Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) (7 page)

E
LIZABETH
STOOD
on the gravel driveway, leaned her head back, and assessed the gargantuan house with a professional eye. The early morning light fell on the stained glass windows and she felt a surge of confidence.
 

The Hagen House towered over the neighboring bungalows with majestic grace. Which was noteworthy, since "majestic" wasn't a word usually associated with Banshee Creek's real estate inventory. Quaint and picturesque, yes. Charming, sure, often in the literal sense. Majestic, no.
 

The street wasn't bad, either. It was narrow, and the houses were stacked one next to the other like cedar-shingled sardines in a can, but the gardens were well taken care of. The bright flowers of summer were gone, but red-flecked Japanese maple trees and wild grasses added muted color.

It all looked splendid, and she felt a wave of relief. Holly was depending on her, so failure was not an option. She needed to sell this house today. To that end, she'd dug up her most conservative clothes—plain dark slacks, a shirt the color of pasteurized skim milk, and the pearl necklace she'd bought when she'd auditioned for that serial killer suburban mom role. She wished she owned a pair of sensible pumps to go with the outfit, but all she had was a pair of pin-up girl peep-toes with towering heels.
 

Oh well, at least the pants hid the shoes. She never wore pants that hid the shoes, but today was important. Today was worth the boring outfit and the über-tasteful pearl necklace.
 

Her town was weird enough. Not to mention the house.

She could admit it now. She'd been a bit nervous about this listing. It was the best house in Banshee Creek, but even the locals gave it wide berth. Luckily, her mom had come up with an out-of-town client with an enormous budget and only one requirement: size.
 

That was weird. In her experience, Banshee Creek buyers seldom focused on the square footage. Usually they asked a lot of questions about the, er, provenance of the house. And out-of-town clients were rare, very rare. A wealthy, undiscriminating, out-of-town purchaser... Hmm, who could fit that bill?

One name came instantly to mind. But surely her mom would have told her...

The theme song for HGTV's
House Hunters
chirped merrily from the depths of her purse. Her eyes widened in surprise. She checked the screen to verify, but yes, her mom was calling. That meant that, after months of sofa-induced lethargy, her mother was actually focusing on work. Elizabeth could hardly contain her glee as she took the call.

"Hi, sweetie," her mom said. "I just want to check on how things are going." Not since Elizabeth had taken charge of the office almost two years ago had her mom asked how things were going. Not once.
 

She smiled. Maybe this was a sign of recovery. "Everything's great," she answered, her voice upbeat. "I'm just looking through the house."

"Excellent. Remember to turn on the lights."

Elizabeth's smile grew broader. Her mom always reminded her to turn on the lights, an age-old real estate trick that made the house look cheerier. She felt a bright spark of hope. This sounded like her mom, not the broken old woman who looked like her mom but lay on the sofa all day.

"I really appreciate this, sweetie. Doing a showing in such short notice. I mean, I know you're rather busy trying to sell Holly's house."
 

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. Her mom's contrite tone was, to put it mildly, strange. Even depressed, her mom never apologized. "I'm happy to do it," she replied, choosing her words with care. "I'm curious about this new client. How did you find out about him?"

"Oh, it's a referral."

Her suspicions deepened. Banshee Creek Realty seldom got referrals, and when they did, it was usually Canadian movie scouts looking for a horror film locale.

"That's interesting," she said in the same careful tone. "Maybe someone with family in the area?"

"I don't know, Elizabeth. Finding that out is
your
job, isn't it?" her mom asked pointedly. "And where are you, anyway? You didn't send me the MLS listing."
 

Elizabeth winced. Yep, that scold sounded more like her mom. Definitely a sign of recovery. And her mom was checking MLS? Great news. But if she wasn't going to come clean, then Elizabeth could definitely return the favor. It was time for, as the paranormies would put it, evasive maneuvers. "I'm showing the client the best house we have in inventory," she said. "You said he doesn't want to waste any time, right?"

"Right." Another pause. "Our best house, you say? Gosh, I haven't looked at our inventory in so long. Which one is that, exactly?"

