Ghost Seer (20 page)

“You always leave your space tidy,” Ted said mildly.

“I like tidy,” Clare said. “Good luck on your studies and with your job for the prof.” She couldn’t recall the prof’s name, though Ted had told her twice. Her brain now had holes in it for sure.

Sweeping up the detritus of her lunch, she hurried back into the restaurant and deposited her recyclables into one of their bins, then headed back out. Ted was entering the library doors, and that banished a little tingle along her spine—not a good tingle as if she were with Zach.

She hadn’t called him. No reason to.

Forty minutes later she was picking up boxes at a liquor store at a small strip mall close to her current neighborhood and stacking them in her car. Driving around her area of town was much easier. Though she did see the tall figure of a Native American standing on a rise, wrapped in a blanket and staring west toward the mountains.

Clare would have to learn more about the tribes here.

“Enzo?”

The dog appeared around another car in the parking lot, though he hadn’t accompanied her earlier. Clare puffed out a breath.

He sat in front of her and scratched his ear with his hind leg, grinning.
Hello, Clare. Hello! Long time I haven’t seen you!
Hopping to his feet, he ran toward her, through her with a chill, licking her hand along the way.

Whoops! Right THROUGH Clare! Hey, Clare!

“Hi, Enzo. I, uh, saw a Native American ghost. Can I . . . uh . . . help him?” Why hadn’t she researched the rules yet? “What about religion and stuff?” She flapped a hand.

All religions have spiritual people who help the dead move on
, said Enzo, switching to that deeper voice of his.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

No answer. She shut the door, accepting the presence of Enzo on the passenger seat. “I’ll help him . . . soon.” Another thing to do: to continue to read her great-aunt’s journals, glean the rules from them. So far she hadn’t found much that she hadn’t discovered on her own.

Time to buckle down.

 • • • 

Zach lounged in one of Rickman’s client chairs. The man had called him in to talk about the robbery the day before. Apparently he was working on a “hot” case this Saturday morning. That he didn’t keep banker’s hours pleased Zach.

Behind his desk, Rickman leaned forward, hands clasped before him. “You aren’t telling me everything about the incident yesterday.”

Raising his brows, Zach gave a slight nod. “You mean that when I touched Clare Cermak, I could see the ghost of a cowboy waving his hat and yelling, ‘Bank robbery’? That what you want to hear?”

Rickman winced, spun his chair around so he could stare out the window. He looked like a brood had fallen right over him like a painter’s dropcloth. “No. I
don’t
want to hear that.” He cut the air with his right hand. “Absolutely not. Why do I get all the characters?”

Zach didn’t know whether that meant guys with attitude or people who interacted with those who—were touched by
strangeness
like Mrs. Flinton or Clare Cermak. “I could introduce you to Clare, if you want.” He offered just to bug the guy.

His boss glanced at him over his shoulder. “Not right now. Maybe later.”

All right, that surprised Zach. “That’s all I have for you.” He’d given the guy a written report on his lack of progress on Mrs. Flinton’s case, and his idea regarding tracing the financials.

“Fine. Here.” Rickman swung back to his desk, pulled out a drawer, and flipped a couple of cards onto his desk. One was a magnetic key to Rickman Security and Investigations’ workout rooms in the building. They were just a bulletproof door away from a fitness club that shared some of the facilities, though from what Rickman had said, some of his staff didn’t consider the arrangement very secure. Didn’t bother Zach. He also had a recommendation for a masseur who worked in the club next door.

The other white card had a dark blue drawing of two men in suits and flat hats fighting with canes and read,
Bartitsu for You
.

“Bartitsu?” Zach asked.

“Cane fighting.” Rickman’s mouth twitched. “I hear the studio caters to the steampunk crowd.”

“Steampunk,” Zach said flatly.

“Not much steampunk in Montana, huh? Some in Boulder.”

Zach grunted. “Some of everything in Boulder.”

“And our local Denver science fiction readers and writers community has a thriving steampunk group.”

“Right.”

