Ghost Maker Read online

  Tony snorted. “I guarantee you that he’s read a deep background file on you. This is fair.” And perhaps Tony wanted her to have a better opinion of him by doing this. To her, the man always seemed to have an agenda.

  Zach took her left hand in his right one. “That’s right. I’ve read several files on you.”

  Her turn to stiffen. He rose and kissed her temple. “Take the flash drive or not. It’s up to you. I trust you.” She looked up into his steady blue green gaze. “And sometimes it’s easier to hand out a file than it is to talk about stuff.”

  They’d deeply discussed quite a few topics, but not his wounding. He still seemed touchy about that particular event that had changed his life, as much as her inheriting Great-Aunt Sandra’s fortune and the Cermak curse had changed hers.

  “Besides.” Zach’s voice lilted with sly amusement. “You know most of my secrets that aren’t anywhere near that file.”

  Tony didn’t—quite—twitch.

  Zach took the flash and stuck it in Clare’s front jeans pocket, and his fingers caressed her before leaving. Then he sat and drew her back onto his lap.

  A couple of minutes later, everyone called back compliments on the house and the food and the good time, and he and Clare listened to cheerful tones until they disappeared and Rickman closed the heavy front door with an echoing clunk.

  “That was odd, staying here,” Clare said, but she turned her head and kissed his cheek.

  Zach grunted, kept his arms around her. “I didn’t like the ‘working on a relationship’ comment.”

  “Oh.” Clare leaned against Zach, and he liked that she’d relaxed. In a quiet voice, she said, “Relationships take work.”

  He said nothing. She pulled back and blinked at him, as if she’d closed her eyes and now the lights from the kitchen bothered her. “Zach?”

  “I, uh, think of relationships as, uh, organic. They grow. You don’t work at them. If you work at them, they’re no fun, and I don’t want to be in a relationship that’s no fun.”

  Her eyes widened, and not because of the light, he didn’t think. Her mouth had dropped a little, too.

  “Jackson Zachary Slade,” she gasped, and hopped from his lap.

  He flinched. Only his mother had called him that as a child when he’d done wrong. Or been stupid. Pretty much in that same tone, too.

  She poked a finger in his chest. Since she’d been taking care of her hands, her nail was more pointed than square. He stood up, looking down at her five foot seven from his six foot four. “Yeah, Clare Milena Cermak? I’m entitled to my feelings, uh, opinion on relationships.”

  Nodding decidedly, her full lips pressed more into a line than he cared to see them, she said, “That’s true.”

  Ever fair, that was Clare.

  “But don’t tell me you don’t like work. You loved your vocation as a law enforcement official.” She sashayed into the kitchen, closed the sliding door after him and set the lock, bar, and alarm. He followed her and turned off the lights. She went into the hall and through to the entry room, double-checked the locks on the door, flipped the dead bolt, and set the security system. He picked up the rifle and waited for her by the elevator. He’d do a last walk around the place after she went to bed.

  Naturally she cornered him with words in the tiny elevator. “And you like the work you’re doing with and for Tony Rickman and Rickman Security and Investigations.”

  “The people are good,” Zach admitted.

  “And the cases are interesting enough, and you like the respect you get as Tony’s lead investigator.”

  “His only trained and experienced investigator.”

  “Yes, that.” She waved her arms, and one of her hands hit the side of the elevator.

  He opened the inner and the outer doors quickly so she could get out, and she did, marching into the master suite and stopping by the end of the king-sized bed. It looked really good, and would look better with Clare on it, naked. No chance of that right now.

  Zach detoured to Clare’s walk-in closet, stashed the rifle in the corner, and drew the dresses close to camouflage it.

  When he turned around, Clare remained standing, watching him come toward her, her gaze on his face. Her stare had never dropped to his cane or his bad leg or his limp. He got close, within what she considered her personal space. Not crowding her, but reminding her with his body they were at a level of deep intimacy.

  She didn’t step back, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  Her eyes showed vulnerability. She flicked a hand at their surroundings. “Do you like living here, Zach? Living with me?”

  She hadn’t ever lived with a lover. He had. “It’s fine.” He corrected, “Wonderful.”

  Her breasts lifted with a deep breath and he heard it sift from her. “I want your name on the deed to this house, Zach.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s your house, your home. You found it and it suits you—” He stopped.

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “Yeah, mostly, but . . .” He speared his fingers through his hair. It was his fault this whole conversation took place. He’d shouldn’t have said anything. Yeah, not if he didn’t want to thrash it through and get it done. Because they both liked that best, getting through—moving forward—and getting it done. Knowing exactly where they stood. Which had been in love and living together and now seemed to be morphing into something more. More serious, even.

  He leaned a little more on his cane, which she didn’t notice. “I . . . This is hard to admit.”

  “I’m here and listening, Zach.”

  Clare, she’d never abandon him, never leave, always be reliable. He knew that. Sometimes she wasn’t so good at listening, though. Hell, neither was he. Emotions flashed hot and a person didn’t hear vital stuff.

