"Gregg, did you hear me?"
After rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he looked over his shoulder at his nubile young narrator. Holly Fleet was just inside the door, her long blond hair pulled straight back from her makeup-less face, her eyes not nearly as wide or captivating without the false lashes or the sparkly-sparkly stuff she wore on camera. But the pink silk robe did nothing, absolutely nothing to hide her banging body.
And she was practically vibrating, her inner tuning fork struck by one hell of a ringer.
"You are aware," Gregg drawled, "that the SOB died over one hundred and fifty years ago."
"Then his ghost is really here."
"Ghosts don't exist." Gregg turned back to the view. "You of all people should know that."
"This one does."
"And you woke me up at one a.m. to tell me this?"
Not a good move on her part. They'd all gotten next to no sleep the night before, and he'd spent the day pushing and shoving on the phone to L.A. He'd hit the pillow an hour ago, not expecting to crash--but fortunately his body had had different plans.
Either that or his brain was telling him to give it up because shit was not going well. That butler was refusing to budge on the permission thing; both of Gregg's reapproaches had been shut down, the one at breakfast politely declined, the one at dinner flat-out ignored.
Meanwhile they had some great footage that he'd already sent in. Thanks to the evocative shots captured on the sly, the brass had given him the go-ahead to switch the special's location--but they were pressuring him for a presell cut they could broadcast ASAP.
Which couldn't happen until the butler relented.
"Hello?" Holly snapped. "Are you listening to me?"
"What."
"I want to go."
He frowned, thinking she didn't have the brains to be frightened by anything short of an eighteen-wheeler with her name on the front grille. "Go where?"
"Back to L.A."
He nearly recoiled. "L.A.? Are you kidding--Okay, so not going to happen. Unless you want to get on Orbitz and ship yourself back like a piece of luggage. We have a job to do here."
Which given the hair across that butler's ass included a lot of doctoring and begging. The latter being Holly's milieu. And actually . . . if she was scared, that worked to an advantage. She could leverage fear with the guy. Men normally responded well to that kind of thing--especially proper gentleman types who surely channeled chivalry through every one of their dry, spindly bones.
"I really . . ." Holly pulled the silk lapels closer to her neck . . . so that the front of the robe stretched tight against her hard nipples. "I'm freaking out."
Hmm. If this was a ploy to get him into bed . . . he wasn't that tired. "Come here."
He held out his arms, and as she came forward and put her body against his, he smiled as he stared over her head. God, she smelled good. Not that flowery shit she usually wore, but something darker. Nice.
"Baby, you know you've got to stay with us. I need you to work your magic."
Outside, the Spanish moss swayed in the breeze, the moonlight catching it and creating the illusion of chiffon, so that the trees looked like they were be-gowned.
"Something's not right here," she said into his chest.
Down below, on the lawn, a lone figure ambled into view. Clearly, Stan going for a stoner stroll.
Gregg shook his head. "The only thing that's not right is that damn butler. Don't you want to be famous? A special here's going to open doors for you. You could be hosting Dancing with the Stars next. Or Big Brother."
He could tell he'd gotten her attention, because her body relaxed, and to help her along, he rubbed her back.
"That's my girl." He watched Stan wander along, hands in pockets, head looking away from the house, long hair moving in the wind. Another couple of yards and he was going to be bathed in moonlight as he stepped out from under the trees. "Now, I want you to stay here with me--like I said, you of all people should know these ghost stories are never anything more than creaking floorboards. We have a job just because people want to believe in creepy shit."
As if on cue, someone came up the stairs, the soft footfalls accompanied by some real Vincent Price specials, the whines and groans of the old wood penetrating the quiet.
"Is that what you're afraid of? Just some bumps in the night?" he said, pulling away and looking down at her. Her plump lips brought back some very fine memories and he brushed her mouth with his thumb, thinking that maybe she'd gotten more silicon pushed into them. They seemed extra puffy and pretty.
"No . . ." she whispered. "It's not that."
"So why do you think there's a ghost."