Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (8 page)

But, first, she had to get him home. They dodged a group of people waiting patiently in line at the bookstore. Bell Book and Candle was no one's idea of a thriving business, but an enterprising author had arranged a midnight book signing and it appeared to be a rousing success.

She smiled, pleased. Their sleepy little town was, well, not so sleepy anymore.
 

She stopped and looked around, suddenly realizing that Mike was no longer by her side. She saw him farther down the sidewalk talking to a group of college students dressed as...snakes? No, she realized, they were snake
segments
, and, together, they made up a Loch Ness monster with a sign around its neck that read "Horta go Home." Abby glanced back at the Lavender House. Were the cosplay groups feuding? Sure looked like it, the Horta was still there and someone had pinned a "Down with Intergalactic Xenophobia" sign on its butt.
 

This, she felt, would end badly.

But she had a more urgent problem and the intergalactic rivalry would have to wait. She watched anxiously as Mike asked the Loch Ness Monster to break up its—their?—costume so people could use the sidewalk. She relaxed when the guys looked at him strangely, but complied.

Mike's military fatigues looked like a costume and, for tonight, he blended in, but he didn't belong in Banshee Creek.

And that, oddly enough, bothered her.

She smiled at the Nessie enthusiasts apologetically and hurried to catch up with Mike, her bound arms making her wobble a bit. Luckily, he wasn't too far ahead and she was able to catch up without a major mishap. He was still frowning at the Nessie cosplayers.
 

"They were just having fun," she said.
 

He shook his head. "That costume barely had any eyeholes or breathing holes. That kind of fun can get someone hurt."

"They should be fine." Abby hurried down Main Street, trying to get Mike home before he noticed the horde of costumed Predators heading their way. She didn't want him to get distracted by their lack of peripheral vision. "I think Caine approved all the big costumes, and he won't care for your interference."

They turned right on Hooded Owl Road, and she smiled when she spied her cheerful pink and green porch, welcoming her home.
 

Home
. How strange, that wasn't a word she used very often. That was, weirdly enough, the one thing she and Mike had in common. They both lost their families and hustled their way through the foster system. Like Mike, she never expected to find a place that felt like home.

And, yet, Banshee Creek had become home.

It was no longer her crazy boyfriend's hometown, the place she lived in because, hey, might as well. It was where her friends lived, where her favorite apple cider donuts were made, and where her neighbors' WIFI had labels like "MIB" and "FBI Surveillance Van." Even her rental home was perfect. Her landlord, grateful to find a tenant after the house had sat empty for many months, let her pick the colors and Abby had spent many days in the bowels of the Historical Preservation building trying to find the perfect combination. She'd then spent months frequenting garage sales and auctions, looking for "gently used" vintage items to furnish her abode. She loved her house. It was pretty and whimsical, and, thanks to the town's notorious hauntings, dirt-cheap.

And she loved her town. It was home.

 
"I can deal with Caine," Mike said, oozing confidence.
 

Abby sighed. She really doubted that, Caine was as stubborn as a mule.

"And," he put his arm around her back and led her to the house. "I think you have more pressing issues you should be worried about."

The steel band of his arm on her back and deep growl of his voice made her whole body tense with anticipation. Her concerns for the partygoers faded away, replaced by dark, carnal thoughts.

"Oh, really?" she asked archly as they climbed the front steps, his hand a warm weight on her back. "Like what?"

He frowned at the locked door. "Well, for starters, where is your key? It didn't...er...fall out of your costume, did it?"

A look of dismay crossed his face as he contemplated the possibility that her house key now lay abandoned on the floor of the Lavender House. Abby stared at him in confusion until she remembered sticking the key into her cleavage. Did Mike really think she'd spent all night with a sharp metal object stuck between her boobs?
 

Apparently so. He looked positively horrified.

She fought down a giggle. "No, it didn't. I put it in a safe place."

He looked at her skintight costume, doubt clearly written on his features. "So, where is it?"