"Sorry, Mom, the client is here and I have to go. I'll fill you in when I'm done." Elizabeth cut the call quickly before she lost her temper and started screaming at her invalid, yet still highly deceptive mother.

She shouldn't jump to conclusions. There was still a chance, albeit a small one, that her prospective buyer wasn't Gabe. There could be another fabulously rich man in town looking for a house. It wasn't completely out of the question.
 

Yeah, right.

Elizabeth looked at the house, trying to picture it as the abode of a reclusive, backstabbing, arrogant quasi-billionaire, and nodded in satisfaction. It actually fit the bill nicely. It was big, it was luxurious, and it was intimidating. She should be able to sell it to Gabe. There was that one little detail, but she pushed it out of her mind. All the Banshee Creek houses had their quirks. Everyone understood that. Gabe wouldn't care, or at least he shouldn't.
 

She punched her code into the lockbox, took out the key, and unlocked the door. She was relieved to note that it was heavy, solid wood. She stepped into the house and smiled. Was there anything better than the smell of a freshly painted house? The smell was like Christmas morning, new and full of possibilities. Who could resist it?

She crossed the foyer, her heels tapping a rhythm on the checkerboard-patterned marble floor. She admired the wood staircase, white-painted paneling, and gorgeous oak wood floors. She sneaked a peek at the white marble tiles.
 

Flawless. No spots at all.
 

She looked up. The famous Hagen chandelier, completely restored, hung from the foyer ceiling, sunbeams glinting off the crystals. Gabe would love it, she was certain. The over-the-top light fixture was obnoxiously arrogant, just like him.

She walked through the house, continuing her assessment. Liam's construction firm was known for quality work, but he had outdone himself with the Hagen House. True, he hadn't had much choice. The Historical Preservation Committee had kept its retro-styled spectacles firmly trained on the renovation and, per its requirements, antique brick had been procured from a crumbling church in Richmond, molding had been cut based on drawings found in the Monticello architectural archives, and heritage ivy shoots had been painstakingly draped over the walls. The house was now an up-to-date, no-expense-spared, all-the-bells-and-whistles luxury home.
 

She wouldn't live here for the world. The Hagen House was her parents' house on elephant steroids.
 

A screech of tires pierced her ears. She walked to the living room window and peered out.
 

A red Ferrari sat on the driveway.
 

Elizabeth leaned her forehead against the tripled-paned custom glass window. Nope, she hadn't been wrong. She was going to have to pitch the most notorious house in Banshee Creek to a man she'd doused in warm lemonade.
 

She watched as he got out of the car, took off his sunglasses, and stared at the house. She couldn't make out the expression on his face. Was he pleased?
 

He walked toward the entrance and examined the portico carefully. That was a good sign, wasn't it?
 

Finally, the door opened, and Gabe walked into the house. He was wearing a different jacket today. This one was brown corduroy and it appeared to be brand new. She stifled a twinge of guilt over the lemony demise of his jacket. He could afford a new one. In fact, he could afford to buy his own London tailor's shop.

At least he was also wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which made him look like his old self. Well, almost. These clothes appeared expensive. Old Gabe would have worn threadbare jeans and a red T-shirt with the words Franco Pizza in lurid yellow script, or a Banshee Creek High Chess Team T-shirt, or a faded gray shirt that announced that Mathematicians Do It By The Numbers.

He entered the house with a confident stride, and a shadow on his jaw added an air of danger. She hadn't noticed the bruise last night. She'd been busy noticing other things. Things she shouldn't be thinking about now. The only thing that mattered today was that she had to somehow convince Gabe to buy this house.
 

Which was unfortunate, because she didn't think she'd be able to make a good sales pitch right now. Just looking at Gabe made her go weak in the knees, or actually, a bit lower than that. She could feel the phantom pressure of the straps he'd tightened around her ankles. She pushed the memory out of her mind. She had no business picturing Gabe tying anything anywhere on her body. She had to behave. She had to sell him Holly's house.
 