Rickman laughed. “Hey, if Robert Downey Jr. playing Sherlock Holmes can do it, you can.”

“The original private investigator.” Zach tightened his grip on his cane.

“That’s so.”

“Any of your ex-military guys do this?” Zach flipped the card in his fingers. Just showed the name of the studio, phone, and an address in southwest Denver.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Now Rickman sighed. “Get on with your life as it is now, Zach.”

Zach turned and left.

He didn’t go to the gym like he’d thought he would; instead he gave the number for Bartitsu for You a call and found an instructor who was willing to meet with him.

T
HE SPARRING WITH
the tall skinny white guy with a mustache waxed into points and fuzzy sideburns didn’t go as well as Zach would have liked. He couldn’t take the man down and that was solely because the dude was awesome with a damn cane. At least he didn’t go down himself and was sweating less in his shirt sleeves—ungartered—than the instructor.

Pretty much a draw.

Mr. Laverstock pulled a large white handkerchief from his trousers pocket and wiped his face. “We can work one-on-one as we have now, or I have a schedule of classes.” He walked into the open doorway on the far end of the room and returned with a sheet of paper. Zach glanced at it and noticed it was the same as the one posted on the bulletin board. The class coming up in a half hour was called “Victorian Vixens.”

“Our rate sheet is on the back.” Laverstock looked Zach down and up. “You’re good. Even good with that cane when you don’t know much of what you’re doing. Get some sturdier orthopedic shoes and braces for your left foot and ankle. These are the best folks.” He handed the sheet to Zach along with a card. Then he patted his face again with the handkerchief. “Get a brace so you can move your foot better and get more aerobic exercise.”

“Thanks for the time.” Zach bit off the words.

“Welcome.” Laverstock scooped up a water bottle from the floor and arced a stream of it into his mouth.

Zach left the building that looked like a failed restaurant, a small standalone place in the lot of a big mall.

A woman wearing a long skirt, a fitted jacket, and a huge hat got out of a sports car. He stared. She raised her brows and winked at him, giving him the once-over and a flirtatious smile.

“I’m early,” she said, twirling her cane.

“I’m late,” he responded.

She pouted, noted his cane and how he leaned on it, which had his mouth flattening, then walked past him, her skirt swishing. All right, he turned and looked.

And she twitched her ass at him.

He could only think of how Clare might look in the getup. Woman must have had one of those . . . bustles? . . . on. Now that he thought of it, Clare’s ass looked good under a sundress, would look good augmented with that bustle thing, and, most especially, would be a fine sight bare.

Just that morning Mrs. Flinton and Mrs. Magee had commented on how he walked carefully, no doubt from “hammering the bad guys.” Rickman had told him to get on with his life. The card Laverstock had pressed on Zach was in his jacket pocket; the woman—one from the Victorian Vixens class?—had coolly noted his cane and that he had to use it.

From the minute they’d met, Clare had treated him as if he . . . as if he didn’t have a cane . . . like she’d have treated him if they’d met before he’d made the stupid mistake that had gotten him crippled.

Last night he’d told her of the painful loss of his brother and gotten understanding, tenderness, sweet sympathy.

A bird called. Zach tensed, slid his gaze around. A woodpecker, not a crow.

So far he hadn’t seen any crows today, and no unfulfilled rhymes dangled. Not that he was thinking about that.

No, he was thinking about Clare. She had her problems, her vulnerabilities, too. He could easily call up her white and frantic face, her dull and blind-looking eyes, when they’d been in LoDo less than twenty-four hours ago.

Another vehicle, a minivan, drew up, and a lady in a white blouse and long skirt got out, pulling a cane she didn’t need to walk with from behind her seat. One of those standard wooden deals with a curved top, instead of his straight-handled cane. She smiled at him and hurried into the dojo—not a dojo, a studio.

Greetings and laughter came from the building behind him.
Get a brace
, Laverstock had said.

Clare Cermak had braced Zach last night, was bracing for his spirits. He’d go see her. She’d do him fine.

