Which was strange, because she'd known Caine for years and they'd often discussed, say, how the Sibelius violin concertos influenced Metallica's oeuvre. Okay, maybe that particular conversation owed more to Goldschläger shots than to genuine musical appreciation, but, still, Dolly Parton?
Caine grinned, his hands full of multicolored plastic restraints.
"Jolene," he said, eyes shining with merriment, "is musical perfection."
She rolled her eyes. But she let that pass. There was not enough cinnamon liqueur in the world to make her debate Jolene.
Caine chuckled and pulled a tie out of his bundle. The kimono-clad girl showed him her driver's license and extended her hand. He wrapped a green tie around her wrist and tried to snap it closed.
It didn't work
He was holding the tie upside down and it bounced out of his grasp and fell to the floor. He cursed and bent down to pick it up.
"Stupid plastic worm-thingie," he grumbled. "I can't believe Cassie didn't get enough wristbands."
He looked at Kimono Girl apologetically. "I'm sorry. This is all they had in the hardware store."
He tried to close the tie once more. The attempt failed. Mike shifted impatiently as he watched the charade.
"Maybe it goes the other way?" Abby suggested.
Caine turned the tie over, messing up the coupling once again.
Mike stepped forward. "Excuse me," he said gently. "May I help?"
Caine turned icy blue eyes towards him.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked roughly.
Mike frowned, his body tensing, and Abby was suddenly aware that she was standing between two very large and very strong men who, right now, didn't seem to like each other very much. She stepped between them. She didn't think Mike would lose control, but Caine could be a bit volatile and the last thing she needed was a confrontation.
"This is Mike," she said. "He's Cole's friend, from the Army."
She stiffened as Mike grabbed her shoulders, lifted her off the ground and set her back down on the grass behind him. He bent down until his gaze was level with hers, his blue eyes flashing with anger.
"Don't. Ever. Do. That," he said, between clenched teeth.
She looked at him, confused
"Do what?"
"Step between me and another guy," he explained tersely. "Don't do that. The only reason you're not sitting on your butt on that grassy knoll over there," he pointed towards an inoffensive clump of grass, "where it's safe, is that I know he's your friend."
She stepped back, mouth open in disbelief.
"I'm just trying to—"
"He's right, Abby," Caine interjected.
"What are you talking about?"
The biker looked at her pityingly. "You're a girl. You don't understand."
"There's nothing to understand," she replied testily. "I was helping—"
"He didn't need help," Caine said, interrupting her.
Mike nodded and Abby glared back at him, the ungrateful wretch. She opened her mouth to argue, but Mike pushed her back. He stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Mike Stone," he said. "Pleased to meet you."
Caine assessed him quickly.
"If you're a friend of Cole's," he said. "I'll be happy to shake your hand." He looked down at the plastic ties. "As soon as I get rid of these pesky things."
"May I?" Mike asked, extending a hand.
Caine gave him the bunch of ties. Mike looked through the lot quickly, picked a red one and quickly tied it around the girl's hand.
Caine gave him an appreciative pat on the back.
"Now that's the ticket," he said. "I know how to get these things off, but I'm not so good at putting them on."
Mike glanced down the line of partygoers.
"I think I can take care of this," he said, sounding confident.
"Oh, I don't know," Caine demurred. "I mean, you look like an upstanding guy and everything, but this is a big responsibility. We really want to get the Guinness recognition."
Mike looked at the line. He looked at the ties in his hand. Then he looked at Caine, quizzically. He clearly didn't feel that the task was that arduous. But Abby knew that to Caine and the rest of the Paranormal Research Institute this wasn't just a party.
Not by a long shot. It was much bigger than that.
Caine assessed Mike, taking in the military fatigues, the worn leather boots and the insignia on his sleeve.
"So, soldier boy," he said gruffly. "Where do you stand on the Dolly Parton question?"
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Caine," Abby exclaimed. "Just let him help."
"It's a fair question," Caine replied.
"Actually, I'm more of a Johnny Cash kind of guy," Mike admitted.
