Ghost Seer (21 page)

His hands cupped under her bottom and his hands against her skin broke the minor trance of escalating passion . . . and added a new element all at once. Her eyes had closed and she’d breathed in the thick air and the scent of them . . . him and her, mingling. Now her gaze went to his strained face, his own pupils so dilated she could see only an edge of green.

“Clare. You’re. Killing. Me,” he panted.

More sweat beaded on his forehead, appeared as if it might run down his temple. She had to taste that, the essential Zach. So she leaned forward, nearly stopped as the tip of him touched exactly where she
needed
. She sucked in a breath and trailed her tongue across his forehead. Salt and Zach . . . the taste of plains instead of city . . . sage, something like piñon pine.

And he angled her and thrust up into her and she moaned as he fit so well.

Paused. Cloth on his chest instead of skin that she wanted to feel. She unbuttoned his shirt. Muscles, little hair. Nice.

“Sexy woman,” he said.

W
HY WAS HE
still talking? She began to move . . . rise until only the tip of him was in her, slowly, slowly slide back down. His jaw bunched, more color coming to his face, accenting the hue of his eyes. Beautiful man.

“Slow is good,” he slurred.

Still talking. So she started a rhythm, watching his face, feeling him flex and throb and fill her.

They moved together, spiraling up to the pinnacle of teasing ecstasy with each surge of their bodies. Zach’s eyes blurred . . . because of her own vision or his, she didn’t know, but her palms on his chest got a little slippery and she dug into his chest hair and he grunted and his hips moved faster.

“Cla-are.” Her name came broken on a jerky breath, like nothing she’d heard before, ever, and her body clenched tight and hot around him and he thrust and rapture shattered her into sparkling diamonds turning into rain, into mist, her spirit free and flying before coalescing back into her pulsating body and she felt him arch. His fingers clenched into her butt and she peaked again, quick and hard, and fell forward gasping.

“Clare,” he murmured, his hands falling from her.

She found the fast pulse of his heartbeat in a thick vein in his neck and licked it and he shuddered. “Clare!”

Subsiding on his chest, stroking his muscles instead of digging into them, Clare sighed out, “Zach.”

They lay there together, their hearts pounding and their breathing steadying into unison, taking long minutes for themselves. Clare’s mind seemed to turn on first and she said, “Wow.” Very hot, very sticky between them, and she didn’t mind.

Zach grunted a laugh, rubbed her back, ran his fingers through her hair, lifting it away from her damp nape, and the quiet whoosh of the fan overhead impinged on her hearing as her body cooled.

Her lover lifted her chin so their gazes could meet; his eyes were sensual and a lazy smile curved his lips. He looked satisfied, knowing that he’d pleased her and had reached climax, too.

After a quick kiss on her lips, he rolled her to the back of the couch, and the change in angle told her she wasn’t nearly as recovered from the fabulous sex as she’d thought, since her stare stayed fixed as she moved. She blinked and refocused just in time to see a taut backside turning into the small hallway that held her bathroom.

“I’m starving,” Zach called. “Can you order something in? Something that will be ready after shower sex?”

Clare scrambled to her knees, shoving her hair out of the way, her brain flipping through cuisines. She so rarely ordered delivery, she had to think about it. “Pizza or Chinese?” she asked.

“Surprise me,” Zach called as he turned on the shower.

She didn’t have that big a water heater. Grabbing her phone from the table, she ordered Happy Family from the Chinese restaurant; it would arrive in half an hour.

Running to the bathroom, she stepped into the tub shower, her toes curling. Steam rose around her and even in the heat, the humidity felt blissful.

Zach was simply gorgeous. All right, he looked as if he’d lost some weight, but he still had excellent definition. Better than she. She bet she’d have to up her exercise program if she wanted to keep him as a lover, and she did.

In the damp, his hair appeared to wave more than she’d noticed; her fingers itched to touch it. It was longer, shaggier than she usually preferred. She liked his hair, and the looks of him, his slow smile that melted her.

She was very glad she’d added nonslip strips to the bottom of the tub.

 • • • 

What with another round in the shower, the arrival of good Chinese food that they both ate with chopsticks, and easy conversation, any problematic after-sex tension just evaporated. There had been only a couple of hitches in their postcoital glow—one when Clare asked Zach to move the puzzle box from the coffee table to the top of her one knickknack cabinet, and one when Enzo made a clever comment about how good they were together.

