She raised her chin haughtily and ignored the dig. "Are you buying this place, Zach?"
"I'm not buying. I'm just thinking."
She didn't seem to like his answer. "The B&B is bankrupt. That doesn't bode well for a new business."
Gabe could have kissed her for that comment. Someone had to knock some sense into his brother.
But she wasn't done. "Are you thinking of doing a haunted-house-themed eatery, Zach?"
"It's not just about the ghost theme," Zach said, not denying Elizabeth's accusation. "The B&B business is a money vampire, but the special events business is quite strong. The Rosemoor hosts a lot of baby and bridal showers. Wouldn't this make a beautiful setting for your wedding?"
"I'm not getting married," Elizabeth snapped, her voice edged with a thrill of panic. "And, anyway, do you really think there's a market for pizza weddings?"
Gabe agreed with her wholeheartedly. His brother was no longer the slacker musician who'd spent years finding himself in South America. He had a thriving business. Why would he gamble everything on a purple monstrosity like the Rosemoor?
"I'm not doing pizza in the Rosemoor. And I'm not doing weddings, although I'm willing to make an exception for family members." This last comment was paired with a meaningful smirk. "I'm doing something completely different. Bigger than the pizzeria. Much bigger."
Gabe's jaw clenched. He remembered the last time he'd seen Zach this enthusiastic. It was right before he'd left Banshee Creek to embark on his ill-fated motorcycle trip through the Andes.
"It's going to take a pile of money to paint over all this purple, Zach," he asked. "Where are you getting the financing?"
Unlike the pizzeria, this was no funky remodel with a couple of artsy friends. This was a huge undertaking. Pepe's was popular, but how long would that last? He had no idea. No one did. How much was the Rosemoor going for anyway? He'd have to ask Elizabeth. He'd buy the horrid thing himself if it kept his brother from committing financial suicide.
"That is my problem, not yours," Zach said. "I'm not bidding yet. I'm just thinking about it. And I'm trying to keep my brother and his nosy girlfriend out of my thinking process." He turned to Elizabeth. "Good thing you're keeping him busy, Hunt. Tell you what, you keep Big Brother out of my business, and I'll let you borrow my truck like you asked."
Gabe frowned. Zach's vintage truck was his pride and joy, and he didn't let anyone drive it. Why was he lending it to her? And why did she need a pick-up truck anyway?
Elizabeth's eyes brightened. No surprise there. Zach's truck was a chick magnet. "All day?"
"Sure." Zach looked around the inn thoughtfully. "I'll be doing paperwork most of the day."
"Why do you need the truck?" Gabe asked Elizabeth.
She avoided looking at him. "I'm doing a bit of cleanup at the house and there's stuff I need to take to the Salvation Army." She dismissed him with a gesture and focused on Zach. "Thanks for the help, Zach, but I'm not going to distract your brother for you. You're on your own. And don't count your paranormal chickens before they hatch. The Historical Preservation Committee will have a lot to say about any project involving the Rosemoor."
"I can handle Patricia," was the reply. "And my zombie chickens are hatching nicely. I'm told the town council is starting to see things my way."
Gabe was busy putting two and two together. He didn't like the result. "You're getting rid of Cole's stuff? Alone?" He couldn't hide his dismay. Donating Cole's stuff was a positive development, but he wasn't happy about Elizabeth doing it alone.
"My mom is of town this week," she explained, her tone defensive. "I figured it would be a good time to clean up." She looked down at the floor and fiddled with her robe belt. "She's been avoiding it altogether. It's too painful for her."
What about you? he wanted to ask. It's going to be painful for you too.
But he kept quiet. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have in front of Zach.
"I want to turn Cole's old bedroom into an office for her," she continued, growing more animated. "I got her a new rug and I bought some paint for the walls." She paused. "It's beige."
The last word was tinged with disdain. What did Elizabeth have against beige?
"That sounds lovely," Zach said with a gentle smile.
"You don't think it's too plain? I think it's too plain, but my mom likes beige."
"Hey, at least it's not purple."
"You're cleaning everything by yourself?" Gabe interrupted, trying to keep them on point.
"It's only a couple of boxes."
