MacGowan's Ghost Read Free Page B

the head of the woman whose face had turned dough-pasty, and at the same time the chairs began lifting and slamming back down on the floor.
    â€œArrrgh!” screamed the woman, who batted at the mist swirling about her and ran for the door.
    â€œWait, Mrs. Duigan, dunno go,” a deep, graveled, and heavily accented voice said, the tall figure hurrying after her. “I can explain.”
    Mrs. Duigan paused briefly.
    Then the dozens of fish appeared in midair, their tails flapping back and forth.
    She let out one final scream and pushed her way out of the door.
    The tall man—pretty darn good-looking, too, Allie thought—followed the frightened woman.
    Allie peered out the door and watched Mrs. Duigan slam her car door and peel out. The man stared after her. With his back to Allie, he tilted his head, as if looking up to the sky, shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark brown corduroy pants, then looked down, staring at the sidewalk.
    â€œOy, we’re in for it this time, aye?” said a male voice behind her.
    â€œ ’Twill be worth it, no doubt,” said another.
    â€œI dunno,” said yet another, “he looks powerfully angry, he does.”
    Allie turned, and noticed the fish had disappeared, as had the floating candles and eerie mist. A handful of mischievous-looking spirits stood in a half circle, staring at her. A very much alive young boy stood in their midst. His little auburn brows furrowed together over a creamy complexion.
    â€œWho are you?” the boy asked.
    Allie looked each ghost in the eye. A friar. A pair of rather cute English lords. A dashing sea captain. A noblewoman wearing a large powdered wig . . . attached with a chin strap?
    The sea captain’s mouth quirked into a grin. “We’ve been waiting for you, lassie.”
    The heated look he gave her, from the top of her head to her feet, then slowly back to meet her eyes, left little wonder just what he was thinking. Allie could already tell he was going to be a handful.
    â€œAllison Morgan?”
    Allie turned and came face-to-face with the man who’d just chased after the fleeing woman. “Allie,” she said, preferring her nickname. Now, up close, she blinked in surprise. Good-looking? No way. Not even close. Ruggedly beautiful fit more closely. Tall, at least six foot two, with close-clipped dark hair, a dusting of scruff on his jaw, green eyes, and generous lips, he was broad-shouldered and . . . utterly breathtaking.
    His eyes held hers, intense, studying, evaluating. A muscle flinched in his jaw, and Allie thought she’d never been more intimately weighed in her entire life. Her mouth went dry, and she finally cleared her throat. “Mr. MacGowan?” She smiled and held out her hand.
    He glanced behind her briefly, and when she looked, she noticed the ghosts and boy had gone.
    Ignoring her hand, the man gave a short nod and grabbed one of her bags. “Aye. And you’re early,” he said. Without asking permission, he reached down and grabbed her suitcase. He inclined his head. “This way, Ms. Morgan.” He headed toward the back of the pub. Not once did he turn around to see if she’d followed.
    â€œI could have gotten those,” she said, but he paid no attention and kept walking. Hurrying past a long, polished mahogany bar, complete with the high-backed stools that had moments before lifted and slammed against the wide-planked wooden floors, Allie glimpsed the barely there figure of a bartender wearing suspenders and dark trousers, wiping down the tables with a white cloth. He tipped his soft hat by the bill and grinned, and she returned the smile and shrugged.
    When Allie turned, she plowed into the very broad back of Gabe MacGowan. “Oops. Sorry.”
    Gabe stared down at her, those green eyes hard and set. He didn’t frown, nor did he smile. He remained completely aloof. “Dunna make friends with them. I’m paying you to make