Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (12 page)

Caine chuckled. "Things move quick in Banshee Creek. So we'll expect you at four this afternoon."

"I can't..." Mike started, trying to come up with a good excuse. The last thing he wanted to do was go on a camping trip with Abby's crazy friends.

"Aw, come on," Caine interrupted. "You were the one who brought up the owl thing." He jerked the bag closed and knotted it tightly. "You can't throw down a challenge like that and then walk away."

Challenge? Mike started to laugh, assuming that his companion was kidding. But Caine was not smiling. His heart sank when he realized that the big guy was serious.

Deadly serious.

"Um, I don't have any equipment," Mike replied, trying to find a polite way to get out of this predicament. A camping trip required a rip-stone nylon tent and a down sleeping bag, not to mention hiking shoes and a backpack. Fortunately, all his gear was packed in a storage unit in Fort Lee. He couldn't possibly go camping.

"Abby has a tent and an extra sleeping bag," Caine said, triumphantly. "Although," he continued thoughtfully, "you guys may want to share."

Mike glared at the innuendo-laden comment, but Caine ignored him.
 

"Don't worry," the biker continued in a reassuring tone. "We'll take care of the rest."

Mike seriously doubted that. What did Caine's posse know about camping safety? He'd be shocked if they packed so much as a Band-Aid.

"But you'd better go get her donuts," Caine concluded. "Or you'll be sleeping alone under the stars. Go on, and remember, four o'clock."

Mike tried to think of a way to get out of it, but nothing came to mind. He'd just been out for a jog, so he couldn't exactly claim a debilitating battlefield injury.

"Shoo," Caine said, waving him off. "See you this afternoon."
 

Mike walked back to Main Street, trying to gather his thoughts. The trip would give him a chance to get to know Abby, an opportunity to show her that they belonged together. He could use it to prove to her that this was more than a fling.

But he was well aware that the camping trip was a distraction, a very tempting distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.

He shouldn't give in to it. He should make his delivery to Abby and come clean.

But he knew he wasn't going to do that. He was going to go hunt the Banshee Creek Mothman instead.

Right after he took care of a little unfinished business.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

"Y
OU
BOUGHT
Larry?"

Abby's question hung in the air as she stared at the black Jeep in undisguised astonishment. She wrapped her kimono robe tight against the morning chill and tried to figure out what was going on.

But her brain cells, still burnt out from last night's erotic workout, refused to cooperate. She needed coffee. Mike handed her a pink and orange paper cup with a plastic top. A thin tendril of steam rose into the air and she closed her eyes and inhaled the sharp, spicy goodness. She grabbed the cup greedily and took a sip.

Ah, Patricia's Moroccan blend. Perfect. She felt the warmth seep into her body and gave a deep sigh.

She opened her eyes. Yep, the car was still there.

"His name is not Larry," Mike said. "At least not anymore."

Abby snorted. Mike was such an optimist. That car would always be Larry, short for Lurid Larry or, as Cole's friends called him, Larry the Lure. But über-innocent Mike Stone would, hopefully, never figure out why.
 

"C'mon," he said, pulling her down the steps like a little boy showing off a new Tonka truck. "You have to see this."

He dragged her around the car, pointing out the upgraded bumpers, the new rims, and a whole bunch of whatsits and thingamabobs that she didn't recognize. She oohed and aahed at the appropriate intervals and generally tried to keep from laughing. Mike was acting like a little kid on Christmas morning and she was having a hard time containing her giggles.

She was thrilled for him though. She knew this was a big purchase. She remembered clearly the day she'd finally gotten up the courage to walk into the Virginia Vintage Motors lot and plunk down two years' worth of tips for a middle-aged Chrysler minivan with a Deep Amethyst paint job. She'd just arrived in Banshee Creek for a gig and she'd expected to stay for a couple of weeks, make some money, then take the bus and move on.

She'd still been a nomad then, a feral kid who'd wandered aimlessly through five colleges, with a guitar, a talent for ruthless busking, and a bunch of transferable credits on Music History. Buying a car had been a Big Deal. The car wasn't just a purchase, it was more of a crazy bet, a gamble that paid off and led to bigger, bolder bets, a band, a house, even a relationship with the cute guy in the X-files shirt who told her that the van's lurid purple color was really super-cool.

