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.
And she'd dragged her mother through it as well. Mary Hunt wasn't completely healed; one didn't get over the death of a child that easily. She would carry her grief to her grave. But she was smiling now and, according to his mother, that was all thanks to Elizabeth. Family first, just like her brother.
He respected and admired that. That was how he had been raised—family always came first. Unfortunately, he sucked at putting family first. Otherwise he wouldn't be here, buying a house in town in a vain attempt to convince his family that he'd stay in touch. No, if he really put his family first, he'd work less, he'd call his parents more often, and he'd help his brother with the pizzeria. He wouldn't be staying at a luxury hotel, trying to avoid his family.
While he wasn't very good at putting family first, he knew Elizabeth would do anything to help her family and friends. Even try to sell him Virginia's answer to the Amityville Horror. And he had to admit, if anyone could sell him a haunted house, it would be Elizabeth. Her talent for convincing people to do crazy things was well documented. Hell, she'd almost convinced him to kiss her in the parking lot.
No doubt, if anyone could sell the Hagen House, it would be Elizabeth Hunt.
She just wouldn't be selling it to him.
"Good morning, Gabe. It's so nice to see you again."
Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes and her tone conveyed that the experience was anything but nice. Good—angry was good. He could handle angry Elizabeth. It was sexy, seductive Elizabeth that he couldn't handle at all.
"And no, I haven't lost my mind," she continued briskly. "This is a historic property, it's in your price range, and, as requested, it's very, very large. That was the only requirement you gave. You told my mom you wanted a big house." She gestured toward the cavernous ceiling. "This is undeniably big."
He couldn't help smiling. She looked so proper and dignified, the lying scamp. "I apologize," he said. "I should have been more specific: very large and very curse-free."
"This house isn't cursed." Her brow wrinkled in exasperation. "It's haunted, and that's a big difference."
"It's on PRoVE's Haunted Banshee Creek Tour."
She gave a ladylike snort. "That tour doesn't exist anymore." She looked very pleased with herself. "And no one pays attention to the loons at the Paranormal Institute. Oh, sorry. What's the new name again? Prune?"
Oh, that was mean, Ms. Hunt. Very mean.
"The name is PRoVE," he said testily. "And it has its own TV show. They're an authority on the paranormal."
Elizabeth crossed her arms, giving him an enticing peek at her fuck-me shoes. "No," she said with a barely perceptible smirk. "Your geeky minions have a YouTube channel and they hunted the chupacabra with a bunch of babes in bikinis. The only thing they're an authority on is tequila."
Now, that was unfair. The PRoVE staff was also very knowledgeable about absinthe, Becherovka, and a wide variety of herbal liqueurs. Or, at least, they used to be. Gabe had put a stop to the alcoholic experimentation. PRoVE now had a free supply of ginger ale, and no intoxicating beverages were allowed on the premises, not even Haunted Orchard hard cider.
"You should know better than that, Gabe. You were there when Cole founded the Institute, in my mom's basement, with that fly-by-night, build-your-own-corporation service he found on the internet. It probably isn't even properly registered."
And that was positively unfair. PRoVE was a real Delaware corporation. True, it had taken his staff eighteen months to straighten out the mess Cole's bankrupt incorporation service had left, but everything was in order now.
That was beside the point, though.
"Fine," he said with an exasperated sigh. "I bow to your superior knowledge of the paranormal. I'm still not buying the house."
"Really?" Elizabeth asked archly. "I thought you loved the legends, Gabe." She drawled out the words. "I thought you felt they were a fabulous marketing strategy." She waved her hand, encompassing the whole of the house. "Well, if you wanted legends, this house has legends galore. It's the perfect house of a ghost tycoon."
He fought to suppress a smile. She was hoisting him on his own petard. Good for her, but it didn't matter.
"I'm not buying it."
"Why? Is the big, bad billionaire afraid? Is it possible that creepy ghost stories aren't surefire best sellers?" She leaned back and crossed her arms, her hips tilted enticingly. "Anyway, you have plenty of experience with ghostly roommates. After all, your family's pizzeria is also in the Haunted Banshee Creek Tour."
"Pepe is harmless," he said. "All he does is throw things around." How could she compare a somewhat overenthusiastic poltergeist to the Hagen House curse? The Franco spook was annoying, but he wasn't deadly.
"He puts banana peppers on everything."
"It's a vegetable, not a malediction. And he does that only on Thursdays," Gabe clarified. "He gets nervous on Thursdays."
"This house is not cursed," she said between clenched teeth.
"PRoVE would beg to differ. You can live with a ghost. You most definitely can't live with a curse. And isn't the real estate agent supposed to disclose the curse?"
Elizabeth glared at him. But she knew he was right. It was a very old and very obscure statute, but, as his parents had found out when they'd tried to sell the pizzeria, it was still in the books.
