cups.
 

And, most interesting of all, a group of buxom ladies in purple and green lederhosen were distributing cups of beer. The sign over their kiosk read
Schwarzwaldrbier Dark: Authentic Black Forest Beer. Come to the Dark Side
. She squinted, trying to make out the subheadline. Yep, there it was:
Brought to you by Haunted Orchard and Schwarzbier Brewery
.

"See what I mean?" Patricia gestured toward the trucks. "We don't need more dessert businesses in this town."

"Well, tough cookie. That's what happens when you try to bargain with the devil. Hoisted by your own Ghostcake-on-a-Stick."

Patricia's glare could've melted steel. "You're mixing your metaphors again. Anyway, I'm taking this straight to the Town Council."

"Good luck," Elizabeth replied.
 

"I don't need luck," her friend wailed. "I need help."

"Well, keep me out of it."

"Elizabeth, please."

"You wanted ghosts. You got ghosts."

"The ghosts are fine. It's the Ghostcake that needs to be exorcised." Patricia peered at the crowd. "I'm going to find Zach. Maybe he'll listen to reason."

She snorted. Zach Franco and reason weren't even casual acquaintances. But she did sympathize with her friend. The competition was pretty fierce. A nearby food truck advertised Hades Hot Chocolate and its vehicular neighbor featured Zombie Subs, which didn't sound appetizing at all. But the garish green truck had a long queue, so the Zombie Subs must be at least somewhat palatable.
 

A group of tourists jostled her as they rushed toward the Zombie Subs truck. They carried bright orange maps and yellow flashlights with
Banshee Creek—America's Most Haunted Town
written in gothic script down the side. Well, that did it; she'd never sell a house in this town again. Might as well dust off her acting résumé and headshots and say yes to the reality show casting call.
 

Liam walked up to her, carrying two cups of hot chocolate. Elizabeth took one and peeked at the contents. Yep, just as she'd expected, ghost-shaped marshmallows.
 

Could this possibly get any worse?

"Lizzie?" A heavyset man in a black turtleneck sweater stared at her in jovial disbelief. "Lizzie Lovecraft?"

She stifled a groan. Lizzie Lovecraft was her acting alias. No one in Banshee Creek called her that, and she wanted to keep it that way. But Mr. Black Turtleneck didn't know that. He was grinning and shaking her hand. Liam stood by, curiosity growing on his face.

"I'm retired now," she said to the man, trying to let him down gently. She hoped he wouldn't ask for an autograph. She'd never live that down.

Mr. Black Turtleneck's grin did not fade. She noted the firm handshake, the steady gaze. She didn't know him, but she knew the type. This was no fan.

"And I'm here to change that," he said, still holding her hand. "We've been talking to your agent for weeks."

Ten minutes later, she had an empty paper cup, a glossy business card bearing the legend "Arcanum Films," and a million ideas rushing through her head.
 

She also had a plan.
 

C
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F
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G
ABE
SAT
in his living room and looked over the Manhattan skyline. He should be working. That was what he usually did when he was at home. He sat on this chair, balancing his laptop, and worked. Sometimes he had a football game on—nothing kept your eyes on a computer screen like a pathetic football performance. The Redskins were actually winning this season, but he still had the New York Jets. The Jets could always be counted on for a catastrophic game.
 

And he could use some football dysfunction right now. He had to review his staff's analysis of the Dark Forest Beer test run and yet his eyes kept wandering to the brown leather sofa at the other end of the room and his mind kept picturing Elizabeth in torn dark hose and pretty much nothing else.

That particular image, however, was extremely unrealistic. If Elizabeth were here, she wouldn't be lounging about in scanty lingerie. She'd be complaining about his Banshee Creek takeover, probably very loudly. But hell, he'd take that. A haughty Elizabeth calling him "ghost tycoon" was almost as enticing as a sexy Elizabeth in torn underwear.

He shook the thought out of his head. He shouldn't be thinking about her. He'd messed that up royally. Not in the business sense, of course. PRoVE was doing fantastically well. The Haunted Orchard project was running on all cylinders, and his investors were ecstatically happy. His little Banshee Creek adventure was going to net him a lot of money.

But it had lost him Elizabeth.

And his Manhattan penthouse didn't supply much in the way of distraction. It was all straight lines and shiny surfaces, and there wasn't much furniture. He'd chosen an extremely expensive minimalist decorator on purpose. He'd wanted nothing in his home that could distract him from work. Today that didn't seem like a very good decision.

The gourmet dinner his personal chef had left in the kitchen didn't help. The covered trays and calla lilies reminded him of the Middleburg Inn tea service. But his dinner didn't include a red velvet cake, though, or a gorgeous half-naked girl on a leather sofa, laughing at him.
 

He looked out the wall of windows again. His view of the Manhattan skyline had cost eight figures; it should be good for something.

It wasn't.

Yep, he could really use a red zone interception right now. He could also use a new sofa. Maybe he should purchase that white linen thing his decorator had pushed on him. Anything, as long as it wasn't leather.
 

Giving up, he set the laptop aside and moved to the bedroom. The fantasies about Elizabeth wouldn't follow him to the bedroom. After all, he hadn't actually gotten to make love to her on a bed.

The sleek, metal bedside table was buried under a pile of reports. He picked one on Chilean mining, laid down on his platform bed, and started to read. The bed didn't even have a headboard, so he couldn't imagine tying Elizabeth to anything.
 

Yeah, good thing they'd never made it to a bed.