So, yeah, she knew the car was a big deal. She was happy for Mike, who seemed to be finally loosening up. She'd have expected him to get something staid and practical, a Honda Civic or a Toyota Corolla. The Jeep was an adventurous choice.

But this wasn't how she'd expected the morning to go. The blazing sexual rapport between them had taken her by surprise last night, and she'd been looking forward to exploring that in detail this morning, preferably sweaty, aerobic detail.

Mike, however, had gone car shopping.

"Isn't it awesome?" he asked, beaming at the vehicle.

His enthusiasm was infections and she nodded, sliding an arm around his muscular back. Why did Mike decide to buy a car
today
? Shouldn't he have been thinking of, er, other things? The answer, however, was obvious.

 
"Did Zach talk you into this?"
 

"No." He avoided her eyes, his gaze focused on his new toy. "Why would he?"
 

Abby decided to drop it. This had Zach Franco written all over it, but there was nothing she could do about it. Mike would find out about the car's peculiarities soon enough, and she had other things to worry about, like how to get her lover to stop mooning over his new vehicle.

She ran her fingers down Mike's back, but his eyes remained riveted on the car. It was time for a distraction, preferably a sugary one with a hole in the center. She looked around for a pink and orange striped bag, but the coveted treats were notoriously absent.
 

"I take it the donuts were sold out." She couldn't hide her disappointment. Frustrated lust always made her hungry.

"Not exactly," Mike said, a sheepish look on his face. "I made to the bakery on time, but there were no donuts to be found." He picked up a box that sat on the passenger seat of the car. "Instead, your friend Patricia gave me this."
 

What did he mean "not exactly"? She inspected the package with undisguised wariness. It was a plain white box — no pink and orange wrapping, no "Banshee Creek Bakery" ribbon, just pure unadulterated whiteness. Was Patricia testing new packaging? If so, this needed a lot of work.
 

But that wasn't the worst part.

"This doesn't look like it was made for donuts," she commented, her spirits sinking. Nope, this wasn't a donut box. It was too small and the sides were too high.
 

"Oh, ye of little faith," Mike said with a mournful shake of his head. "This is better than donuts."

He opened the box with a flourish.

"Cupcakes?" Abby asked with profound distaste. "Patricia is now making cupcakes?"

"Not just any cupcakes." He picked one up and showed it off, like a proud father. "Check it out."
 

The tiny cake had dark chocolate frosting, glossy chocolate wings and two round red candies for eyes.

Abby was not impressed. "She's making vampire cupcakes?"

"Of course not," Mike replied giving her a scathing look. "It's a Mothman cupcake. A
Virginia
Mothman cupcake. You can tell because of the shape of the wings."

Abby rolled her eyes. Twenty-four hours in Banshee Creek and Mr. Skeptic was now a cryptozoology expert.

"But where are the donuts?" she asked plaintively. "Banshee Creek Bakery is known for its apple cider donuts."

 
"Some of the partygoers asked for cupcakes last night. I think that gave her an idea. Look." He picked up a fluffy white cupcake with licorice eyes. "See? She also made ghost cupcakes."
 

He bit into the cupcake.

"These ones are vanilla," he mumbled around a sugary mouthful. "Vanilla is my favorite."

Of course it was, she thought crossly. She was a die-hard donut fan, and frosting just wasn't her thing. It wasn't Patricia's thing either. The town baker had fought the cupcake trend for years, why had she given in now? Just because the partygoers asked her to? That didn't sound like Patricia.
 

 
"The party was a rousing success," Mike continued. "Everyone seems really excited about the whole 'ghost town' concept. They think it will bring lots of visitors to the town."

"Yeah," she snorted. "Cupcake-eating visitors."

"Hey, don't scoff at the cupcake eaters. Patricia says that those things are five dollars each in D.C. Her donuts, however, sell for fifty cents. She did the math and found a new appreciation for frosting and bat-shaped sprinkles."

