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He strode in, hands resting on his hips, and surveyed the room. “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

Since she mostly saw him at the office, seeing him dressed casually still caught her off guard. Flannel and denim suited him. He was like a sexy lumberjack with his scruff bordering on a beard, which wasn’t a style she realized she liked. But she must have liked it. She was irritatingly aware of the parts of her body that had been touching his a moment ago. They were still tingling. Tingling, for God’s sake.

She had no right tingling where Marcus Black was concerned.

On the bright side, she believed she’d found “the ghost of Essie Mae.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair. In shadow, his eyes appeared a darker version of their whiskey hue. Before she tumbled headlong into the depths of those eyes, she stabbed a finger into the center of his rock-hard chest. “Turn it off.”

“Turn what off?” He crossed his arms. His mouth tugged at the corners.

“Nice try, Black. I’m not going anywhere.” She pulled her hand away when what she really wanted to do was test the hardness of his pecs. “The speaker. Or whatever you’ve rigged up there to wail and moan. Turn it off.” Mirroring his stance, she crossed her arms over her breasts and stood her ground.

He walked over to peer up the staircase. Then he closed the front door before standing in front of her again. “What makes you think I rigged up anything?”

“So what did I hear earlier? A ghost?”

“Your imagination could be playing tricks on you. It’s pretty scary in here.”

Her eyes went to the dimple denting one stubbled cheek. She had the errant thought that she wanted to stick her tongue in it. She shook away the urge. “I know what I heard.”

“If you’re hearing voices, sounds like I should stick around and protect you.” He sent her a devilish wink, the same one he probably used to sear the panties off his dates.

“Oh no. You’re not staying.” Especially since he’d insisted on it. Scared or not, she couldn’t allow him to be here after the crap he’d pulled tonight. He’d probably Saran Wrap the toilet seat next, or put shaving cream in her palm when she fell asleep. She’d endure the house alone.

She grasped his biceps and steered him toward the front door—or tried, anyway. He was as hard to budge as a cement wall. Heat soaked into her palm where her hand was curled around his thick arm muscles. He cast her a sideways glance and raised one eyebrow.

Why, why whenever he was this close, did he muddle her senses? She rejected on principle the idea that a man could literally be a chick magnet, but here she was, being pulled in by an invisible and, yes, magnetic force. Her nipples peaked painfully beneath her bra, pointing at him like a compass finding true north.

She let go, breaking their connection. “I’ll be fine alone. You can leave.”

“You sure, Lil? You look a little shaken.” He lifted his hand but she slapped it away.

“No thanks to you.”

“As owner of the Hawaii trip, I’m entitled to personally witness your attempt to win it, don’t you think?”

Absolutely not. She opened her mouth to argue.

“Don’t answer that.” He ambled into the living room and inventoried her setup. “So. What do you have to eat around here?”

Fifteen minutes later, Marcus lounged on the air mattress while Lily perched on the opposite end, watching him warily.

She’d packed enough food to host a small dinner party. Which was awesome. It’d been hours since he’d eaten. He was starving. Anyway, it was an impressive spread. Sushi, brie, grapes, cherry cheesecake…

“Are those Corn Nuts?” He reached for the bag.

She clutched the unopened snack to her chest. “Stop eating my food.” She was adorable. Especially with that little line marring her brow. She sat ramrod straight, her legs curled beneath her. He’d noticed that every once in a while she would cast an uneasy glance at the staircase.

He would tell her about the speaker in the upstairs bedroom eventually. He knew they were safe, even if she had her doubts. After a lifetime of dreaming of Hawaii, he couldn’t give it up—wouldn’t—without a fight. Possibly more importantly, if she lost, she would come with him to the dinner, which was likely the only way she’d agree to a date with him.

She’d forced his hand. It was a new low, but hey—desperate times.

“May I have a glass of wine?” he asked.

She snapped her attention from the stairs to his face. Her light eyebrows slammed over her nose. “No.”

“What kind of barbarian allows a guy to eat brie without a wine chaser?”