Ghost Talker (13 page)

“I am glad there won't be any trespassing involved in this case. I never liked that.”

He kissed her forehead. “My law-abiding Clare.”

She drank more—heavy on the rum and light on the coke—and nodded. “I am. I like laws and I like rules and I like things to add up. I prefer
logic
because my parents aren't logical and they dragged my brother, Tucker, and me all over the place.”

“Have you heard from them about you inheriting your great-aunt's estate?”

“No.”

“You will.”

Hunching a shoulder, she said, “They and Tucker got payouts from Great-Great-Uncle Amos's trust, which Great-Aunt Sandra administered, whenever they needed it. I didn't, which is why Sandra left all her money to me. They didn't come to the funeral, and we—Tucker and I and the attorney—stored the furniture that went to my parents.”

“They'll show up.”

“I don't want them to.” She looked around the room. “And I don't want them
here
in my house. They won't appreciate this house. It's too normal for them, too stable.”

“This house has loads of charm,” Zach said, eyeing the last swallow in Clare's glass. He'd had a sandwich at the café . . . when Welliam had dragged Clare off to look at all the Texas Jack stuff the museum had archived. Clare had eaten nothing, and she wasn't a big drinker. One glass of wimpy white wine a night, maybe. He hadn't seen her drink hard liquor.

“Your house has great charm,” Zach repeated, “like its owner.”

“Thank you, Zach.”

“Charm and charms,” Zach said, discreetly sliding the glass down the counter away from her. “It occurs to me that I haven't explored your charms lately.”

She gave him that sweeping look from under her lashes that always aroused him. His dick for sure, but this time he felt it as a jab to his heart, too.

“We made love this morning.”

“You've had a hard day,” he said.

“I really, really have.”

He'd braced his bum ankle well, but he still wasn't a whole man. Couldn't carry her upstairs any way except over his shoulder in an emergency—not romantic. He didn't want to attempt sex in the kitchen and fall. He never wanted another humiliating elevator incident.

He stood and pulled her close, up off the stool. Her arms went around his neck and he balanced so he could slide his hands under the flaring skirt of her sundress and up even farther, under her panties to cup her butt. And, yeah, his hands on the firm flesh of her ass made his dick stand at attention. Slowly he lowered her body so she could rub along him, appreciating the trail of her breasts down his chest, her hands stroking his shoulders, but most of all, her belly against his dick as she moved to stand.

“Hmmm,” she said, leaning against him in a move more affectionate than sexy. He squeezed her ass. “Ooooh!” She arched against him and he glanced down, saw the deep cleavage framed by her sundress—yep, arousing—and the nubs of her nipples beaded against his chest. Good.

It had been a while since he'd romanced Clare. She deserved it and he liked giving her more than sex, more emotions than lust.

Drawing more feelings from her than simple passion.

The best and closest flat surface was the leather couch in the living room. Zach just needed to get them through the hall and to the front room. Reluctantly he removed his palms from her nicely curved butt, took her hands and put them atop his shoulders, put his own hands on her waist, and began humming a nice, slow dance tune.

He heard a chuckle in her throat and she put her head on his chest. Yeah, he could slowly move her in little swaying dance-like steps all the way to the couch. Keep his hands stroking her, petting her back, smoothing her dress over her backside. Let her feel how hard and heavy and wide his erection was. How she turned him on.

And he kept up the humming. They moved through the sunlight and shadow of the late afternoon as they danced, and he occasionally spun her, and grew damn hot. In the hall, he slipped one of her thick sundress straps down. A few steps later, he made the other fall. Looked down at her full breasts, listened to little catches of her breath.

Her fingers went to his shirt and began unbuttoning it sensually, flicking one button open, another, sliding her hands inside to his chest and returning his caresses. Then she got it all the way down to his waist and pulled the tails up.

His body was one single erotic zone. Everywhere she touched, everywhere they brushed, increased his desire for her, an intense rising heat he hoped she shared.

A turn and a tug of his hand and the dress revealed one breast, not quite as tanned as her arms, but still a golden tone with reddish brown nipple. He feathered his finger over that nipple and she gasped. Then he moved back, let her sway in place, pushed the whole top of her sundress down to the floor. He nearly flinched at the sight of her in only panties and thin-strapped beige sandals.

