Ghost Seer (8 page)

C
LARE SWALLOWED HER
protest to ask them, especially Zach, to stay. Not to leave her with the dog, who seemed to also be visible to Mrs. Flinton, and who might also affect Zach.

“Leave since I won’t be bidding on anything?” Mrs. Flinton’s voice quivered. “Not . . . not yet. Whistler didn’t come back?”

Clare examined the room, but apparently Zach didn’t need to do that. He said, “No. Probably he’s long gone and his name isn’t Whistler anymore. I’ll report that to Rickman and he’ll decide how much to follow up.”

“Whistler abandoned his items?” Mrs. Flinton asked.

“We don’t know anything about those items. My best bet is that he stole them. Or he’ll contact the auction house later.”

Mrs. Flinton sniffled, then waved at the plum wood box. “The box is in the first lot to be auctioned. Let’s stay for that.” She stood straight and turned her walker to the rows of chairs.

“Thank you,” Clare said. She looked up at Zach. “And thank you for staying. I know this is business for you.”

He smiled down at her and her pulse sped up; her cheeks warmed as if she were blushing again. “Pleasure mixed with business,” he said. Then he winked. “And what if I told you I was getting paid by the hour?” His free hand curved around her elbow. She hadn’t realized that bone was cold, too. She should just keep him around as a personal heater. She felt warm all the way to her core . . . her body interested in his.

She struggled to recall what they’d been talking about, some topic that she, as an accountant, should have picked up on as they progressed smoothly toward where Mrs. Flinton sat . . . oh. “If you told me you worked by the hour, I’d be very surprised . . . unless you got a consulting job?”

The smile edging his lips flattened. “No. Trying my hand at private security and investigation.”

Obviously he wasn’t as pleased as she’d thought he was, and she didn’t know why. “You’d be good at that,” she replied matter-of-factly.

His brows came down. “You think?”

“Absolutely.”

“What are you discussing?” asked Mrs. Flinton as Clare negotiated beyond the walker and Mrs. Flinton’s end seat and took the second chair down, letting Zach sit next to the older woman—his client. He treated her very well, and that boosted him in Clare’s estimation.

Clare raised her voice so Mrs. Flinton could hear. “I think Zach will be excellent in a private security and investigation job,” Clare said into a sudden silence that fell when the auctioneer stepped onto the platform.

People turned to look at them, and Zach, who now appeared so coplike that even Clare, a very law-abiding citizen, noticed. Some people slid from their chairs and slipped out the nearest exit.

“Thank you,” Zach said, setting his cane—which somehow now looked like a weapon. Interesting!—on the floor, then sitting down.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” the auctioneer projected, and everyone settled. “Lot one of unremarkable items to get you warmed up.” He flashed a smile and there were a few sighs, some chuckles.

Mrs. Flinton snuffled, and Clare saw her watery gaze go to the large silver punch bowl as her chin wobbled.

Zach put a long arm around her shoulders, squeezed, then dropped it.

Clare leaned toward him and murmured, “You’re kind.”

His expression turned impassive, and she figured that masked his being uncomfortable.

Enzo wiggled into the space not quite large enough for a solid dog his size and collapsed on all of their feet. Mrs. Flinton smiled; Zach stretched out his legs so his feet were under the chair ahead of him, though his cane remained in Enzo’s body. Clare felt the weight of Enzo’s upper body, the chill of his drool hitting her even below her sandal strap, and she just suffered through, aware of his accusing eyes for ignoring him. Zach nudged her when the box came up.

She hadn’t attended many auctions, but she knew the basics and lifted her paddle when she had to. Four bidders began, then diminished to three, then to two, and she got the thing for a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Paid too much,” Zach murmured.

For a box that had been around in 1864? She didn’t know. How special were old and scruffy items? The staff seemed pleased.

Mrs. Flinton led the way to the checkout table in an anteroom of the building.