A couple of days more, and he would have been a goner. He wouldn't have let her go. He would have ended up in a haunted house in Banshee Creek with her, no doubt about it. Maybe even that run-down farmhouse with the withered apple trees. There probably would have been an engagement ring involved.

And some kind of metal bed with a sturdy headboard.

His reports fell on the floor and he was startled out of his daydream. He swung his legs over the bed and sat up, cursing in several languages. What the hell was he doing daydreaming about Elizabeth?
 

They were over. Done for.
 

Well, his brain clearly had not gotten the memo. His vaunted self-discipline was useless against thoughts of Elizabeth.

He was crossing the living room when he heard Zach's ringtone coming from the general direction of the sofa. He picked up the smartphone, noticed and ignored several messages from Salvador, and put it to his ear.

"Did you know Mom is taking a Spanish cuisine tour?" Zach said. "And that you're paying for it?"
 

"What are you talking about?" He'd offered to pay for his mom's dream vacation many, many times, so that wasn't surprising. But why was she taking off now? And why was Zach so upset about it?

"She's taking Mary Hunt with her. She says Mary needs a change of scene."
 

"That's great."
 

It was the perfect solution. Mary's separation was a shock and she could use some time away. Two weeks of paella and red wine would cheer her up no end. He should call and make sure Mary's travel expenses were put on his credit card. Elizabeth's father had taken most of his money to the Cayman Islands, so the woman was probably short of funds.

"No," Zach replied, an anxious edge to his voice. "It's not great. It's the opposite of great. First, they're going to that restaurant that does the foam food. That means Mom is going to come back and cook beef tongue foam and, worst of all, she's going to make me eat it."
 

Gabe winced in sympathy. Salvador had taken him and a group of clients to a foam restaurant. It hadn't been pretty. He couldn't imagine what his mom would come up with after the tour. Some people needed to have their culinary horizons broadened, but Isabel Franco wasn't one of them.
 

"And as if that weren't enough hellishness," Zach's tirade went on, "it means I'm stuck alone with Dad. It's going to be like Chinese water torture, but with chess pawns."

"Think of it as a bonding opportunity."

His smartphone showed an e-mail coming in. It was from a real estate agency. Strange, the only real estate deal he had was in hiatus. He opened the e-mail.

 
"I'd rather not," his brother informed him, the statement followed by a long pause. "I'd rather you take him."

"Me?" Gabe replied absently. He wasn't paying attention. He was reading the e-mail.

"Sure. I can put him on a plane to Manhattan tomorrow morning. He can play chess in Washington Square Park. He loves that park."

"I don't live anywhere near Washington Square Park, Zach," he answered automatically. His attention was no longer on the conversation.

"You can have your driver take him around. You won't even have to deal with him," Zach pleaded.

"No can do," he reiterated absently, staring at the screen. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Maybe there was such a thing as second chances?

"Thanks for nothing, Gabe," Zach scoffed.
 

Gabe ignored the dig, typing quickly. He had a lot of arrangements to make. What was his brother talking about again?

"As if Dad wasn't enough to drive me crazy," Zach continued, "the Historical Preservation Committee is sending me nasty letters." Zach sounded desperate, so Gabe choked down his laughter. "Why can't you help out here?"

He finalized his transaction and logged out. "I have something else to do. You should be happy, Zach. You gave me good advice, and I'm going to follow it."

He ended the call and headed for the closet. He had a lot of packing to do.
 

C
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F
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G
ABE
STEPPED
hard on the accelerator, but Zach's truck barely budged. He banged the steering wheel in frustration. He really didn't need this. He'd spent several hours rereading the e-mail, wondering if he was interpreting the listing correctly. Wondering if he was reading too much into it. If maybe he was being too hasty.

By the time the plane had landed, he had reached a decision.

He didn't care.

He didn't care if he was misreading. He didn't care whether he was misinterpreting. All he knew was that he wanted Elizabeth back.

But he had no idea how to achieve that.

So he'd borrowed his brother's truck, driven to the address in the listing, and tried to come up with a strategy. He'd drawn a blank, though. Groveling to Elizabeth didn't sound like a great plan, but it was the only one on queue.

He turned into a familiar dirt road. The truck crawled slowly up the gently sloping hill, wheezing and snorting like an elderly bull on an out-of-control treadmill. Finally, the decrepit farmhouse came into view, and Gabe stared. Media trucks and trailers surrounded the house.

What the hell?

He smiled with relief when he spied the tangerine-colored targa top Honda behind a van. He parked the truck with a lurch and walked, making his way carefully among the cables and equipment toward the house. The trucks and cameras all had Arcanum Films signage. Was this Salvador's doing? Had Elizabeth brought him here to complain about the movie people?
 

The farmhouse was still shabby and unkempt, but now it was shabby, unkempt, and subject to professional lighting. Technicians ran to and fro, adjusting gadgets and measuring the light. Giant floor lamps encumbered the foyer and dining room, and he had to dodge several times before reaching the kitchen.
 

His breath caught when he saw Elizabeth sitting on a rickety chair, looking like she was about to topple off. Her eyes were closed and a young girl with tattooed arms was applying makeup. A microphone pack was attached to Elizabeth's lower back, and a marked-up script sat on the kitchen table. His gaze followed the curve of her back onto her long, bare legs and he almost didn't notice the enormous reflector aiming for his head. He barely evaded it, hitting his shoulder on a kitchen cabinet as he stepped out of the way. He rubbed his arm gingerly. The last thing he needed was another visit to Dr. Frankensburg.

"What the hell is going on, Elizabeth?" he asked, instantly regretting the words. That wasn't what he meant to say. It just came out.