Ghosts of Boyfriends Past (2 page)

“Food poisoning. February fourteenth.”

It had to be some kind of record. Biz was officially the world’s unluckiest girl in love. With three oh-so-eligible ghosts haunting her house.

See no evil, hear no evil and…touch no evil?

Except she knew better than to blame it on luck. She’d done this. Her stomach roiled with guilt.

And now someone knew. Somehow this supernaturally hot reporter had put together the pieces and seen that no coincidence was that coincidental.

What was she supposed to say? Lock me away for irresponsible magic use? That would go over well. Though maybe the curse wouldn’t be able to reach her inside an asylum.

Biz ducked her head, smoothing her scalp-tingling bun. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
I can neither confirm nor deny the allegations against me at this time…

Ellison’s smile ratcheted up a notch in sympathy and trustworthiness—which only made her trust him less. “Lots of people struggle with depression and self-doubt around this particular holiday. It makes them feel less alone when they know there are other people out there struggling too. A story like yours—”

“Is nobody’s business but mine. Sorry.”

“After all you’ve been through, to tell people you still believe in love—”

“I don’t. Sorry.”

The moaning and creaking in the house around them grew louder. Paul made a rude gesture at Ellison’s back and even Tony got into the action, slamming the door behind Biz in an attempt to scare off the pest.

And the reporter was oblivious to it all, his eyes twinkling away, as tenacious as he was attractive.
Dangerous combination.

“It must be hard for you, coping with Valentine’s Day on your own in this funny old house. Sharing your story could lighten your burden—”

“Wanna buy a charm?” Biz snatched a crystal necklace off the rack to her left and held it up between them, letting it dangle between her fingers. “No? Are you sure? It’s a great charm. You’ll love it. Everyone around you will love that you have it. You need it, for the good of humanity. But don’t buy it for them. Buy it for yourself.” She glared at him, no longer at all enchanted by his gorgeous dimples. “See how annoying that is? Stop trying to sell me. I’m not buying.”

His bullshit trust-me grin cracked as a real one split through it. His dimples flashed at her. “Was I that obvious?”

“You were trying for subtle? Oh, honey, that’s just sad.”

He gave a rusty laugh that was oddly appealing. It was the first thing about him that wasn’t so practiced it seemed oiled to a slick shine. “Too much too fast?”

His lazy grin invited her to laugh with him at his own expense, and her irritation folded. Damn. He was good. He hadn’t missed a beat before shifting over to a new tactic.

She leaned against the shelf at her back, absently swinging the crystal charm. “We run on island time around here. Diving right into it was a dead giveaway that you’re a day-tripper from the city.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Absolutely. All city folk are here to exploit us, steal our women and rape our cattle.”

His rough laugh grated out again, and Biz had to bite back the urge to smile at the jagged sound. “I promise I have only virtuous intentions toward your cattle.”

“I notice you didn’t say anything about your intentions toward our women.”

Wicked promise filled his eyes. “Haven’t made up my mind about my intentions toward you yet.”

Her knees wobbled.
Oh, baby. That’s trouble.

He was flirting with her. Tall, Dark and Steamy was so far out of her league it was laughable, but he actually appeared to be flirting with her.

A rack of runes crashed to the floor and reality crashed in on Biz.
Thank you, Tony, for the wake-up call
.

Biz straightened and dropped the charm onto the counter. “I think you should go.”

Tony had been out of her league too, but the curse hadn’t cared. The damned love spell had sucked him in and tricked him into thinking she was a goddess. The spell was the only explanation for why Mark Ellison would be twinkling and dimpling and
flirting
with her. She had to get him out of here pronto.

The reporter with a death wish leaned forward. He should be running for the door, but he was swaying toward her, his eyes twinkling. The idiot.

“Can we start over? I’m Mark. You’re Biz. I just want to talk to you.”

“No. You have to leave.”

As she spoke, the bell over the door jangled and Mrs. Kent, the busybody who owned the B&B across the street, poked her head inside, the rest of her compact figure quickly following. “Leave? Biz Marks, don’t you tell me you’re shooing off our first winter visitor in weeks. Shame on you, dearie!”