Caine laughed. His laugh was, like the man himself, larger than life. It rolled out like a tidal wave of merriment.
"Now that's an honest answer," he said, handing Mike the rest of the plastic ties. "Here. Go to town." He patted Mike on the back. "After all, if you can't trust a Johnny Cash fan, who can you trust?"
Mike smiled. "I like the way you think," he said, taking Abby's hand and wrapping a green tie around it.
The gesture was quick and efficient, but Abby flinched.
"Is it too tight?" Mike asked, rubbing her wrist.
"No," Abby said, pulling her hand back.
Mike looked at her strangely, but she looked away. She couldn't explain her instinctive reaction. The way he'd grabbed her earlier, his gentle touch on her arm, it all made her feel...something. Something that made her body feel warm and melty and tense and expectant at the same time.
Something she hadn't felt in a long time.
"The over-twenty-ones get a green tie and the ones that are underage get a red tie. Anyone with a VIP pass gets an additional yellow tie."
"Got it," Mike said. He greeted a skinny teen in a werewolf costume, checked his driver's license and marked him with a red tie. The werewolf cheerleaders that accompanied him also got red ties.
He continued his work, moving steadily down the line, and Abby frowned as a girl in an elaborate peacock costume giggled as he took her wrist. He bound her wrist quickly and turned to a guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask. The girl nudged her friend and they both cast appreciative glances at Mike's butt.
Abby glared at them.
"So that's Cole's Army buddy," Caine said, his voice thoughtful. "Is he staying for a while?"
Abby rubbed the tie around her wrist.
"No," she said. "He'll be heading to Arlington soon. He's working at the Pentagon."
"Why'd he come here then?"
Abby frowned. That was a good question. Why was Mike in Banshee Creek? She'd been so glad to see him, she hadn't even asked. Surely, he didn't just drop by to see her.
"He said he had a delivery to make," she said, suddenly realizing that she hadn't asked him about it. What did Mike have to deliver in Banshee Creek?
"Really?" Caine's skepticism was obvious. "What did he bring?"
"I don't know. I expect it's something that belonged to Cole."
That made sense. Mike would come to Banshee Creek to fulfill his duty to his dead friend. He was loyal to a fault.
Caine's brows raised in disbelief. "And that's the reason he came here? To forget to give you something?"
"He got distracted," she replied, gesturing towards a horde of maenads with grape-bedecked staffs waiting patiently in line. "What with the party and all."
Caine's bright blue eyes twinkled with amusement.
"What's so funny?" Abby asked.
"Nothing," Caine drawled. "But a guy like that doesn't freak out easily. And, just now, when he thought you were putting yourself in danger, he freaked out. Badly."
Abby sighed in frustration.
"He was being an idiot."
Caine laughed.
"Oh, he was being an idiot, all right." He patted her on the back kindly. "He was being an idiot about you."
CHAPTER FIVE
MIKE STRETCHED, providing much
-needed relief for his aching muscles, then sat back on the rickety wood chair and resumed looking through the party paperwork. Funny, he could run or exercise for hours, but if he spent more than a couple of minutes at a desk, his body instantly rebelled.
It didn't bode well for his new Pentagon job.
Well, someone had to make sure the paperwork got done right. That applied to both the military and world records breaking, and explained why Caine had left him in the attic to finish the Guinness Book of World Record application. It wasn't that bad though. The desk was old, but clean. It sat in front of a dusty window where he could admire the beautiful full moon rising above Main Street. The pale moonlight and a small lamp with a battered stained-glass shade were the only sources of light, but they were enough. One of the partygoers had brought him a couple of bottles of cider so he had enough refreshments to last him a long time.
In spite of the sore muscles, he was very happy with his accommodations. Okay, maybe the two bottles of cider he'd imbibed had something to do with it. He wasn't a big cider fan, but, he had to admit, the Banshee Creek stuff was surprisingly good. Why didn't they go for the Cider Capital of the World Title? That would be better than haunted houses.