Yeah, and a whole lot of tears. No way was he letting Elizabeth do something like this alone. He couldn't believe she hadn't asked him for help. She really thought he was made of stone, didn't she?
He had to prove her wrong.
"I'll help you," he said. "I can be at your parents' place around noon."
"I don't need help. And you have work, remember?"
"Yes, you do. I'll bring Zach's truck."
"Whoa," Zach interrupted, holding up his hands. "I didn't say I'd be letting you drive my truck, big brother."
"Do you want me looking through your paperwork?" he said sharply.
Zach stepped back and shook his head quickly.
Gabe gritted his teeth. His brother's reaction wasn't reassuring. But Elizabeth needed him, and Zach would have to wait. "Then I'll take the truck to Elizabeth's house."
Zach nodded.
"I think you're done with your tour now, Zach."
"Yes. I think so," he said, smirking. "I want my truck back intact, Hunt. No mud and no scratches."
With one last disbelieving look at the purple wallpaper, Zach headed down the hall.
"I really don't need any help," Elizabeth said. She looked young and vulnerable wrapped in her bulky robe. "And you have better things to do tomorrow, like beating some sense into your brother." The robe slipped from Elizabeth's shoulder and uncovered a very intriguing patch of skin.
"I don't want to think about my brother anymore."
Not when there was a half-dressed Elizabeth standing next to him. Anyway, this discussion was over as far as he was concerned. He would take Zach's truck and he would help her haul the stuff out of her brother's room. He had a few phone calls to make, but by tomorrow evening, she would know that he wasn't the heartless corporate goon she thought he was.
End of story.
But that was tomorrow. Today, he had better things to do. He ran his fingers down the border of her robe. Her eyes widened and her lips parted.
Oh yeah, he was done thinking about Zach's troubles.
"Since 'absolute privacy' turned out to be not so absolute after all," he said, "I think we should head back to the room."
Elizabeth practically ran up the spiral staircase. All in all, a very satisfying reaction. He straightened his purple plaid robe and followed her. If he recalled correctly, the turret room had a four-poster bed. He could think of a lot of things he could do to Elizabeth in a four-poster bed.
Lots of things.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ELIZABETH SLAMMED the closet door in frustration. She had nothing to wear. Well, that wasn't strictly true—her closet was small, but after years of auditions, she was a pro at creating outfits. Her wardrobe could run the gamut from Victorian waif to pre-historic dinosaur hunter. She had a thousand different looks in there. But the invitation Gabe had forwarded to her described the dress code as "Apple Picking Chic." What the hell was that? Denim overalls with pearls? She'd been out of L.A. too long. She'd forgotten how ridiculous rich people could be.
She was familiar with the local business event dress codes. She'd spent many childhood weekends waiting patiently while her father socialized with clients and colleagues, her mother, ever dutiful, at his side. The evening events were glamorous and sophisticated, but in horse-mad Virginia, the daytime events had a single dress code: British Equestrian. Hence, the daytime parties were full of mossy greens, horsey browns, and lots of plaid. The overall feel was
Sandringham House meets mint juleps.
But was it "Apple Picking Chic"?
Elizabeth looked at the bed. Her patchwork quilt bedspread was covered with clothes. She had dresses, jeans, a white blouse, a couple of summer sweaters, and a pile of scarves. What would she wear if she were auditioning for the part of Awkward Girl Invited to Expensive Apple-Picking Party? She ruled out the dresses, which weren't appropriate for a fall orchard excursion, and decided on dark wash jeans, a green sweater the color of Granny Smith apples, and a scarf. Her shoe situation was a bit trickier. She wasn't stupid enough to wear heels to the country, but she didn't own any flat-heeled boots. She found a pair of wedges under the bed and put them on. At least they wouldn't sink in the grass.
She examined her reflection in the mirror. Not bad for an emergency outfit. It didn't scream "old money, primarily invested in well-shod, rapidly depreciating assets that poop all over the place," but the scarf was plaid and the sweater was wool, and that made it perfectly appropriate for a fall country excursion. Or so she hoped. If she squinted at her reflection, it kind of looked like a blonde Kate Middleton. Kind of.