She arched a brow, amused. "Let's see. How can I put this?" She affected a thoughtful expression. "Ah, yes." She struck a sexy pose, gave him her best Mona Lisa smile and continued. "That's for me to know and for you to find out."

Mike's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward, his movements smooth and agile. She was suddenly keenly aware that he was a warrior, a predator.

And she was the prey.

 
He took the jacket off her shoulders and hung it on the doorknob. She stood, waiting on pins and needles, as he walked around her and assessed her costume.
 

"A utility belt would be very useful," he said behind her.

"Yes," she agreed, feeling nervous. "And also very inaccurate."

He snorted in exasperation, clearly not one to sacrifice practicality on the altar to authenticity.
 

A light touch on her back made her jerk.
 
His fingers trailed down her spine and over her hips until he took her hand into his own. The skin-to-skin contact made her shiver and gritted her teeth, trying to hide her reaction. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed, but she stood perfectly still as he felt around her wrists, checking to see if she'd stuck a key into a hidden pouch. His touch was quick and professional, almost impersonal, but it made her muscles clench.

Finding nothing, he frowned and felt her arms, his fingers tracing the seams of her homemade costume. His fingers slid quickly over the smooth leather, leaving trails of fire in their wake. He leaned forward to reach a tricky spot, his breathing ragged.

She wasn't the only one affected by the body search.
 
The thought was both reassuring and exciting, and she bit her lip, struggling to keep her composure.
 

He reached her chest and ran his fingers over the zipper of the cat suit.

"Well, I know it's not in
there
," he said.

Abby almost moaned as he continued his search, his hands thoroughly exploring her waist, then her hips. She endured his explorations stoically, but had to take a shaky breath when his fingers grazed her inner thighs. Her heart skipped as he gently stroked the back of her knees.

Finally, he zipped open one of her boots. She waited, breathless, for the inevitable discovery.
 

"Gotcha," he said triumphantly.

She almost giggled. "Gotcha" seemed such an incongruous, although very Mike-like, exclamation. But her amusement drained away when Mike stood up, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with desire.
 

The search had excited him as much as it had affected her.

He reached, cupping her head in his hand, and her hard-fought self-control disappeared. She trembled as he kissed her harshly, sucking on her lip. He pushed her against the front door, fumbling with the key, and the feel of his hard body pressed against her made her moan out loud.

The door opened and they tumbled into the living room.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

M
IKE
MANAGED
to pull them into the living room and close the door behind them, and he considered it a miraculous feat of physical coordination.

Abby had completely fried his nervous system.

But his luck quickly ran out. Still holding onto Abby, he stepped over his duffle bag, but tripped on—cables? The living room was full of cables?—and struggled to keep his balance. He turned to cushion Abby's fall, and they ended up on the floor, nose-to-nose, rolling on a threadbare oriental rug.

"Careful," she exclaimed. "That's my subwoofer."

He steadied them and looked around. Abby's living room had few furnishings. It did have, however, a lot of recording equipment, a pair of light reflectors, a video camera, lots of black boxes and a computer screen. All of these items were focused on a staged vignette in front of the velvet-draped window. A small, old-fashioned sofa in a burgundy print and a flowery winged chair sat in front of the window, framed by the drapes. Both pieces of furniture had microphone stands in front.
 

He recognized the set-up from videos Abby had sent him. This was where she recorded her demos and music videos. It was a pretty, feminine space and it suited her perfectly.

It wasn't, however, what anyone would call safe. He watched as one of the stands toppled slowly to the side, finally crashing onto the wood floor.

She winced. "Oh well. That's not the first time it happened."
 

She disregarded the fallen mics and looked into his eyes. Up close, her eyes were warm and dark and inviting.
 

"Where were we?" she asked, smiling seductively. "When we were so rudely interrupted by Fire & Rescue? Ah, yes."
 