“Mrs. Kent, he isn’t a tourist—”

“Don’t you listen to a word she says. Everyone who visits Parish becomes a tourist. They can’t help it. You just stay as long as you please, Mister…” She trailed off, extending her hand and beaming at the Reporter of Doom. Her eyes gleamed with the fervent light of a hostess scenting a tourist in the off-season.

Mark Ellison flicked a brief, triumphant look at Biz then turned to smile down at the petite picture of Parish hospitality. “Mark Ellison, ma’am. A pleasure.”

Mrs. Kent twittered girlishly, instantly smitten—damn those dimples—and latched onto his hand with a death grip worthy of a boa constrictor. “Promise me you won’t go rushing off now.”

Ellison twinkled. “Oh, I promise.”

Biz wondered if this was how people on the Titanic felt when they saw iceberg chunks floating past their stateroom windows.

Chapter Two—The Black Widow of Sunnybrook Farm

Elizabeth “Biz” Marks wasn’t at all what Mark expected of the Black Widow of Parish Island.

He’d mentally cast her as dark, sleek and smolderingly sexy. Catherine Zeta-Jones, or maybe Penelope Cruz. In reality…she looked all wrong. The lethal Lolita who’d killed three men in the last three years shouldn’t look like a cross between a gypsy and a librarian.

He’d pictured her in a killer black dress and red stiletto heels, as sexually appealing as she was coldly calculating. Instead her clothing was shapeless and drab, but she sparkled with an inner energy that couldn’t be contained. She was obviously doing everything in her power
not
to attract men—no makeup, hair yanked back in a brutal bun, the clothes, the get-the-hell-away-from-me vibe—but he was attracted. More than he cared to admit. Her face was a perfect heart shape, and while she was certainly pretty, there was nothing about her that screamed sexual siren so much as Sunday school teacher.

But just because her eyes sparkled with innocence didn’t mean she wasn’t responsible for the deaths of at least three men.

Three “accidental” deaths in the last three years. All on Valentine’s Day. And all of them leaving a tidy inheritance to one Elizabeth Marks in their wills. It was beyond suspicious.

From the second his editor handed him the assignment, he’d known there was more to the story than a human-interest piece. Bad luck didn’t strike at exactly the same time on exactly the same day every single year. Somehow she was killing them while maintaining the appearance of complete innocence, and he was going to discover how.

Snow White, that’s who she reminded him of. Provided Snow White had wild curls, bad fashion sense and started killing off her dwarves for their riches.

“So how long will you be staying on Parish, Mr. Ellison?” asked the diminutive, elderly woman clinging to his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “There’s so much to do and see.”

“It’s the off-season,” Biz interrupted. “Everything’s closed. Nothing to see.”

Her eagerness to get rid of him screamed guilt, but there was more to it than that. She seemed edgy, but almost…protective.

Mark studied her, letting a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, I think there’s plenty here to interest me.”

A charm offensive never failed him, but Biz shot him a disgusted glare and turned away, crossing to the rack the wind had knocked over a few minutes ago. She righted the black metal carousel and untangled the charms on display, her hands steady.

Mark had learned to watch the hands. Fear of discovery sent a jolt of adrenaline through any system. Adrenaline came through in shaking or fidgeting hands, quickened breathing, but Biz seemed calm. Annoyed, undeniably. Hiding something, most definitely. But the guilt signs were contradictory.
Interesting.

“Mr. Ellison?” Mrs. Kent prompted. “How long?”

Mark met Biz’s eyes as she glanced up to catch his response. “As long as it takes.”

Biz’s hands jerked and the rack careened away from her. Mark’s hand snaked out to catch it—more reflex than anything, he was too far away to prevent the crash. But there was no crash. The rack froze at forty-five degrees and swung back upright, stopping exactly vertical, the charms tinkling against one another.

Mark frowned. Odd counterbalance on that thing.

Biz rushed back to her post behind the counter, jumpy as hell, drawing his eye away from the anti-gravitational rack.

Well, shit.
He’d never get her story if he couldn’t put her at ease. He’d almost screwed up his chance already, pushing too hard. He’d been off his game lately, but it wasn’t like him to lose control of a conversation this completely.

Normally he was the best around when it came to getting people to open up. His sources adored him and he never failed to get them to spill all.

Biz obviously didn’t adore him.