She and Zach had played footsie under the dining room table, so he seemed to hear, and occasionally respond, to the dog. He
didn’t
seem to want to analyze the psychic stuff or talk it out. No doubt a man thing to just accept it without dealing with it, so she went along with him.

After dinner, he helped her tidy up, finish packing the living room and start on her small home office. As the sun set, they were rolling around in her bed, learning each other’s bodies, though through distraction or Zach’s avoidance, she didn’t get a good look at his injury. Not that she cared much; the man was an attentive lover and there were other parts of him that proved more interesting and demanded more of her attention.

They finished up the last of the Chinese when dark fell, and he rose to go. She hadn’t asked him to stay overnight, and he hadn’t pressed to sleep with her. He had called Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee earlier to let them know he wouldn’t be back until after dark. He and Clare had spoken about their respective moves. His voice held affection for the ladies, and she thought it was a good fit for him and them, for the time being.

All the changes in her life had such sharp edges right now that she didn’t want to hurt herself more than necessary . . . perhaps become more attached and dependent on Zach just because he’d come into her life at this time. All that could wait for later.

Not to mention the fact that he’d made his discontent with her current house evident with a couple of grunts. Neither of them believed this house would sell soon in the sluggish market, nor would it sell until the weather cooled down. The lack of air-conditioning this year was a real liability.

Clare would focus on her new house and her new gift, have this house professionally cleaned and take Arlene’s advice about when to list the place with an eye to selling. In any event, she should get enough to pay the mortgage off and maybe a little more, which just plain satisfied her. She’d done fairly well.

But at the door, when Zach pulled her against him and despite all the sex they’d had, her nerves picked up an anticipatory buzz.

He kissed her. “I like you a lot, Clare.”

“Ditto.”

“Not over?”

Her heart gave a hard thump at the question. “No.”

“Good.” A short kiss. “Later.”

“Later.”

The cane added to his swagger.

 • • • 

Her energy seemed to drain out as she turned out the porch light after Zach drove off, then reluctantly stopped the fan and moved it away, closing and locking the door. Such a small starter house, but she’d been happy here. Her parents had been appalled. They’d come once, dismissed her house and Clare herself.

Two more days and she’d be gone.

Turning off all the lights, she shuffled through the heat and fell onto the clean sheets on the bed that she and Zach had made together. Her insistence on that and his male teasing made her smile. She knew Enzo had joined her since he radiated cool.

“Good night, Enzo.” She reached out and petted his back, her fingers turning icy in an instant.

Good night, Clare. You are doing good. Mostly
, he said.

She sniffed, but no ghosts, no nightmares, and no chills racked her body while she slept. Though she wasn’t nearly as comfortable as when she’d been crowded on the couch with Zach the night before.

 • • • 

In the morning, Clare had a list and a tight schedule and concentrated on packing, ignoring the lure of research on the computer. The more she worked, the more she thought of questions about Jack Slade, Cold Springs Station, ghosts, mediums, and the rules of her gift.

She thought of Zach . . . tried to set aside the remembrance of his hands on her body, her hands running over his muscles, but the sex had been so incredible, and the man himself was enthralling. She should, of course, do that web search on him, but it really didn’t matter who he was . . .
before
.

He was an intense man, and she believed that was nothing new to him. And that he’d told her about his brother, opened up a hurt that was so devastating she could still hear it in his voice, touched her. His story made her more protective of him and his feelings, though she wouldn’t tell him that.

He had issues, but didn’t everyone? And sharing emotions, intimacy, was
almost
as good as the sex. She felt he was negotiating rough waters like her.

Clare wasn’t the person she’d been
before
, just a little over a week ago. She wasn’t an accountant, had no job, had no intention of being a professional . . . medium? . . . she
hated
that word. She had no intention of becoming a professional Ghost Seer, or Apparition Mover, or Phantom Vanquisher, or
whatever
. She didn’t need to work. All she needed to do was practice her gift enough to keep the madness and chill away.

That didn’t sit well, to do the minimum and not her best. But she’d been pulled into these new circumstances kicking and screaming, against her will, and didn’t want to do more than the minimum to get by right now. Later . . . when she’d become accustomed to her new situation, after she’d learned all she could, she’d probably feel different.

Her tablet alarm rang like tolling bells. Time to buy Dr. Barclay lunch and show him the improved Clare and get him out of her life.

 • • • 

Rickman had spoken with Mrs. Flinton about her case the day before and had finessed from the older lady that her father’s family, who’d taken her in when she was a child, had also kept good records, ledger books that she’d stored in the attic. Zach’s boss had approved using Clare as a financial consultant, and that morning Mrs. Flinton had handed Zach the three ledgers from the year in question; they smelled of dust and mothballs.

