“Does no one ever say no to you?”
“No is just a point to begin negotiations.”
“No means no, honey.”
“Does it? Do you mean it, Biz? If you really mean it, just say the word and I’ll leave.”
“Before or after you get your interview?”
He shrugged. “There are other stories. This may come as a shock to you, but lots of people want to be interviewed by me.”
She’d buy that lots of people probably fell all over themselves to give him their stories—over and over and over again—but she didn’t believe he would give up and walk away so easily. He was lying, or at least not giving the whole truth, and not just because he was trapped by the curse. There was something else.
Molly appeared suddenly at the table, carrying the largest glass of orange juice Biz had ever seen and all but trembling with eagerness to serve. “You can interview me ,” she vowed breathily.
Biz stole a look at Mark’s face. Definitely blushing.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, inclining his head to indicate the gratitude was for the juice, not her adoration.
When Molly continued to hover, Gillian rolled her eyes. “Molly, can we get our check?”
The girl made a small protesting sound in her throat but backed away from the table, her eyes still fixed on Mark.
When she disappeared into the kitchen, he draped his arm across the back of the booth behind Biz and leaned toward her with an inviting gleam in his eyes. “See? Some people like me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” Biz admitted grudgingly.
“Is that why you sicced the town on me?”
Biz glanced guiltily across the table at Gillian who shrugged, her eyes flicking back and forth between Mark and Biz. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a spectator.”
Mark leaned closer. “I’ve been interrogated more in the last twenty-four hours than most terror suspects.”
“Not so much fun when you’re the one answering the questions, is it?”
“As a matter of fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Fascinating town you’ve got here. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I was asked…let alone some of the things I was told.”
Nervousness filled her stomach with lead-winged butterflies.
“Ghosts, witches. It’s amazing what people believe, isn’t it?”
Oh, crud. He knew . Somehow he knew everything. “You don’t believe in ghosts?” she asked, her voice sounding choked and unnatural, even to her own ears.
“ There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio… ” He grinned. “I believe in possibilities, but the spirit of loved ones living on after their death seems more like a coping mechanism than truth to me. Like all those suckers who pay out the nose so some medium can reconnect them with their dead father one last time. It’s wishful thinking.”
Relief flooded her. He couldn’t know. You couldn’t know something if you didn’t believe it existed.
She should have just shut up and let it go at that, but his words were a challenge to her world view, and in her relief she couldn’t keep quiet. “You don’t believe their father’s spirit is still out there, watching over them?”
“It’s not the father’s spirit I don’t believe in. It’s the medium. If Daddy was really watching over you, he’d keep you away from conmen like that.”
“So what if there were unexplained events that showed Daddy was looking after his kids? A stray breeze that opens a door when your arms are full or a door you’re sure you locked being open when you’ve forgotten your keys? Maybe a radio stuck on his favorite station?” Or a chef preparing all your meals for you for a year after his death… “How would you explain that?”
“Maybe it’s coincidence. Hell, maybe it is Daddy. I just think we’re too eager to read into those events what we want to see in them.”
“Such a cynic.”
“Such a realist.” He grinned, suddenly intimately close again. “What do you believe, Biz?”
A warning voice told her not to talk to him, to walk away and
“No is just a point to begin negotiations.”
“No means no, honey.”
“Does it? Do you mean it, Biz? If you really mean it, just say the word and I’ll leave.”
“Before or after you get your interview?”
He shrugged. “There are other stories. This may come as a shock to you, but lots of people want to be interviewed by me.”
She’d buy that lots of people probably fell all over themselves to give him their stories—over and over and over again—but she didn’t believe he would give up and walk away so easily. He was lying, or at least not giving the whole truth, and not just because he was trapped by the curse. There was something else.
Molly appeared suddenly at the table, carrying the largest glass of orange juice Biz had ever seen and all but trembling with eagerness to serve. “You can interview me ,” she vowed breathily.
Biz stole a look at Mark’s face. Definitely blushing.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly, inclining his head to indicate the gratitude was for the juice, not her adoration.
When Molly continued to hover, Gillian rolled her eyes. “Molly, can we get our check?”
The girl made a small protesting sound in her throat but backed away from the table, her eyes still fixed on Mark.
When she disappeared into the kitchen, he draped his arm across the back of the booth behind Biz and leaned toward her with an inviting gleam in his eyes. “See? Some people like me.”
“I don’t dislike you,” Biz admitted grudgingly.
“Is that why you sicced the town on me?”
Biz glanced guiltily across the table at Gillian who shrugged, her eyes flicking back and forth between Mark and Biz. “Don’t look at me. I’m just a spectator.”
Mark leaned closer. “I’ve been interrogated more in the last twenty-four hours than most terror suspects.”
“Not so much fun when you’re the one answering the questions, is it?”
“As a matter of fact, I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Fascinating town you’ve got here. You wouldn’t believe some of the things I was asked…let alone some of the things I was told.”
Nervousness filled her stomach with lead-winged butterflies.
“Ghosts, witches. It’s amazing what people believe, isn’t it?”
Oh, crud. He knew . Somehow he knew everything. “You don’t believe in ghosts?” she asked, her voice sounding choked and unnatural, even to her own ears.
“ There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio… ” He grinned. “I believe in possibilities, but the spirit of loved ones living on after their death seems more like a coping mechanism than truth to me. Like all those suckers who pay out the nose so some medium can reconnect them with their dead father one last time. It’s wishful thinking.”
Relief flooded her. He couldn’t know. You couldn’t know something if you didn’t believe it existed.
She should have just shut up and let it go at that, but his words were a challenge to her world view, and in her relief she couldn’t keep quiet. “You don’t believe their father’s spirit is still out there, watching over them?”
“It’s not the father’s spirit I don’t believe in. It’s the medium. If Daddy was really watching over you, he’d keep you away from conmen like that.”
“So what if there were unexplained events that showed Daddy was looking after his kids? A stray breeze that opens a door when your arms are full or a door you’re sure you locked being open when you’ve forgotten your keys? Maybe a radio stuck on his favorite station?” Or a chef preparing all your meals for you for a year after his death… “How would you explain that?”
“Maybe it’s coincidence. Hell, maybe it is Daddy. I just think we’re too eager to read into those events what we want to see in them.”
“Such a cynic.”
“Such a realist.” He grinned, suddenly intimately close again. “What do you believe, Biz?”
A warning voice told her not to talk to him, to walk away and
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