"Stop saying that word," she hissed. "The listing clearly states that the house has historical and folkloric value."
"Folkloric?" His voice rose in disbelief. "Is that what we call three generations of tragedy, impoverishment, and bloodshed? Local color?"
Elizabeth's chin went up. He felt the urge to grab that stubborn chin and kiss her senseless. Damn it, he should have kissed her last night and gotten it out of his system. Respect, Gabe, think about respect. The things he wanted to do to Elizabeth weren't things you should do with your best friend's sister. They were also not things you wanted to do in the Hagen House. Making out in the Hagen House was strictly late-night double-feature territory.
"I'm surprised at you, Gabe." Elizabeth's tone was scornful. "Superstitions from you, of all people? You were the only kid in town who was brave enough to enter the Hagen House. You didn't seem so scared then."
"I was terrified." He smiled in remembrance. "The place was falling apart." Cole had dared him to do it. Gabe had pulled a lot of stupid stunts as a kid, and taking a creaky Kodak film camera into the Hagen House was at the top of the list.
Elizabeth's lips curved, which made him wary. Elizabeth's smile was a weapon of mass destruction. And her expression was suspiciously similar to Cole's trademark "I'm going to get you into trouble" smirk.
"The house has been completely renovated by a local firm known for its expertise in historical work," she said, eyes sparkling invitingly.
"You mean Liam and his crew." He chuckled. "I have a computer. I keep in touch."
"Then you're well acquainted with the type of work they do." She pointed to the moldings around the foyer. "Those had to be rebuilt from scratch. They're an authentic design from the eighteen hundreds." She gestured toward the glittery monstrosity that hung from the ceiling. "It took months to get the chandelier restored. Replacement crystals were imported from France."
"I know. I was updated on every single one of Liam's mishaps during construction. They cluttered my social media feeds until my assistant taught me how to mute the Working on the Hell House hashtag. The beams had to be reinforced. The French didn't ship the crystals on time. The crystals were the wrong size. The French guy kept flirting with Holly. I read it all." He tried to imagine piecing that crystal monster back together, tiny piece by tiny piece. Liam was a saint.
"Reading about it isn't the same as seeing it in person." She aimed a meaningful glance at the chandelier. "You have to admit it's pretty amazing."
The chandelier was spectacular. Severus Hagen must have thought so too when he'd hung himself from it after losing his fortune in the year nineteen thirty-something. He wasn't the first victim of the Hagen curse. The house was bad luck to everyone who lived in it.
Elizabeth turned around and walked to the living room. He should have thanked her for her time and said goodbye. After all, he had no intention of buying this house. He should walk out, climb into his car, and drive back to the hotel.
Instead, he found himself following Elizabeth deeper into the house.
Idiot.
He avoided walking under the chandelier. He didn't believe the stories and he was sure Liam had secured the fixture, but why take the chance? He looked down at the marble. The rust-colored stains he'd seen many years ago weren't there anymore. Had he imagined them?
Elizabeth pointed out the living room's features in a self-assured voice, and Gabe had to admit that she knew her stuff. After five minutes, he knew more about eighteenth century Colonial Revival architecture than he'd ever wanted to. She was also extremely enthusiastic about the house and, as always, her energy was contagious. The house was beautiful and spacious and bright. In many ways she was right. The house was perfect.
Almost perfect.
"This fireplace had to be rebuilt from the ground up," she said. "Vintage brick was brought in from Vermont." She waited for a response.
"It looks great, Elizabeth. The house is wonderful. Liam did a great job." She beamed. "Unfortunately, the place is still cursed."
The beam disappeared. "It. Is. Not. Cursed," she bit out.
"Liam lost three bulldozers and broke his leg. Are you really sure the house isn't cursed?" He couldn't resist taunting her. Lord, she looked beautiful with fiery eyes.
"A project of this size is hard. Accidents happen." She turned her back on him and walked back to the foyer. She must be heading upstairs. She really meant to show him the whole house. He dreaded climbing those stairs behind Elizabeth. He wouldn't be able to keep from staring at her butt.
"Yeah, particularly in this house," he replied. "Give up the sales pitch. I'm not buying it."
She turned around, eyes flashing.
"This is the best house in Banshee Creek, Gabe. If you don't buy it, you'll have to buy a tiny row house or a real fixer-upper. And they'll still have ghosts."
"I could always look beyond Banshee Creek."
She looked confused. "What do you mean?"
"Look outside the town limits. You know, the houses on the hills."
"The hills? What hills?" Her eyes widened. "You can't mean..." She paused. She swallowed. The words came out as a slow, horrified whisper. "Middleburg."
Gabe smiled. She couldn't even get the name of their rival town out. Now that was loyalty.
