Ghosts of Boyfriends Past Read Free Page A

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