The party was in full swing and the noise was deafening. A local band was playing Ozzy Osbourne's greatest hits and the revelers sang along enthusiastically. Even here, in the attic, he could barely hear himself think. Looking out the window he could see several groups of partygoers milling around outside. The house was huge, with a pair of large ballrooms and various other rooms with strange names—keeping room, drawing room, parlor room—but the crowd was so large it spilled out into the streets.
Abby's friends should be very pleased. The Guinness Book of World Records adjudicator had verified the crowd numbers and the party was on its way to entering the record books. He gathered the papers together, checked the numbers for the third time, and signed. The signature came out a bit wobbly and he figured he had the cider to thank for that.
There, he was done. All he had left to do was scan the forms and email them. After that, the Cole Hunt Memorial Halloween Party would be certified as the largest Halloween Costume Party in history.
He finished his—was it his third? Somehow he'd lost count—bottle of cider and looked at his handiwork.
Cole would have loved this. Mike didn't believe in any of the ghost-chasing, monster-hunting weirdness, but he had to admit one thing, Cole's Banshee Creek friends had come up with the perfect way to honor his memory.
He rubbed his eyes. Damn, he wasn't getting teary was he? No, it must be the dust. Caine's guys had cleaned the main floors for the party, but they hadn't paid much attention to the attic.
The door opened and he heard a thud then a crash then a very feminine curse.
"Caine is going to kill me," Abby said. "I bet that was an antique."
"I doubt it," he replied, smiling. Abby was always a welcome sight. "I'm sure all the valuables were cleaned out a long time ago."
She maneuvered carefully around the debris, carrying a flashlight and two bottles of cider. He watched as she swerved, unsteadily, around a pair of Victorian lamps with fringed shades. She made it to the window in one piece and placed the bottles on the desk. The light from the desk lamp made the dark leather of her costume glisten, highlighting her curves and casting her cleavage in enticing shadows. His muscles tensed and he felt the blood pulse through his veins. But he steadfastly ignored his body's inappropriate reaction to Abby's décolletage and forced his gaze up to her hair.
Hair was safe. Cleavage was definitely not safe.
"I thought you might want something to drink." She leaned her leather-clad hip against the desk and glanced meaningfully at the empty bottles that littered the surface. "But I guess someone else had the same idea."
"Someone did bring me drinks, but I've run out." He was having a surprisingly hard time focusing on her hair. Strange, he was used to ignoring his attraction to Abby, why was it suddenly so hard? His gaze kept sliding down the glossy curve of her back to her...He lost the train of thought and reached for a new bottle to cover his reaction. "Thanks for bringing these."
"Was she wearing a peacock costume?" she asked, looking displeased.
He nodded, confused. Why was she upset? Had she noticed him staring?
"But she wasn't a peacock," he explained, trying to pacify her. "She was some kind of Greek god."
"Right," she drawled sarcastically. "Argus the guardian as a feather-clad pinup. Very creative."
"The feathers were, um, strategically placed."
In fact, the peacock girl's costume was a lot more revealing that Abby's leather unitard, and, yet, it hadn't had any effect on his libido
"I bet," she said, darkly. "And she convinced you to take off your jacket?"
"Well, yes." He still didn't understand her mood. "She said the attic would get a bit warm, and she was right, it did."
Though he was starting to suspect that the temperature change had little to do with the weather and more to do with his exorbitant cider consumption. In any case, his explanation did not pacify his companion. Her jaw clenched as she picked up one of the empty bottles.
"You finished all of those? I thought you didn't drink."
"It's cider." He fought down a hiccup. "It's practically apple juice."
"It's Haunted Orchard hard cider, which means it's pretty strong, even if..."
She held the empty bottle to her nose, sniffing delicately. She frowned at the glass container.
"Just as I thought." She set the bottle down with a loud thump. "Poisoned Apple."
"No, it says Virginia Apple Cider, " he read the label slowly. The letters didn't seem very clear. Maybe it was Vanilla Apple Cider? No, that couldn't be, it didn't taste like vanilla at all.