“Thank you again for staying,” Clare said. Zach’s presence on her right side, his warmth and sheer solidity, balanced out the cold and mirage of Enzo walking along her left side.

Mrs. Flinton stopped. “You thanked me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a good girl.”

Clare paid and gingerly took the bag with the box in it, and then they ambled out into the night. In only a couple of minutes, a new-model luxury car drew up in front of them.

“Come to tea tomorrow at two
P.M.
, Clare. Zach will give you the address when he accompanies you home,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“What?” Clare and Zach asked at the same time.

“You two have a lot in common and should spend some time together,” Mrs. Flinton insisted. “Inside, the dog distracted you from making more of a connection. Zach will accompany you home and make sure you’re safe.”

For an instant, sheer relief flooded Clare. Then she shook her head and said, “That’s not necessary. You’re his client.”

Mrs. Flinton gestured to a stocky Asian driver who’d come around to open the door for her. “Mr. Yee is plenty of security for me.”

“Mrs. Flinton—” Zach began.

“You told me where you parked today, and Tony Rickman has your car,” Mrs. Flinton said. “He can have it sent around to Clare’s address.”

Anger fired in Zach. Yeah, he’d told Mrs. Flinton about the parking garage, but one of Rickman’s operatives must have found his vehicle by the license number, which Zach hadn’t given anyone. He hadn’t done any paperwork to be hired by Rickman.

Zach shut down the irritation and loosened his grip on his cane, which he wanted to slam against the Mercedes. He had a job he wasn’t sure of, though it had felt damn good to scare that son of a bitch Whistler with just a look. Zach had an apartment he wasn’t quite sure of, either. Hell, he’d known Rickman had checked him out, would have gotten his license plate number.

With a sigh, he heard Clare give the location of her home to Mrs. Flinton, who arched her brows, nodded, and swept into the car. Yee closed the door on her, folded up her fancy walker, and put it in the trunk. He inclined his head to Zach. “Mrs. Flinton will be safe with me.”

“Right,” Zach said between his teeth, and watched as Yee drove away.

“I’m sorry you were forced to do this,” Clare said.

He gazed at her, noting that she appeared pale under her natural tan. Man, how he liked to see the peachiness of color when she blushed. Staring, he narrowed his eyes. Might just be the lighting that made her pallid, but he didn’t think so. “You okay?”

She jerked a shrug, opened the sack and took out the box, slipped the handle of the bag over her wrist. Her fingers worked on the wood as she turned it over, checking each side.

Zach studied the thing in her fingers and realized it didn’t have an obvious opening. Okay, that made it interesting, and that the woman had bought such a box with no opening intrigued him, too. He didn’t believe for a minute she’d bought it for a friend. Clare Cermak became more and more compelling. He certainly appreciated the sizzle between them.

“It isn’t a solid block of wood, is it?” he asked.

“It’s a puzzle box,” she said in a stilted tone. “I haven’t figured out how to open it.”

“Will your friend know?” Zach kept his voice even. He didn’t believe in her friend, and he thought she understood that.

She flushed, then went pale.

“What’s in the box?” he demanded, a cop’s tell-me order.

“I don’t know.” She looked up at him, angry.

He softened his tone. “Any idea?”

Slowly she shook her head, and it came to him that the contents
were
a mystery to her. “May I see it?”

“Sure.” She handed it over to him quickly, another clue that it might not be something she’d wanted. Fascinating. She herself was a puzzle box a whole lot more appealing than the piece of wood he turned over in his hands. The box was smooth, but with an occasional sticky sort of residue like old grease covered with dirt and dust. He felt no moving pieces, either.

The bright outside lights had come on since the light blue-purple evening had become blue-black night.

“I guess I’ll have to check the Net to open it up.” Clare sighed.

“Why not let your friend do that?”