Ready to see Clare again, get her focused on something other than her new strange gift and the death of her aunt and everything else surrounding that, Zach texted her to meet near noon. She said she’d be having lunch at an uptown restaurant. Zach smiled. He’d figured Clare for being careful with her money, but now that she had a whole lot more to be careful with, she seemed to be eating out more often. He hoped she continued to eat, but she’d looked good the day before, had been energetic with sex, and sharing the Chinese food had been fun.

Zach had considered a messenger bag or a briefcase and gone with the case. Odds were he wouldn’t be carrying anything of extreme importance and all he had to do with a briefcase was drop it if he got in danger, unlike a bag that could hamper him.

So he strode into the restaurant, waved off the hostess, and scanned the first room. Whomp! Emotional fist in the gut. Clare sat at a table with a professional, distinguished type of guy in a thousand-dollar suit. Wavy gray and white hair, well-kept hands, smooth hands, and a face women would like. Gym-muscular, trim, but he still had years and pounds and polish on Zach.

Didn’t look like an accountant, possibly a lawyer, could be a medical doctor, definitely not a broken-down ex–deputy sheriff.

No dirty dishes showed, but a half glass of white wine stood before Clare and a tall tumbler of water with lemon before the guy.

The dude was flirting extremely discreetly, and the helluvit was that Zach couldn’t read Clare well enough to know how she was taking that flirt. She wasn’t flirting back, like she had with Zach when they’d met, but from the tilt of her head and her listening expression, she could be interested.

Possessiveness surged through him, along with a wave of protectiveness. Clare had been through a lot lately. He didn’t want some guy twisting her around more than she was.

Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane as the man brushed Clare’s fingers when he reached for his water glass.

S
HIFTING A SHOULDER
to release tension, the one without his holster, Zach began to move toward them . . . slower than he wanted because he had to proceed cautiously to take care with his foot drop. Since he was considering the bartitsu lessons, he might let the thought of a brace worm into his head.

Halfway across the room Clare glanced up and saw him. Her eyes seemed to light and Zach wanted, badly, to lengthen his stride but cursed instead within his head.

By the time he reached the table, the guy had become aware of him; his smile for Clare faded and he slanted his body to see Zach.

The man scanned Zach from top to toe, then met his eyes with a penetrating gaze and Zach’s stomach clenched. He knew that look and now he knew that professional. Shrink. Psychiatrist, psychologist, life coach, counselor—though the guy must have an MD or a lot of other letters after his name to be able to afford the shirt, suit, tie, cuff links, watch, and shoes he wore.

Zach came up and put his briefcase down, lifting his hand to Clare’s shoulder. “Hey, Clare. Good to see you. I have something you might be interested in,” he said easily, smiling at the guy in the suit. “Zach Slade.”

“Dr. Madison Barclay.” The man inclined his head at Zach. Didn’t offer his hand, so he wasn’t so interested in Clare that he wanted Zach’s free hand off Clare, and he didn’t want to shake hands with Zach. Zach had dealt with all sorts of therapists and psychiatrists, both after his brother’s murder and with regard to his mother’s mental illness, as well as more recently after the shooting and his crippling. Some were worth the pain of sessions, some just wrongheaded, and some were scammers about as good as any other con men in the business.

“I was seeing Dr. Barclay recently,” Clare said a little stiffly.

Barclay’s eyes tightened when he heard her call him by his title.

“Isn’t that unethical, hitting on a client?” Zach said.

“He’s not my psychologist anymore,” Clare said. She wiggled her shoulder and Zach reluctantly dropped his hand.

“Not so very long with me.” The man smiled again at Clare. His teeth were too even and white. “But I know Clare well,” he said with a pompous note in his voice. Since he hadn’t reacted to Zach’s surname, Clare must not have spilled about the ghost of Jack Slade.

Zach smiled slowly and just had to put his hand back on Clare’s shoulder and squeeze. “There’s knowing and knowing.”

Barclay’s jaw set.

“And speaking of that.” Zach set the briefcase on the table, flicked the lock open, took out a ledger book and placed it near Clare, flipped it open. As he’d expected, her gaze became glued to the columns of figures.

“What’s that?” asked the shrink.

“Antique financials in a case I’m working on. Expenses, I believe. I think Clare can track them for me, give me some insights.”