Her phone buzzed, signaling that Gabe was here to pick her up. She bit her lip as she stared at the phone. Should she back out? Maybe she could tell him she was struck low with terminal gastroenteritis or something. She was trying to come up with a suitable infectious but not life-threatening disease when a banging sound came from the front of the house.
Prince Charming was getting impatient.
She walked down the staircase, casting a quick glance at the living room. It looked neat enough. The books on her rickety bookshelf looked somewhat organized, and the pile of papers on her small secretary desk was less chaotic than usual. She paused to straighten the Mennonite quilted throw her mom had brought her from a trip to Lancaster County. I was made of green- and tangerine-colored blocks and it almost matched the Persian rug on the floor. She paused and looked around, reassuring herself that her home looked presentable. Then, steeling herself, she opened the door.
Gabe was wearing jeans, a brown tweed jacket, and a frown. He was holding several shopping bags with the air of someone unused to shopping. He looked down at her feet. "You're not wearing heels," he said firmly. "You'll trip on an apple core and break your neck."
"They're not heels, they're wedges, and they're stable." She showed off the shoes, which were actually pretty cute. "The Duchess of Cambridge wears wedges to the country."
"I'm not dating a Duchess," Gabe said. "I'm dating a Lucille Ball clone with a depth perception disorder." He dropped a pair of bags with a Middleburg Tack Shop label into her arms. "These are for you."
Elizabeth peeked into the bags, which held a selection of expensive footwear, including dark green Hunter rain boots, moss green Le Chameau rain boots, and brown Ralph Lauren rain boots. All had sensible flat soles and practical rubber treads. The last bag didn't hold rain boots, though. She pulled out the contents and stared at a pair of cognac-colored leather riding boots. She didn't have to look at the label. These were Penelope Chilvers boots. Damn, Gabe wasn't playing fair.
Gabe looked around her living room while she took off her wedges. "You bought Mrs. Diageo's house?"
She pulled on the leather boots. They were soft and luscious and, frankly, irresistible. "Yes, she moved to Florida several years ago, taking the bulk of my Cannibal Clones royalties with her. Did you know her?"
He nodded. "She was a good tipper, always ordered a small cheese pizza with extra garlic and a side salad. Then she vacationed in Italy and her tastes changed." He smiled at the memory. "She started ordering margherita pizza with basil. My dad was horrified. He'd never heard of a pizza with no tomato sauce."
"She left me a bunch of Tuscan cookbooks when she moved out," Elizabeth said. "I gave them to Patricia."
"You should have sent them to my parents' house. Tuscan cooking sounds a lot better than my mom's nuevo latino craze. Zach would kill for some cacciuco alla livornese."
"Zach owns an Italian restaurant. He can make his own cacciuco."
Gabe snorted. "Zach will put fish stew on the pizzeria menu over my father's cold, dead body. My mom's culinary misadventures have given him a new appreciation for plain cheese pizza."
He looked around the house, and his darting gaze made Elizabeth nervous. He kept glancing toward her bookcase, which held not only books, but also lots of photographs, many of them from her Hollywood days. Would she have to explain the one where she hugged Cephalox, the Giant MechaSquid? Or was it self-explanatory?
"You have a lot of books," Gabe said.
"The architecture ones are mine. The other ones are mostly Holly's. She's a book pusher."
"Not a bad trait for a librarian," Gabe replied. He held up a hardcover. "Have you read this one yet?"
Her cheeks flushed as she recognized the distinctive gray and silver handcuff-adorned cover. How could she forget that? She'd left it out so she wouldn't forget to return it to Holly. Of course Gabe would find it. She stood quickly.
"Shouldn't we go?" she said brightly. "We wouldn't want to be late." But Gabe was leafing through the book, looking like someone who didn't much care if he was late. She reached over and grabbed the book, but he didn't let go. He held her gaze for a long, excruciatingly sexy, moment, then broke eye contact and let her have the book. She put it back on the shelf with relief.
She turned to leave the house, but Gabe was now looking through the shopping bags. He pulled out a mud-colored hunting jacket with hounds tooth lining. Barbour, of course.
"Put this on," he said, not looking at her. "It's cold today."