She stepped from the dress and when he moved forward to take her in his arms again, her busy fingers went straight to his belt. She unclasped it, drew it away, and tossed it onto a bench. He caught her hands before they could go to the hook of his trousers.

She tilted her head up, smiling. “Take your shirt off,” she suggested in a husky tone.

Holding her hands out, he glanced down and up at her again. Her nipples had puckered tighter and he swallowed at the recollection of the tip of her breast in his mouth, the remembered taste of her just there.

He pulled off his shirt, wadded it so it would hit the bench over his belt.

“You are a beautiful man,” she whispered.

He had to clear his throat to answer her and found himself shaking his head. “And you are one gorgeous gypsy woman.”

She stepped up to him and put his hands back on her hips, hers on his shoulders, and her eyes glazed as they circled again, her breasts touching his chest, moving, brushing as they danced into the living room.

And then they stood a pace away from the long, cushioned couch and he
could
lift her, place her gently on the sofa.

He breathed rapidly, harsh, too. Felt a thin sheen of sweat on his chest and along his spine.

Romance. The thought swam through the red-lust-dimmed thoughts in his mind. Somewhere close was a remote that would play music. He thought the last bunch of music he'd chosen was for seduction.

She lifted her arms above her head and stretched, which drew his gaze to her breasts. Then her glance went to the front of his pants. “Delicious Zach.”

Her mouth on his dick. A shudder went through him. He had to get out of his pants without hurting himself. He unhooked the waist, began slowly, and with great care, lowering his zipper. He didn't recall ever being this aroused—at least not before Clare.

Her small smile widened as she watched him, then suddenly his dick sprung free and he yanked off pants and boxers and he felt great and he breathed in the tang of his own sexual arousal and he saw Clare wore too many clothes.

He bent down to yank her high-cut panties off, and two seconds later he was on top of her and plunging into her.

Inside Clare.

Home.

Loving Clare.

She moved under him, and he propped himself on his elbows, stared down into her flushed face. She'd shut her eyes.

“Zach.” The word whispered from her lips on a silent breath. And now he smelled her, Clare of the many fragrances. She'd used the citrusy one today, but he moved to kiss her temple, pick up the taste of
her
.

The addictive taste—hell, the absolutely necessary taste and smell and feel of her, especially her soft, wet heat enveloping his dick. Needful for him in every damned way.

Like he needed his arms around her, so he rolled and tucked until she was on top of him. Straddling him. And he'd filled his hands with her breasts and though her eyes had opened, she looked dazed. With pleasure.

Maybe with love.

He groaned and the sound turned into a word. “Love . . . er. Lover.”

Flinging her head back, she moved on him, pleasuring herself first—and that was awesome to watch, made him longer, thicker, fuller, so he rode the extreme edge of rapture for long moments.

She clenched around him, screaming. Screaming!

And his hips bucked and he spurted into her, whirled through deep and massive dark that held nothing but ecstasy.

Then she fell against him and they breathed raggedly and she rubbed her head and all that fabulous curly hair along his chest, and the room spun around him and he relinquished any control of his muscles and sank into the couch.

“Love,” she sighed.

The word cut sharply through his meandering thoughts, lodged in his heart. But he didn't say the three words . . . and she hadn't either.

In this one particular matter, his male pride still ruled.

*   *   *

This time they showered together, but didn't have sex. He still emerged feeling fine, took his duffel from the closet, put it on the bed, and packed in the clothes he'd drop off at the dry cleaners. Then he changed into old jeans and a
Bartitsu-For-You
T-shirt. That seemed appropriate since he was heading out for his next private lesson there.

Clare sauntered in wearing only a fluffy peach-colored bath sheet, and the smile on her face vanished. She cleared her throat. “Ah, aren't you going to stay here tonight, Zach?”

He straightened. “I figure we'll take each night as it comes . . . lover.” Okay, maybe he wasn't as casual about the question as he thought, especially since he knew a more watchful look had automatically come to his eyes. Still, he didn't think he'd ever been as uptight as the woman standing in front of him. “Do you want me here tonight?” he pushed.

She tugged at the knot of her towel as if securing it better. “Yes.” The terry did slip a little as her breasts rose in a deep breath. “I want you in my bed every night.”