 • • • 

Clare had worked on the kitchen, emptying drawers, pretty much just moving into boxes the plastic containers in which she kept everything. The remembrance of the lonely melancholy of the Native American pulled at her, along with Enzo’s big dog eyes and huge expectations. So she nerved herself and returned to the ghost.

His passing took a very short time and was unnerving. He’d spoken oddly in her head with more images than language; she’d had to assure him that no one of his tribe remained for him to protect, that his horse was gone, too. Then he’d walked down the rise, sending a cold wind her way, and vanished.

Enzo had congratulated her, but with less enthusiasm than when she’d helped the little girl. By the time Clare got home, she’d recovered her warmth and eyed her house. Even with all the fans and cross-ventilation she could manage, it would remain hot. Not conducive to research.

Now that she knew she was home for the rest of the day, she changed into an old and shapeless faded blue cotton sundress—the coolest thing she had in her closet. She opened the place up and continued with the kitchen; most of that would have to move with her. Naturally her new kitchen was a gourmet one with about three times the amount of cabinet space Clare had here. Her low-cost dishes would fit in one of them. Though she’d been bequeathed one of Great-Aunt Sandra’s sets, that fine china wasn’t for every day. Not that she cared. Clare’s mother got a set and so did Clare’s sister-in-law.

The kitchen was done quickly. Clare left out only those dishes she might need over the next couple of nights—a single setting.

A couple of hours of work and Clare was wringing wet. Enzo kept her amused with comments, still strictly in his doggie state, running back and forth and
through
the box fans she’d set in the back and front doors. Apparently dodging the blades was great fun. The thought made Clare’s head hurt.

She had canceled her appointments with Dr. Barclay. Unfortunately, he kept Saturday hours and his receptionist had put on the man himself, who expressed extreme concern, but Clare had been so relieved she’d acted like her pre-curse-gift self and had laughed, saying she’d come to terms with herself. On impulse, she’d offered to take him out for lunch. To her surprise, he’d accepted, and for the next day. They made a date downtown at one of the fancier restaurants. She could afford it now, and the meal might be less than he charged for a session, and worth it to get rid of him. Could she ever forget the misery she’d felt in his office enough to enjoy the attractive man’s company?

No.

And with all his smoothly groomed, expensive looks, Barclay wasn’t nearly as sexy as Zach Slade. The doctor’s whole person didn’t affect her as much as one intense look from Zach. How great that Zach believed in her . . . or was willing, at least, to listen. Just thinking of him made her hotter than ever.

She moved on to her next task, discarding the shelf paper and cleaning the cupboards, and forgot about Barclay.

Soon she’d have to take a break and a shower. She glanced at the desk holding her powerful laptop and a stack of books. The genealogy program whispered to her; so much more fun than packing and cleaning. Ignoring it, she grabbed a portable music player, set the playlist for rock, and stuck in the earbuds, determined to finish the living room. Already she had a stack of stuff that wouldn’t be moving with her lined up against the far wall. The television monitor was only three years old, so she’d take it.

Zach’s here!
Enzo zoomed from the backyard through the kitchen, probably through the fan in the front door and Zach, too.

“Clare!”

The second time a man had shouted at her that day, though with all the fans and her earbuds in, she didn’t blame him. She hurried to the living room and saw him on the other side of the screen door, staring down at Enzo, who hopped around and rubbed against him.

She’d gotten the idea that he could hear the dog, even without being in contact with her. But then Enzo wasn’t just a ghost dog. He was also some sort of spirit that Clare didn’t think too hard about. Especially when a handsome and sexy guy scowled at her under shaggy hair. She pulled out her earbuds and plucked her music player from her dress pocket, setting it on the coffee table. Then she moved the box fan from the door and turned it off, and unlocked the screen door.

“Clare,” he said.

“Yes?” She backed up as he came in, darkly intense.

Two good paces in and he yanked her to him.

Wow, he was a solid wall of muscle and his strong arm went behind her back.

“Clare.” His other hand went to her chin and she let him tip it back for a kiss.

His eyes held stormy secrets.