“Mr. Ellison…” she began, but Mrs. Kent must have sensed Biz was about to try to throw him out again because the tiny grandmother started chattering at warp speed.

“I do hope you’ll stay at least as long as the Parish Island Winter Festival. It isn’t much by city standards, I suppose. Just an excuse for the locals to use up all the leftover peppermint schnapps and cocoa after Christmas is over, but we like it. Our Biz here has one of the most popular booths every year.”

“Do you?”

“Mrs. Kent runs the B&B across the street,” Biz explained dryly, without looking at him. “She has a vested interest in convincing you to stay.”

Mark wrenched his attention away from Biz and focused a beam of charm straight at the rail-thin matron. “A B&B?”

“The Shoreview Guesthouse,” she said with obvious pride. “Top rated. A Raleigh magazine even called my scones the best in the Carolinas.” Her hands fluttered like hummingbirds, never settling, but Mark could tell it was fussy energy rather than nerves or guilty adrenaline causing the flittering. “We have a weekend rate, you know. Off-season. Very reasonable. Are you in town for business? No time like the present to add a couple days for pleasure, I always say. It’s so lovely this time of year. Quiet. Without all the tourists jostling for space on the beaches. Though I don’t imagine you came for the beaches, what with it being so cold lately. But then it is winter.” She giggled as if she’d made a joke. Biz looked like she was trying not to leap across the counter and throttle the little old lady. “What brings you to Parish Island, Mister Ellison?”

“The Spanish Inquisition,” Biz grumbled under her breath.

“Work, I’m afraid. I’m a journalist.”

“Are you now! Is there a story on our little island?”

Mark smiled his most trustworthy smile. “
Everyone
has a story.”

Mrs. Kent fluttered, Biz glowered, and a display behind Mark smacked into the back of his legs, knocking him to his knees. “Ow!
Damn it
—beg pardon, ladies.”

“
Tony
,” Biz snapped.

“Heavens, are you all right, Mr. Ellison?”

Mrs. Kent and Biz rushed to help him up, the latter glowering disapprovingly at the empty air behind his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said curtly, once they had him back on his feet. Biz marched to the corner of the shop and began to give a stern whispered lecture…to a floor lamp.

Mark frowned. “I’m fine. Is she all right?”

“Hmm? Oh, Biz? Right as rain.” Mrs. Kent beamed at him. “You will stay until the festival, won’t you, Mr. Ellison?”

He hadn’t been planning to stay. He’d meant this to be a day trip. Come over on the morning ferry, interview Ms. Marks, poke around to find additional sources, get a feel for the situation and be headed back to Raleigh on the five o’clock ferry. But this looked like it was going to take more than a day to get to the bottom of this story. He had a contact looking into the medical records of the three victims, but this island was where the story breathed.

And he had the time if he wanted to spend it. His numbers had been slipping lately and, after a handful of reader emails complaining about how jaded his features had become, his editor had more or less commanded him not to return until he’d gotten his mojo back. A few canned columns would fill his inches for the next two weeks whether he was here or in Raleigh.

Seeing idyllic, sleepy Parish Island, he had a feeling his editor had thought of his story as about as close to a spa vacation as she could assign him.

“You know, Mrs. Kent, I think I would like to book a room for the night.”

“No!” Biz spun away from the naughty lamp she’d progressed to wagging her finger at. “You have to leave. Are you insane?”

Coming from the woman talking to the lighting fixture.

“Biz,
really
,” Mrs. Kent exclaimed, but before she could say more, the bells jangled, the door opened, and a slim, dark-haired man stepped inside.

“Mrs. Kent?”

“Grand-central-fucking-station,” Biz muttered, retreating back behind her counter as the B&B owner turned to the newcomer.

“Mr. Bloom! What can I do for you?”

Bloom avidly tracked Biz’s progress back to her perch, but when she looked in his direction he flinched and flicked his gaze to Mrs. Kent, blinking rapidly. “Internet,” he blurted, his pale face reddening. “The internet is down. My window faces… I saw you over here.”

“Of course! Drat that router-thingamawhatsit,” Mrs. Kent prattled. “I’ll be over in a jiff to get it set to rights, Mr. Bloom.”

Bloom hesitated, momentarily stymied by the dismissal, then sort of bowed in Biz’s direction and disappeared out the door as abruptly as he’d arrived.