“Okay, then. But maybe we should stay at my place tonight.”

She nodded.

No protest. Didn't even ask that they come back here. Maybe they were doing as well as he thought. He relaxed into a less balanced stance and gestured to his duffel. “I gotta switch out some clothes, and Mrs. Flinton called.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Welliam has invited her, and us, to a steak dinner at his place tonight. Thought I could drive us all there instead of her using her car service.”

Clare walked to the bed and sat down at the end of it, put her hands over her face. “Mr. Welliam.” She paused. “The extreme extrovert.” Another few heartbeats of silence. “Mrs. Flinton, the experienced flirt. They'll flirt with each other and both enjoy it to the max.”

“Probably, but Welliam thought Mrs. Flinton would like to see the poltergeist in action.”

“So we get steak dinner—”

“Probably a gourmet steak dinner,” Zach inserted.

“After sunset.”

He smiled at her waving arms. They made the bath sheet slip farther and farther down. Excellent view. And he saw one of her legs up to the crease of her thigh, too. A pleasure being with Clare.

“Mrs. Flinton probably
would
like to see the poltergeist. She's got that touch of ghost communication, too. She might be able to see our perp,” Zach said.

“You're right. She's curious about everything, including ghosts. And the asphalt path up to the grave site can accommodate her walker.” Clare frowned at Zach. “But Welliam and you are really trusting your—and Texas Jack's—abilities to defend her, ah, make sure the poltergeist doesn't bean her in the head.”

“We'll protect her, Clare,” Zach said softly.

“Of course you will. Protect and serve.” She got up and disappeared into her walk-in closet.

Zach called, “I'll be back here after my bartitsu lesson to pick you up and then we'll head over to Mrs. Flinton's. Why don't you release some of that new tension in yoga?”

The rustling in her closet paused, changed. “There is an upcoming open session. I'm not quite sure if I'm good enough—”

He walked up to the open door of her closet. She'd already hung her towel on a hook and put on underwear. “Clare, no one is going to toss you out of a yoga session. No one is going to judge you either.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek. “Go be flexible, 'cause you're naturally graceful. Yoga only enhances your charms.” He strode away, swinging his cane and whistling. Win!

The next morning Clare overslept again—well, slept in later than she had when she worked at the accounting firm—and came down to find a professionally dressed Zach sitting at the breakfast bar. Despite what they'd discussed before, they'd ended up at her house.

They'd both gotten the impression that if they'd gone to Zach's apartment, Mrs. Flinton would have knocked on the connecting door to continue to discuss every minute detail into the early hours of the morning. They'd wanted to . . . sleep.

Zach ate a bowl of oatmeal and fruit while studying a flyer for Buffalo Bill's Western Roundup. They'd gotten the piece of promo at Lookout Mountain the night before.

The poltergeist had been subdued. It made an appearance as a sputtering dust devil and moved some pebbles and pine cones around, flipped a few coins in the air and slammed them against the iron bars for noise, then vanished.

Texas Jack's word had been good. With the help of Enzo, who now acted like a trained hunting dog, the eagle-eyed phantom had herded the poltergeist where he'd wanted, mostly away from the graves. And when an ex-cowboy, hunter and frontiersman herded something, it went where that man—ghost—preferred. Texas Jack had disappeared without anything more than a
howdy
and
adios
to Zach and Clare.

Mrs. Flinton had been impressed, but had contributed nothing new with regard to the poltergeist. She'd been distracted by a very attentive Mr. Welliam.

Clare mixed Greek yogurt and berries in a bowl, still feeling full from the heavy steak-and-potato dinner the night before, and sat next to Zach. There she also scanned the flyer. It featured a prominent drawing of Buffalo Bill with white hair and a Van Dyke mustache—the showman.

“Our deadline,” she said with a grimace, tapping the notice of the event with her finger. “Taking place this Sunday, five days and four-and-a-half hours from now.”

“It's our work.” Zach slid the colorful sheet of paper from under her finger. “I'm sure they have people portraying Buffalo Bill for that event, and at the museum sometimes.”

“Oh. Of course. William Cody's life spanned seven decades, and I looked at objects and read placards with a lot of information about the years not currently of interest to me. Not boring, exactly.”

“Exactly.”