"I. Want. Donuts."

"Now, now," Mike scolded her. "Be nice. Here have a Mothman cupcake." He handed her a chocolate-frosted monstrosity. "Maybe it'll sweeten your disposition. Not to mention that you'll need your strength for the camping trip."

"Caine's camping trip?" she asked, accepting the cupcake with a sigh of resignation. Sugar was sugar, right? "What about it?"

"He invited me."
 

Abby paused in mid-bite, the chocolate cupcake suspended in mid-air. Caine asked Mike to come to a monster-hunting trip? What was up with that? Caine's group was highly respected in the paranormal community and invitations to his trips were highly coveted. How did Mike score an invite?

But Mike leaned back against the car, eating his cupcake and admiring his new ride, as if being invited to the camping trip was no big deal. He had a smear of white frosting on his upper lip and she fought the urge to kiss it off.

"Um," she tried to think of a polite way of framing the question. "How exactly did that happen?"

"Caine wants to prove that my owl theory is wrong," Mike explained. "I think he's planning a myth-busting camping trip."

She stared, hypnotized, as he licked the frosting off

 
"Are...are you going?" she stammered, trying not to picture Mike's tongue on her touch-starved body. She'd been really excited about the Mothman trip yesterday, but last night's interlude with Mike had changed that. Monster hunting seemed a lot less appealing now. She'd much rather spend a lazy day in bed doing naughty things.

But Mike didn't seem to agree.
 

"Sure, it sounds like fun," he said, still staring at his car.
 

Abby sighed with exasperation. What was it about this town? People arrived here and immediately began looking for UFOs and
chupacabras
. She was as much of a paranormal fan as the next Banshee Creek resident, but what was wrong with normal, sweaty, work-your-way-into-exhaustion sex? What was wrong with staying in bed all day playing hide-the-chorizo?

"We'll meet up with Caine at sixteen hundred," Mike continued, locking the Jeep. "That means we should start packing. The hardware store didn't have much camping gear," he aimed a questioning glance at her, "but Caine said you had an extra sleeping bag."

She nodded. She was fairly certain that Mike would not like her sleeping bags, but the thought of sleeping accommodations gave her an idea. She reached up and traced the line of his jaw slowly. He turned to look at her, a confused look on his face.

"So, four o'clock, uh?" she said, in a tone laden with carnal suggestion. "That gives us a bit of time."

She felt the muscle in his jaw tighten under her finger.

Finally.
This was the reaction she was looking for. She ran her hand down his neck and over his arm, relishing the feel of his body growing tight with desire. He stared at her, a cautious expression, half arousal and half confusion, on his face.
 

She took his hand and gently extracted the car keys. "I have a different kind of ride in mind," she whispered as she led him back into the house.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

"A
RE
YOU
done yet?" Abby hissed.

Mike fiddled with the antique hand shower, grateful that the frilly shower curtain hid his smile. She was being bossy, which was kind of cute. She'd pulled him away from his new vehicle, ordered him into the house, and was now hurrying up his shower. He was eager to comply, though. The sight of Abby, her cheeks flushed with arousal and her kimono robe sliding off her shoulder, leading him into her house, was now forever etched in his memory. He washed up quickly, the cold water doing nothing to assuage his painful state of arousal.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the antique bathtub, wrapping a towel around his waist. A beautiful, passionate woman was dying to get her hands on him and that was a good problem to have. He turned to the temptress in the kimono robe, but he wasn't smiling anymore. He'd finally figured out a use for the stupid claw-foot bathtub and it was time to implement.

"All done, now," he said.

She was leaning against the pedestal sink. The kimono robe was open, giving him a glimpse of her lace-trimmed camisole, and she was holding one of his morning purchases, a Banshee Creek Hardware bag with a box of condoms inside. He winced. He knew it wasn't the most romantic gift, but it was his nature to be cautious, and Abby seemed to appreciate the purchase.

"Good," she said, with an exaggerated sigh, which made her robe slide over her shoulder revealing an enticing patch of skin. He shifted the towel to cover his reaction. "That shower took so long I thought you were going to grow gills and turn into Aquaman."