She was running her fingers down the columns, reading the handwritten pages.

“Give her a project outside settling her great-aunt’s estate and moving into her new house. Good for her, don’t you think?”

This time Barclay’s smile was chill and aimed at Zach. The shrink folded his pristine napkin and rose slowly, moving his chair back, and inclined his head to Zach. In a rich, mellow tone, he said, “You are obviously a very angry man.” His gaze flicked to the cane, to Zach’s orthopedic shoes, back up to his left knee. Okay, the man was sharp enough to spot the weakest point of Zach’s body. Kudos.

Barclay continued, “If you wish to see me on a professional level, we can work through your issues with your disability.”

Zach showed his own teeth. “Sure. Until then, you might want to consider that I’m armed and dangerous.” He shifted and leaned on a chair enough that his jacket would gape to show his shoulder holster.

The psychologist retreated a step as surprise came to his eyes, and then his cheeks took on color.

“Clare.” Barclay raised his voice. “Thank you for the lunch.”

Clare jolted and looked up, her gaze sliding back and forth between them, her expression wary that she’d missed something—like a clash of males. She bit her lower lip and Zach wasn’t the only one who focused on her mouth.

Standing, she offered her hand to the shrink. “And thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me, Madison. I enjoyed it.” Her smile was simple and sincere and Zach saw the guy softening. Too damn bad.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, pressing her fingers.

“Outside your office, sure,” she said, rushing her words slightly so that Zach hoped she didn’t mean them. The doctor preened. Then, without another glance at Zach, the psychologist walked away with a smooth stride Zach watched and envied.

When he returned his attention to Clare, she’d sat again, was sipping her wine and reading the ledger entries as if they were riveting. Zach took Barclay’s seat and scrutinized her. Why was he so very attracted to her? Yeah, she was sexy as damn all, lovely, repeatedly presented riddles, and had haunting eyes that continued to suck him in.

He leaned back, lifting his right heel in a move he’d practiced to look casual, and contemplated his feet in good cotton socks and ugly leather shoes, not cop shoes. His left foot, ankle, and tibia didn’t look damaged.

And then he understood why Clare had slipped under his defenses and into his heart more than anyone else in a long, long time. It wasn’t that Clare didn’t know he was “disabled.” It was that she made absolutely no fuss over the fact. Just a minor part of him being Zach Slade.

Even though he knew his injury wasn’t minor. It had damn well ruined his life . . . all right, ruined his
career
. And, yeah, he sure as hell remained furious about that.

She’d accepted him just the way he was now. Didn’t think about how he might have been
then
, when he was whole.

As far as he knew, she hadn’t done a simple Internet search on him . . . and he did know enough that if he asked her now not to, it would pique her curiosity enough that she’d head straight for her computer.

She didn’t have the driving curiosity that he did.

Eventually she’d see him as he had been; the pics were up there. Hell, pics of his shattered tibia and droopy foot were up there. Until he and she were more involved than a few nights of awesome sex, he’d like her
not
to be able to judge him against the man he once was. Right now he was too thin, his muscles shrunken, and he’d had little aerobic exercise.

For that he’d need even better shoes and a brace.

Finally, after she’d turned to the next page, he said, “So, you had lunch with the doctor. Is he any good as a psychologist?”

She looked up and grimaced. “He is supposed to be the best, but he wanted to discuss my childhood and I wanted to know if I was going crazy by seeing ghosts. He
is
expensive. I wished to end our association on a good note, so I took him to lunch.” She pouted. “On Sunday. He ordered the most expensive item on the menu, too.”

Zach chuckled. “And you, what, had soup?”

She shrugged. “I had a good meal.” She waved a hand. “Something or other.” She matched his gaze and repeated. “He always expected me to talk about my childhood. Not my favorite subject.”

He got what she was saying. He never liked talking about his childhood, not even the better times before Jim was killed. Two of a kind, there.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll look at this while you eat, but I’ve already paid my bill.”

Zach laughed, shook his head. “Clare, you’re a treasure.”

She grinned. “I know.”

But as he signaled the waitress and gave her his food and drink selection, he didn’t like the shadow in the back of his mind that whispered that it mattered, a lot, that Clare had had lunch with some other guy. And to remember that she broke up with men at restaurants.

 • • • 

Clare took the ledger home and for once the sky had clouded over so she could sit in her dry backyard without experiencing ferocious heat. Along with the ledger, Zach had provided a list of the eleven items Mrs. Flinton recalled from her childhood home and wanted back. Attached to the list were drawings or photos of similar items, and Clare’s eyebrows rose at the general six-figure amount that the furnishings would be worth now.