She opened her mouth to form a greeting, but Gabe put his finger over her lips. She stiffened. The contact was electric, and she couldn't help but wonder what else Gabe's fingers were capable of.
 

But realization dawned and her jaw clenched. He was
shushing
her?
 

How dare he?

But he was the client, and she really needed to sell this house. She counted backward from ten, in the guttural alien language she'd memorized for
Cannibal Clones,
and forced herself to calm down.
 

At least he didn't seem angry, which was...unexpected. Instead, he looked amused. That annoyed her, but amused was better than angry, right? She could sell a house to someone who was amused.
 

He was studying the door and checking out the handle. That was definitely an "interested buyer" gesture, which meant it was also an "Elizabeth is going to sell this house" development.
 

His gaze swept over the foyer and his lips curved in the familiar kryptonite smile. Why was she so susceptible to him? He hadn't even kissed her last night, and she was still feeling melty and needy.
 

At least he liked the house. He seemed impressed by the chandelier. As well he should be. That chandelier had a three-inch-thick file at the Banshee Creek Community Library. Well, he could shush her all he wanted, as long as he bought the house. She would forgive last night's humiliating rejection and his condescending behavior. She would forgive him anything.

As long as he bought the house.

He looked around one last time, turned to her and smiled.
 

"Have you lost your mind, Elizabeth?"

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

A
HAUNTED
house. She was trying to sell him a
haunted
house.

Her eyes widened as she tried to manufacture an innocent look, and she bit her lip clearly trying figure out how to proceed. The gesture was very familiar. She used it whenever she got into trouble, which occurred often.
 

And she was in trouble now.
 

Everyone in town knew about the Hagen House. This house wasn't just a white elephant. It was a white elephant in scary clown makeup, holding a bloody chainsaw in its trunk. No real estate agent would dare try to sell this house.

No real estate agent but Elizabeth. This girl would dare anything.

The thought made him smile, and he really should not be smiling. He should be angry. He'd taken a week off his tight schedule to come to Banshee Creek, and nothing seemed to be going right. He'd lost the Ghost Tours vote, he'd ended up almost making out with his best friend's little sister, and, to top it all off, he'd spent half the night at the Banshee Creek Boxing Academy, working off a raging case of unfulfilled lust.
 

Unfortunately, a fellow gym-goer with a particularly fierce roundhouse kick had reminded him of one of Elizabeth's
Cannibal Clones
scenes, and the resulting distraction had allowed Caine to land a wicked roundhouse punch on his jaw, which now hurt like hell.

He really shouldn't be in a good mood. And yet, something about Elizabeth made him smile. He didn't understand why. Maybe it was the clothes? She was looking decidedly un-Elizabeth-like this morning, and his fingers itched to tear the conservative costume off. Something about the way she moved was...distracting. Was she wearing fuck-me shoes with those pants?
 

Guilty-as-hell Elizabeth crossed her arms and leaned back. Now that was a bit more familiar. When faux-innocence failed, Elizabeth always opted for a spirited offense. He looked down. Elizabeth's aggressive pose displayed the silhouette of her heels. Oh, yeah, fuck-me shoes, definitely.

He felt tendrils of heat wrap around his body. He wanted to peel those prim black pants off her and find out for sure. He would too, if she wasn't his best friend's sister. Damn, he owed it to Cole to stop picturing Elizabeth's silky hair tangled in his fingers and those long, sexy legs draped across his body as he kissed her the way he'd wanted to since last night.
 

Look at something else,
Franco,
he told himself.
You can't have that kiss.
 

He stuck his hands in his pockets. The only way he'd survive a house hunt with Elizabeth was if he kept his hands off her. No touching, no hugging, and especially no kissing. That was his new resolution. No touching Elizabeth, not even to shake hands.
 

He should focus on other things, like how close he was to her family and how much he respected her. She had lost a loved one, but she'd rallied impressively. He still had trouble getting over Cole's death, but Elizabeth had steadily trudged through the grief and come out the other side.