She spooned down some breakfast. “I'm still coming up to speed on significant events during my time period for ghost seeing, so, good background.” Tilting her head, she said, “I've been reading the biography of Texas Jack and Giuseppina Morlacchi. It has a lot of photographs, and I've become accustomed to seeing Buffalo Bill with dark hair like Texas Jack and their third friend, Wild Bill Hickok.”

“So this guy, the older Buffalo Bill”—Zach tapped the image on the flyer—“in his later years isn't as important to you
right now as Texas Jack.”

“No. He isn't. But I'm sure you're right, that the museum and this event will have men playing the role of Buffalo Bill.”

“Like our poltergeist. He could have been a wannabe Buffalo Bill, gotten confused when, or after he died, since he seems confused now.”

Clare blinked. “He could have forgotten his own life?” That sounded odd.

Zach's expression went impassive and he slanted her a look. “Most of us have moments in our lives that we'd love to forget about.”

Like Zach, whose life and whose family had shattered when his older brother had been killed in a drive-by shooting when Zach was twelve.

Fumbling for words to express her understanding, she said, “If I'd died during my crazed and confused moments last month—” She inhaled sharply. “Oh my God.” Her spoon clattered against her good china bowl as she dropped it. “Do you think any of
my
family became confused ghosts?”

“Wouldn't that be ironic?” Zach asked.

“Yes.” She lifted her hands and let them fall helplessly. “There's nothing I can do about that issue now. But I'll make a note to check it out later.” She pulled out her phone and did, then continued eating. “Depicting Buffalo Bill . . . Do you think there's a . . . market for that?”

Another look from Zach, this one amused. Good, they'd skipped over bad memories that led to brooding. “Think of all the county fairs in the West. All the small rodeos.”

“All the big rodeos.” Clare nodded. “National Western Stock Show and Rodeo.” No one in Denver could miss when that event took place. “Cheyenne Frontier Days.” Cheyenne was less than two hours away. “But wouldn't being Buffalo Bill be a labor of love?” She waved toward the west and Lookout Mountain. “Wouldn't being Buffalo Bill be more of a volunteer position?”

“So?”

She frowned. “If he was an actor, he might need money.”

“A passion, a vocation can be stronger than a job, Clare,” Zach said softly.

Clare sighed. “I'm sorry I'm poking your tender spots this morning, Zach.” From the corner of her eye she saw his left thigh flex whereas his left foot couldn't. He worked as a paid and private investigator now instead of following his public service career to protect, yet missed being a peace officer.

He shrugged and some of the tension went from his shoulders. “Yeah, yeah.” His smile showed briefly. Good, she hadn't hurt him too much.

They lapsed into silence and Clare didn't speak until they'd not only finished breakfast, but each had a cup of coffee. “You're thinking hard. Do you have an idea on how to discover the identity of the poltergeist?”

Zach nodded. “Find out what venues are looking for a Buffalo Bill. Shows, maybe they're even shooting a movie that
would feature that character. I asked people at the museum if they'd had any inquiries about a position and they're pulling records for me . . .”

“See if the same man has applied for other jobs?”

Smiling, Zach said, “That's right. You've got a good brain.”

Clare relaxed a little. “This sounds like an eminently doable but boring job—”

“A lot of police work is like that.”

“And a lot of people think accounting is—”

“Bo-ring,” Zach ended in a dull tone.

“But necessary,” Clare added. She leaned a little closer, aware her thin robe gapped low. Zach did like looking at her breasts.

“Necessary,” Zach repeated, though he sounded blank.

“Are you going to work here”—she gestured at the table and chairs on the flagstone patio beyond the sliding glass doors, a favorite place where Zach set up his laptop—“or at your office”—she glanced at the clock, a little too late for Zach to make a 9:00 a.m. workday start—“or at your apartment?”

“I'm thinking at Rickman's. What about you?”

“I think I'll finish reading Texas Jack's biography, continue transcribing one of Great-Aunt Sandra's journals, go to yoga–”

“A regular day.” Zach nodded.

“Yes, now. For me.”

“No personal accounting clients?”

“Probably closer to the first, since the last extension of time to file taxes is October fifteenth. I
am
hoping to pick up a few. Maybe I'll do a little networking at yoga.”