Rubbing her hands, then setting a notepad and pencil next to the book, she began studying the ledger.

She soon became accustomed to the overly fancy cursive writing and the standard expenditures . . . and began to see that some items were “sold” to a friend or relative of the guardians’ family, unrelated to Mrs. Flinton by blood, only by marriage, for a nominal amount. Clare’s mouth tightened. This had been just plain stealing.

With all her accountant senses alert, she scrutinized each entry.

Now and again, when her eyes hurt or she ran out of iced tea or lemonade, she went back in, eyed the packing that needed to be done, and did some physical work on her move. It was unlike her not to stick with a task until it got done, no matter the hours needed, but today she found that changing up the work was more efficient and helped her focus her attention on different items than Zach Slade. Honestly, the man and her budding relationship with him tended to dominate her thoughts more like she was a teenager than a mature, professional woman. She almost felt giddy when he was near. The surge of welcome, inner sexy heat helped her pack up her bedroom faster.

Unlike her office and living room, the bedroom had furniture she’d be giving away to a local charity: good, uninspired pieces except for the bed. In the back of her mind she acknowledged that she’d always expected to have antique furnishings that her parents kept in storage or from Aunt Sandra. That was a little creepy.

When she had to close the back door because the sun slanted in, she took
another
shower, donned another sundress, and moved the search inside. After a while, she had a list of names and called Mrs. Flinton.

“Hello, Clare, dear. How are you doing, and how is dear Enzo?”

Just that easily the zone she’d been in when focused on the ledgers shattered and she was flung back into the new odd land she inhabited. She cleared her throat and headed to the refrigerator for another glass of lemonade. “I’m fine, Mrs. Flinton.” Clare poured more liquid into a tall glass. “Uh, everything went well, and I am, uh, adjusting to my new, uh, circumstances.” Stop those “uhs”!

“I’m actually calling about your case. Did Zach tell you I’d be looking at your guardians’ books?”

“Yes, I authorized you with Tony Rickman.”

“Ah, good.” Clare had forgotten Zach’s new boss’s name. “Um, yes. I’ve examined one of the ledgers and found a couple of names . . . leads . . . and I’d like your permission to check those names with an online genealogical program I’m, uh, using.”

“Oh! That sounds wonderful! Now why have I never considered tracing my own gift?”

Once again, Clare’s mind was wiped clean of figures and headed over into family trees. “Ah, I
did
want to ask if you have done research into your family and if you might have a family tree.”

“I do, of course,” the woman said. “Somewhere, and copies, too, I believe. But I’ve always considered living in the present and with an eye on the future the best balance for one with psychic talent, especially a ghost seer, don’t you?”

Clare’s palm went sweaty around her phone, her mouth dry. She looked with longing at the glass of lemonade, but she didn’t want any sound of swigging to go over the phone, so unprofessional. “Absolutely, concentrate on the future,” she agreed.

“And I’ve heard those computer programs are so clever!” Mrs. Flinton enthused. “Maybe we can get together some time . . .”

“Sounds excellent,” Clare said. “But I truly wish to follow this thread while my discovery is fresh, though I do have thorough notes, of course.”

“Naturally, Clare.” Mrs. Flinton sounded disappointed. “But I’ll let you go. I believe you will find my family tree on the major genealogical website under Flinton-Patterson-Wembly, and it’s public.” She spelled out the hyphenated names.

“Thank you,” Clare said. “I should, ah, hand off this report to Zach today.”

“Oh! Such progress. And you
must
come to tea again, soon.”

“Soon,” Clare promised. “Thank you, good-bye!” She clicked off, feeling sweaty again. Putting her phone down on the kitchen table—which she was giving away—she drank half the tumbler of lemonade.

Still hot, she took a paper towel, dampened it, and wiped her face and neck.

You did not say “hello” from me
, Enzo accused, sitting next to her, pouting.

Clare jolted. “Sorry.” This dichotomy of having her new life impinge on her old seemed to be discombobulating her brain.

She accessed the online genealogical program, found the names of the people who’d “bought” the furnishings of Mrs. Flinton’s childhood home. Several of those lines had grayed-out “living offspring,” but Clare could give the names of the parents, and grandparents, to Zach and he could do the rest. Meanwhile, she leaned back in her chair with a sense of contentment at a job well done.

She chuckled. Rather a new way of thinking of “forensic accounting.”