He opened his mouth to tease her when he felt the ground tremble. A creaking sound followed. Elizabeth looked up, a surprised grimace on her face. He raised his gaze to the ceiling and felt his stomach lurch in dismay.
The chandelier's crystals quivered. He watched in horror as the ginormous light fixture swayed from side to side.
He put his arms around Elizabeth and pushed her against the wall. He heard a crash and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, but all he could focus on was Elizabeth's soft body pressed against him and her warm breath scorching his skin.
He was holding Elizabeth. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was he didn't want to let go. Damn it. He knew this house was bad news. Correction, he knew Elizabeth was bad news.
Really bad news.
CHAPTER NINE
ELIZABETH OPENED her eyes warily. Gabe's body pressed her into the wall, and her face was buried in his chest. All she could hear was his strong heartbeat, an oddly comforting sound. His arms circled her back and he kept them there, protectively, as he straightened and looked around. Shards of glass littered the foyer. The chandelier laid in pieces on the floor—tiny, extremely expensive, French pieces.
Her heart sank. This was a disaster.
"We're getting out," Gabe said. He guided her around the shattered chandelier carefully, his arms wrapped around her shoulders. Elizabeth let him walk her out the door. She was too shocked to protest.
They crossed the threshold, and the bright sunlight outside made her blink. A shudder swept through her body as Gabe pushed her to arms' length, looking her over. She tried to stop the shaking but couldn't. Stupid delayed shock reaction.
A look of concern darkened his face. His eyes swept over her face and down her neck, and she relaxed a bit. Gabe checking her for injuries was a familiar ritual. Although this time, it felt different. She wasn't a clumsy sixteen-year-old covered in giant silver sequins. He checked her feet for shards of glass and his fingers brushed her ankles gently, reminding her of how he'd tightened the straps of her shoes last night, and she felt her knees go weak at the thought.
She pushed the memory away and straightened. There was a time and a place for weak knees, and after a vicious light fixture attack at the Hagen House wasn't it.
"Thanks for the medical triage," she said shakily. "But I have to go lock the door."
She hadn't meant for her voice to sound so breathy. Hopefully, he'd chalk it up to shock. She wasn't still trembling, was she? She turned toward the front door, but a glance inside the house made her stop in her tracks. The foyer was a mess of twisted metal and shattered glass.
Suddenly, she was very cold.
She felt Gabe put his jacket around her shoulders. She was grateful for the additional warmth.
"I'll do it," he said. "You go stand by the cars."
Elizabeth handed over the key. She had to admit she didn't want to go anywhere near the Hagen House. Not that she believed in the curse, of course, but she'd lived in L.A. for years and was a firm believer in aftershocks. She pulled Gabe's jacket tightly around her. It smelled like soap and shirt starch and a faint hint of shaving cream.
It was a nice smell.
Elizabeth watched Gabe as he approached the door, expecting a new disaster. But he calmly and uneventfully locked the door and put the key back in the lockbox.
Elizabeth stared at his back. A dark stain marred the whiteness of his shirt. She leaned to get a closer look. Gabe tested the door and stepped back, satisfied. Then he turned around, almost bumping into her.
"I'm not buying this house," he said firmly.
"Can we stop talking abo
ut the house?" She craned her neck to look at his shirt. "You're bleeding all over your Brooks Brothers shirt. Let me look at your back."
She peered at the dark red stain on his shirt but couldn't see much. Could the glass still be there? She felt self-conscious examining him, but she couldn't let him go about his day with a glass shard embedded in his shoulder. She ran her finger lightly over the bloodied shirt, and he didn't flinch. She didn't feel a shard, just warm, firm muscle.
"We need to go to the clinic," she said.
"It's nothing, Elizabeth." He sounded amused by her concern. "I've been hurt worse. Hell, I looked like a porcupine Liberace after your stupid disco ball fell on me."
Her hands fell to her sides. "You did not," she scoffed. "That thing missed you by a mile. And it wasn't a disco ball. It was an airship piñata. My sweet sixteenth birthday party had a Jules Verne theme."
He totally deserved to remain impaled on chandelier debris, but she couldn't just let him walk around with a bloody wound. What would people think about Hunt Realty's customer service? But he was so stubborn, he'd skip the clinic just to spite her.
"You keep telling yourself that." Gabe looked up at the house. "Well, we can cross this house off the list."
"The chandelier can be repaired," she suggested, but her heart wasn't in it. She couldn't argue on behalf of the Hagen House anymore.
He turned to look at her, brows raised. "So the house can improve its aim? I'd rather not."
"It was an earthquake, Gabe."
"One with very suspicious timing."
All of the Banshee Creek earthquakes had suspicious timing, but she didn't say that out loud. As a stunt director once told her, never argue with a client while he was bleeding.
"Fine," she said. "The chandelier will have to be repaired anyway. I'm going to have to call Liam and break the news to him."
Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) Page 6