“For your accounting business, not your ghost seer and communicator vocation,” Zach stated.

“I think stepping out of the closet yesterday to the Lookout Mountain folks is sufficient,” Clare replied stiffly.

Zach stared at her.

“For this week. Perhaps,” she qualified.

“Uh-huh.” He stood, picked up his cane from where he'd set it, walked over, and gave her a good, thorough kiss that blanked her mind before leaving.

*   *   *

Christ, he'd worked all day. A long, long day. Far past regular business hours, beyond twilight, sunset, and any other markers of the sun sinking behind the mountains, the Earth rotating into night. Clare hadn't called, so he figured she hadn't visited Texas Jack again.

Zach stretched with every step he walked to the elevators, then, once in the basement, down the hall to the parking
garage, especially his left leg muscles since he limped heavily.

Not accustomed to desk work, he'd need to change up the physical activity and computer stuff. A couple of other Rickman employees had poked at him while he'd been immersed—told him to take a break and come with them to the gym, but he'd been on the hunt for the poltergeist, and just waved them away. Mistake. He'd also canceled his private lesson in bartitsu, which would have given his body some relief. His instructor hadn't been pleased. The man worked Zach hard, both of them determined that he'd be as lethal with a stick as with a gun, and his disability would be minimized in his life.

His eyes hurt from staring so long into a computer screen, following wide tracks of trails that dead-ended to tiny, mostly broken links of a weak chain that finally ended at a guy dead for almost two weeks. Both his gut and his mind told him that particular actor was the poltergeist. Nope, the man was defunct for thirteen days. Clare would expect him to be precise.

It hadn't all been e-tracking. He'd get a name, a phone number. He liked talking, or even better, using the computer program SeeAndTalk with those he questioned. Body language counted, though studying eyes, the look, the dilation of pupils that affected the shade of the irises, lacked something on screen. Better than flying to L.A. or Vegas; Prairie City, Oregon; or even driving to Cheyenne, Wyoming. But it looked like he'd have to fly to Oklahoma City to confirm the death and the identity of their poltergeist.

Nothing like in-person legwork instead of just a feel to nail down the facts of a case. He also wished to see the official records, talk to the cop who'd closed the case. He wanted to speak with mourning relatives of the man in-person to get a real sense of the guy's personality.

It wasn't until he'd pulled into Clare's driveway, exited his truck, and stood in the deep alcove of her doorway that he realized he'd naturally come to her place instead of driving to his own.

Yes, he loved her, was in love with her. He leaned against her door. Last Thursday, when they'd arrived back home from Creede—and big-city Denver was now home, wasn't that a kick in the ass?—after they'd reached her mansion, she'd given him a key. He'd known the alarm code all along.

Love had moved fast—hell, like a flash flood—swept him away and sunk him. He was a goner. And it couldn't have happened with anyone except Clare. Conflicted, logically minded but wild gypsy-hearted, shadows-in-her-eyes, always-a-puzzle Clare.

The light in the entryway came on, streamed through the opaque lozenge window, and he stepped back as she opened the oversized, thick wooden front door. She wore his favorite sundress, cotton and old and nearly limp with washings, soft and thin. Unlike the window, the dress wasn't nearly as opaque as she thought. In a certain light, he could see the shadow above her thighs.

Smiling, she held the door wide. “Are you going to come in, or just stand out there thinking? I have tuna casserole for dinner.”

Tuna casserole, Zach's favorite comfort food, and she'd found that out about him in less than a month. His mouth
watered. “You've got me there. I'm in.”

Not inside her, not yet, but that would come, and so would words of love from her.

*   *   *

“You spent a long day at your office. Did you discover the identity of the poltergeist?” she asked mid-meal. She'd waited until he'd gotten a good portion of great tuna casserole into his stomach.

They sat in the formal dining room, at the end of a long, polished table, opposite each other. Placemats, linen napkins, good not-too-girly china, silverware. Okay, fancy, but all he really cared about was the food. He'd missed lunch, too. Or maybe he'd eaten a dry sandwich from a vending machine; he didn't even recall.

He finished a bite, then answered her. “Yes, I found the guy.”

They both let out a breath in unison, in relief, and that sharing, that rhythm felt good. “But it wasn't as easy as I expected. Texas Jack and Enzo steered me wrong.”