She rubbed her hands up and down the sleeves of his fine white linen dress shirt. He’d left whatever jacket he might have been wearing in his car. “Zach.”

His mouth came down on hers and pressed once, his tongue probing along her lips for her to open to him.

She did. And closed her eyes, willowed against him—such a solid man. Tasted him as he rubbed his tongue against hers. Felt the tightening of her nipples in desire, and more, she felt his erection, as solid as the man. She’d been sweating while working, and now she dampened, all over and under and in between with the flush of arousal. She
ached
for him, for intimacy, for completion.

For release.

He’d been sweating, too, doing more than working inside and walking around outside. That should have turned her off. It didn’t. His smell went straight through her and had her sex clenching with need.

Yes, he smelled right.

She pulled away, still leaning against him. “Zach. I’m all sweaty. I mean, I’ve been packing.”

His gaze swept the room: the organized empty boxes against the wall, the half-filled ones just beyond the kitchen threshold. The arm around her back fell and his fingers touched her bare leg below the hem of her short dress, feathered along her skin. He grinned. “Nice.” Leaning close again, he dipped his head near her shoulder, kissed her neck up to her ear with a touch of tongue, tasting her.

When he raised his head his cheeks had flushed, giving him a ruddier look, accenting that hint of Native American blood. Oh, yes, sexy!

He smoldered. She’d never had a look like that aimed at her. Her knees weakened; her whole body loosened. “You taste like woman. You smell like Clare.”

She had to inhale deeply just to have enough control to take a tiny step away from him, blushing herself. His hand curved around her cheek, thumb caressing her. “Peachy, the pink under your golden skin.” He bent and kissed her quickly. “Redder, fuller lips, just for me.”

He shifted; his arm came around her again and he lifted her from her feet, took the couple of steps to the couch, and sank down with her, her on bottom, him on top. Though he’d done all the work, her heart thundered at being in a sexual position.

“Clare.” He swept kisses along her neck and her mind began buzzing, doing a slow swoop of rationality sinking and rising in a sea of red desire.

Pushing the straps of her dress down and the bodice to her midriff, he flicked the front clasp of her bra open.

His hands on her bare breasts felt wonderful, so fabulous that she moved under him, aligning her body so she could rub against him in just the right spot, just the right way. Was that whimpering and panting hers? Oh . . . yes!

She slid her hands inside his pants. Smooth linen shirt under her palms, heavier trousers against the backs of her hands, then cotton boxers . . . male skin, lightly haired along his thighs, smoother on his butt . . . she began to slide her hands toward his front when he groaned, stopped her, rolled them over on the couch with her on top.

Good, she could breathe. She found the clasp of his waistband. His shaft was so hard and strong and long and thick and she needed that in her
now
.

“Wait. Wait.” His fingers stopped hers.

“What?”

“Rubber.”

Her mind went blank, then, “Oh. Protection.”

He cracked a laugh. “In my wallet, bought them last night.”

She bent down and kissed his mouth, swiping her tongue along his lips. When he opened his mouth she rubbed her tongue against his as she rubbed her lower body against his and stopped only when her mind was sinking into the world of blazing lust. She dug the word she’d wanted to say from her brain. “Optimist.”

Another laugh. He lifted his head for a very brief kiss. “After last night, I knew we’d wind up in bed together. Realist.”

“Bed? This is the couch.”

“Great couch, you’re gonna take it with you, aren’t you?”

“Hadn’t planned on that, but yes. And you’re lying on your wallet.”

He arched again, stroking her with his body in just the right place. While she gasped with pleasure, he tipped her in toward the back and shucked his pants and boxers, then took care of protection.

She’d wiggled out of her dress and underwear, only glancing at the front door before he rolled her back over and kissed her, hot open mouth to hot open mouth. When they broke for a ragged breath, he said, “You coulda kept the dress on.”

She couldn’t even answer as she poised over him, rubbed her sex back and forth along his. So extremely, sensually good. Again. Again. Pleasuring herself, glorying in feeling how he thickened under her, became more rigid.