She leaned up to kiss him, and the gentle touch of her lips made him forget all about the hazardous cables and broken microphone stand. He'd dreamed about kissing her for a long, long time and the reality was scorching. Years of unyielding self-control melted away like an ice cube in a volcano.
 

 
Abby's kiss exceeded his wildest fantasies. True, his dreams had not involved leather costumes, fire sirens, or threadbare carpets, but who cared? He could be flexible.

He deepened the kiss, unable to stop himself. But his fingers grazed her bound hands as his arms tightened around her, and the small contact was a cold splash of reality.

First things first. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed, but he managed to break the kiss.
 

She took a shaky breath and looked at him, all flushed cheeks and confused eyes.

"We need to untie you," he breathed. "Where are your scissors?"

She jerked away from him, eyes flashing.

"Don't you dare," she hissed. "I've waited all night for this. The ties
stay
."
 

She smiled, a dangerous smile that was almost a dare, and leaned forward for another kiss.

"Um," he murmured as her lips closed on his mouth. "That, er, complicates things."

"Really?" Her breath mingled with his. "I'm sure you'll find a way."

He caressed her bound body, considering the possibilities. The plastic ties had been a deliciously kinky idea, and Abby seemed quite partial to them, which was great, but he hadn't taken into account the full-body costume. How the hell was he going to get her out of her full-length leather outfit, if he couldn't free her hands?

But, as his hands brushed over the supple fabric, he realized that Abby's disguise was nowhere near as badass as it appeared. The zipper had broken and one of the seams was coming undone.
 

This thing wasn't made of leather as he'd thought. It was some kind of shiny synthetic fabric. Thankfully, a very
fragile
shiny synthetic fabric. He wrapped his finger around the neckline of her costume, and Abby stopped her intimate explorations. She pulled back and gazed at him in confusion.

"Mike?" she asked.

He held her gaze and pulled on the fabric. The fragile seams ripped, over her shoulder and down her armpit, all the way down her thigh.

Her body was now displayed to his gaze, all creamy skin and luscious curves, but his attention was focused her face. Her eyes were wide, the irises darkening with lust, and the evidence of her arousal was even more exciting than her nakedness.

He ran his hand down her body and his fingers met no resistance. It took him a second to process the fact that Abby wasn't wearing any underwear. He paused, stunned. He'd stood next to her all night, chatting and joking, and he hadn't known that she'd been completely naked under her costume.
 

Hell.
 

He struggled for self-control. "I hope you didn't spend a lot of time making this thing."

 
She stared at him, a confused look on her face, as if she were having trouble focusing on his words. "Only a couple of weeks of work," she murmured.
 

He sighed with relief.

"
And
a couple of months of tips," she continued, a hint of mischief lightening her eyes.

He winced. Apparently, fragile synthetic cloth didn't come cheap.
 

"So," she drawled. "This had better be worth it."

Now
that
sounded like a challenge. And he'd never been able to resist a challenge.

He bent down to kiss her, aiming for the fold of skin where her neck met her shoulders.
 

She moaned as he kissed the exquisitely sensitive spot.
 

The sound was low, soft and sexy, and he drank it in thirstily. Her hair was loose and wild and her skin was flushed. He loved her this way, crazed with desire, trembling with need. He licked her skin, making her moan. She tasted sharp and sweet, like an exotic treat he couldn't get enough of. He trailed kisses over her chest hungrily and she wriggled against him in silent encouragement. The fire inside him grew as she shuddered, her undulating hips grazing his thigh.

"Excuse me," she gasped. "What part of 'waited all night,'" her breath caught as he caressed the underside of her breast, "did you fail to understand?"

He smiled against her skin. Oh, he understood all right, but he'd dreamed about this for a long time and he wanted to take it slow.
 

He traced her areola slowly and another tortured moan ripped out of her. The sweet sound made his body tense and he quickly reassessed his strategy. Taking it slow was no longer an attractive option. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked on it. Hard.