Elizabeth hesitated. The scene was eerily reminiscent of her childhood. She remembered her father bringing home fancy shopping bags from the Middleburg kids' boutique. The bags contained itchy smocked dresses and patent leather shoes, expensive items that were to be kept clean at all costs.
She pushed the memory away and shrugged into the jacket, picked up her purse, and followed him out of the house. She got a bit of a surprise when they reached the sidewalk. The Ferrari was nowhere to be seen.
"Are we taking my car?" she asked doubtfully. The orchard would be wet and muddy. She loved her car, but it didn't play well in the mud.
"No," Gabe said, looking a bit embarrassed. "We're taking this one." He pointed toward a black Range Rover parked on the other side of the street.
"You bought a new car? For the party?"
Something about the car made her nervous. It was black and sinister and expensive. And this Gabe, who could conjure luxury British automobiles out of thin air, intimidated her. Was he the same guy who'd eaten pimento cheese sandwiches with her yesterday? It was hard to picture this Gabe wiping melted cheese off his chin.
He shrugged. "I don't like driving you around in the Ferrari. It doesn't feel safe."
Elizabeth had no idea what to say to that. She heard Gabe lock her house (had he lifted the house keys from her purse?) and handed her the keys (he had!). He put his hand on the small of her back and ushered her across the street. She resisted, and Gabe turned to her with a questioning look.
"Maybe this is a bad idea," she suggested.
The new car, the new clothes, the party, it all made her anxiety spike.
Gabe's mouth curved into a slow, sexy smile. "No, kissing me in the Hagen house was a mistake." He leaned forward and pressed his lips lightly to her forehead. "This is not a mistake. This is a consequence."
"That sounds ominous."
"It shouldn't be," he said as he opened the door to the SUV. "It'll be fun." He shut her door and walked toward the driver's seat. He opened the door, his movements quick and efficient, and sat down.
"It's a business function," she complained. "Business is not fun."
He smiled as he turned on the engine. "It is for me." He glanced at her face. "You look like you're walking to the gallows. Don't worry. My investors are nice people and they want to help the town."
"By turning it into crazy-killer-clown central
?"
He chuckled. "No clowns, I promise. Salvador will kill me if I put in clowns."
"Well, I'm glad someone in your corporation has sense. I was afraid you were the brains of the operation."
That made him laugh outright. "He won't like that. Salvador likes to believe that his charm and good looks are his only contribution to the enterprise."
Elizabeth tried to smile. It didn't work. She had a bad feeling about the party and she couldn't shake it off. But really, she had a hunting jacket and new leather boots. What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
"SO, WHERE'S the fava bean-eating alien princess?" Salvador scanned the meadow. "She hasn't bit a guest yet, has she?"
Salvador's little dig couldn't dim Gabe's good mood. Strange. Usually these events annoyed him to no end, but today he was practically chipper. The sun was shining, the cidery's meadow was green and plush, and the event planners had come up with a gorgeous, and probably insanely expensive, fall-themed décor scheme. The tents were covered with decorative greenery and containers full of lush plantings dotted the landscape. He eyed a fruit-laden apple tree and mentally calculated the cost. Yowza. Trust Salvador to come in and blow his marketing budget out of the water.
"You're getting your horror movies mixed up," he replied, smiling as he caught sight of Elizabeth. She was chatting with the owners of a German brewery, looking relaxed. She tucked her long blonde hair behind her ear and leaned in, charming her listeners. These social functions were a tedious bore to him, but Elizabeth seemed to enjoy them. "She's doing quite well. The Germans are smiling and I don't think I've ever seen them do that."
Salvador followed his gaze, eyes narrowed. "The expression does not suit them. They look like grimacing walruses."
"It's a good sign, though," he replied.
His business partner was in a real mood today and Gabe wondered why. The Brazilian usually loved parties, and this particular one was going very well. People were milling around, eating and drinking, and he could hear Elizabeth laughing at something her companions said. Her merriment was another positive development. He hoped this party would convince Elizabeth that Haunted Orchard was committed to the town and its residents.
Ghost of a Chance (Banshee Creek Book 2) Page 27