"You're such an innocent," she sighed. "Poisoned Apple cocktail is two parts hard apple cider and one part cinnamon liqueur. It's very strong. I should know, I've had four shots." She counted the bottles. "And you've drunk three bottles of it."
"It was good." Another hiccup.
"I can't believe it." She glared at the bottles. "Ms. Greek Peacock spiked your drink."
"I'm sure she meant well," he protested, feeling offended. He wasn't an innocent, for pity's sake. How could she say that? "It's about time I broadened my horizons. And this Poisoned Apple thing is good."
Her eyes narrowed as he took a long drink. "Oh, I bet she was looking forward to broadening your horizons a lot more." She looked around the attic suspiciously. "Where is she?"
"Out there somewhere," he said, swiveling in the chair and waving towards the window. The motion made his head swim. Whoa, this thing was strong. "She said she'd be back."
He sat still, waiting for his head to clear. Maybe Abby was right. Maybe he'd drunk a bit too much cider.
She bent to look out the window. The glow of the lamp lingered over her sloping back and...he dragged his gaze back to her hair.
Just focus on the hair. He repeated this like a Buddhist mantra, but it didn't help. He gulped down some more cider, maybe that would help.
"Wow, that's a lot of people," she exclaimed, leaning forward to get a better view.
He almost choked as she stretched, giving him a clear view of...her nether regions. Nope. The cider did not help at all.
"I know," he blurted, desperate for a distraction. "I'm surprised they got Fire Marshall approval for this party." And yet, there it was, at the bottom of his paper pile, a Banshee Creek Fire and Rescue Occupation Permit, signed and sealed by the Fire Marshall.
"I'm not," she snorted, turning around to look at him. "Caine can be very persuasive when he wants to be."
He was still sitting and the view from the chair was entirely too tempting. He stared at the ceiling, trying to avoid looking at Abby's cleavage.
"They should not have given him the permit," he said, frowning at the innocent-looking wooden boards. "This place is a fire trap."
"Actually, no," she replied, patting the
wall fondly. "It's probably the safest building in town."
"Accidents happen," Mike replied.
"Not in this building," she said, a rueful smile upon her face. "No accidents, not even the non-accidental ones."
"Non-acci...what?" Surely she didn't mean what he thought she meant.
She laughed at his confusion and grabbed the remaining cider bottle. "You know, sabotage and such."
His eyes widened in horror and she laughed even harder which made her tempting bits jiggle enticingly. Her hand shook and a bit of spiked cider splashed onto her costume.
"I know it sounds unlikely," she replied, giggling as she wiped the liquid away, her hand trailing lightly over the skintight leather. "Idyllic small towns aren't supposed to harbor pyromaniacs. You see, the house's previous owner wanted to get rid of it, but no one would buy it. He became desperate so he resorted to, um, unorthodox measures."
"What does that mean?" he asked, unpleasant images popping into his head.
"Arson attempts," she explained in an upbeat tone. "Five of them in the past three years. None of them worked though. The last one was a huge explosion, right here in the attic. People heard it all the way down at the lake. But the fire just fizzled out and the house was saved. Fire and Rescue found several gallons of gasoline right over there."
She pointed to a dark corner behind the floor lamps. The wood looked new, like someone had patched the roof and a small patch of wall.
He leaned back in his chair, estimated the amount of wood involved, applied the flammability quotient of the gasoline, and did some quick mental calculations. His head was very fuzzy so he checked his numbers twice but the result didn't change.
"How did the house not catch fire?" he asked. He'd done quite a bit of demo work in the Army and he knew his numbers were airtight. "It should have gone up like kindling."
She shrugged, the motion causing more enticing jiggling, and took another sip of cider. "The house is protected against fire. Well, not just fire, also lighting, flooding, and psychic attacks."
"Psychic...You're kidding, right?"
"I wish," she replied with a heartfelt sigh. "No, I'm serious. The house used to belong to the local Theosophical Society, way back in the 1880s. They were into occultism and Kabbalism."
Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) Page 3