Again her flush seemed to warm away the slight tinge of gray under her skin. What was with this lady? She didn’t strike him as overly emotional, and not nearly as out there as Mrs. Flinton, but Clare certainly reacted as if something were going on. Could she have been in on the scam with Whistler? But Zach had met her completely coincidentally. On the other hand, coincidences did happen. A bird called and he flinched. No, not a crow. Not.

And Clare frowned up at him, reminding him all too well that he had his own secrets and twitches.

She grimaced. “Yes, I can let my friend do that. He should know how.”

“He?” Dammit, should Zach be interested in a woman this . . . with problems like he had? Maybe with demons like his?

Her lips moved into a half smile as she slid her glance toward him. “An acquaintance.” He saw her stop another sigh; her shoulders straightened. The guy was a burden, then, not a lover—at least not a current one, maybe a past mistake.

“May I have the box?” she asked.

Zach hefted it in his hand. “I don’t think the cubbyhole inside could be very big; doesn’t feel at all heavy.”

Mouth twisting, she said, “I don’t think it’s ounces of gold.”

A dog barked in the distance and Zach got a buzzing in his ears. He shook his head to make it go away and handed the light box back to her. When she reached out, her fingers trembled.

“Maybe I’d better drive.” His voice was hoarser than he wanted because, damn, this quiet and tidy woman with the haunted eyes was appealing. But he didn’t want to get mired in any of her problems.

Her full breasts rose under the top of her sundress as she breathed in. “All right.”

“You’ve got an automatic transmission?” he asked, able to keep up with her slow pace across the parking lot. With concentration, he kept his left knee as low as possible and still kept his foot from dragging across the pavement. Grudgingly he understood that he needed to move on more than he had—he thought he’d been pushing himself physically, and he had, to get back into shape.

Now he needed to learn how to live as a cripple. Walk with stealthiness, use his cane as a weapon . . . maybe get the damn brace he’d been resisting.

When he saw Clare’s car, he smiled at her very sensible choice, an older model that held its value. She handed him the key before he asked, and when he inserted it and turned, she went around to her side, a lady unused to having a gentleman open the door for her. If he’d been whole, he could have lengthened his stride, caught up, and surpassed her to open the door. His fist clenched around the cane. No more hitting things. Once had been enough.

He opened his door, stowed his cane in the backseat, sat in the driver’s seat, leaned over and opened her door. Then he adjusted the seat and mirrors. The car was warm, but Clare looked like she shivered. “Are you all right?”

Another grimace. “Well enough. I’m waiting for some tests to come back.”

“Doesn’t sound good.” Checking around them, he reversed and drove to the cut to the street.

Her chin lifted, her lower lip sticking out a little. For some reason he found that cute. “I’m fine. I
will be
fine.”

Since he didn’t care for comments on his own health, he said nothing more, but a chill tingle touched the back of his neck and sank into his shoulders—no sort of hunch or anything. If he’d been in a room, he’d have thought of drafts, but the summer night was warm. Too warm for the jacket he’d forgotten to take off before getting into the car. Clare had wrapped her arms around herself, so turning on the air-conditioning was out. He hit the switch to roll down the windows.

She tapped the detachable GPS and set it to “Go Home.”

“I don’t need voice directions; the map is good enough,” Zach said. He
hated
the mechanical voices. He turned west.

They drove for a few minutes in comfortable silence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt easy being silent with someone close. Nice. “Clare,” he said, liking her name on his tongue, a short and sturdy name. Another glance at her showed her pretty profile and the roundness of her breasts, the slight curve of her stomach. This woman wasn’t a toned cop or athlete.

Her head turned and her hair swung, thick and shiny, smelling of some light citrus scent, clean and fresh. He recognized it . . . lemon and ginger, little bottles handed out by an upscale hotel. He drew in the scent of her, wanting that exotic note that had teased him earlier that day, even opened his mouth as if his tongue could taste her. Yeah, he caught that fragrance that tantalized—woodsy, spicy, some perfume mixed with her own Clare scent that indicated she was different than her appearance. Lust speared straight to his groin.