  “I’m not ready to settle down in a real house,” he said. “Permanently.” He sucked in a breath. “I kept moving from the east, had apartments all the time, before I got shot. Before I moved down here. I’m not ready for a permanent place,” he repeated.

  Her face went immobile. He’d hurt her. Hadn’t meant to, but did. She turned away, then turned back. “Let me get this straight. You like the house.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you consider this my house, not ours.”

  “I didn’t pay the two mil for it.”

  She flinched. Bad job, Slade. And now the pretty house, a huge investment for Clare, for anyone, stood, brick and half-timbered and mullioned windows, between them. He’d put it squarely there. “You want to discuss this further, or think about it some?” he asked, his voice too harsh.

  Slanting him a look, she said, “You need to think on your statement some more?”

  “Yeah.” He’d rather not think of it at all, just let it simmer in the back of his brain for a while.

  “What you just said surprised you?” Clare asked. He didn’t like her question mode and had to resist shifting his balance.

  “Yes, Clare, what I just said surprised me. But it’s the truth.”

  “It’s the truth of your feelings now.” She nodded, her gaze went past him to the French doors and the windows beside them and the balcony onto the street. “Feelings change,” she murmured. One side of her mouth lifted. “And, heaven knows, I understand about itchy feet from my parents.” She sighed. Her hand lifted and fell to her torso, fluttered near her spectral wound. “I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with this issue now.” Her voice firmed and she met his eyes. “We can revisit the topic . . . later. You like the house, you love me, but you don’t feel settled. Or don’t want to feel settled. That’s okay for now. No further steps with regard to the deed will be taken.”

  “Good.”

  She went to the end of the bed and sat down. He sat next to her, reached and took her t
oo-cool hand in his own. Her face turned up to his. “Tell me, would you still be in Montana if you hadn’t been shot?”

  His breath caught. “I dunno.” Another breath, two. “I. Don’t. Know. The shot, and my mistake, hit my life like an earthquake, before and after. Hard to remember the mind-set I had before.”

  “You liked your boss,” she said, peeking at him from under her lashes. She knew he appreciated that flirty look of hers. “I remember you took a call from him.”

  “Yeah, I liked and respected my boss. Just talked to him last week, still like and respect him. I liked the county I worked for, and the countryside and most of the people.” He gave a little cough. “Don’t think I ever told you that I had problems with some of the people in my department.” Including his former partner and her new partner. The death of those two, which had convinced him of the crows and his foresight, also was a set point delimiting his life, before and after.

  “I got that idea,” she said quietly. “From our first meeting when you took the call from the sheriff.” Now she tilted her head at him. “I’m not stupid.”

  “No. You’re very intelligent.”

  “So you’re not sure where your feelings were with regard to staying in Montana, then the shooting happened.” She squeezed his hand. “And masses of new and awful feelings came to change and layer over. You might not have been ready to go. You might have been staying on until you resolved those issues with your colleagues. But feelings are feelings and they change.” She rose a little and touched her lips to his. “That’s what I’ll think about.”

  “That’s your rationalization to put this aside for now. Because it is an issue and I hurt you.”

  “That’s right.” She made a wiping gesture. “And because I’m intelligent, and getting better at observing, I know you have a rough case.”

  “I do.” His arms tightened around her, over the area of her injury. He couldn’t feel it, and she didn’t flinch. Good.

  “You said we’d go to Manitou tomorrow. Would it be better if you stayed in Denver?”

  He answered slowly. “I’ll give my case some time tomorrow morning, then we can head to Manitou Springs after rush hours wind down. I’m not experienced here . . . that is, I don’t have the contacts I need, and I can’t make them in the time we need to close out the case.” Yeah, bitterness there. If Jessup the attorney had been doing his job, monitoring George and Tyler, the boy might not have been lost in the first place. The attorneys doled out the money; they, essentially, controlled George, and they fell down on the job. Now Zach had to trust others he didn’t know to get him information. He needed to meet with the DPD officer, officers, or detectives, undercover with the homeless, and get a bead on the guys’ or gals’ sensitivity. And honesty.

  Face-to-face meetings would take time to set up, since those folks would be wary of meeting him, a private investigator new to Denver. He’d get the ball rolling in the morning.

  No use talking more with the attorneys he couldn’t trust. The attorneys who only cared about the dough in this instance, where their money went, who would inherit the estate, and how much money they could pocket before it slipped through their fingers. Though if Zach found Tyler, there was more chance the money would stay local. But he’d see Jessup’s firm didn’t get any more because they damn well screwed up.

  “You’re grinding your teeth,” Clare said.

  She’d calmed down as his irritation had ramped up.

  “I can spare an afternoon in Manitou Springs. Maybe more.” He grimaced. “The trail of my case is cold, and I’ve set some investigative threads in motion.” He turned and lifted her, swung her around so she didn’t sit crossways on his lap but her legs went on either side of him, and they pressed front to front. Better, the tender area between her thighs rode his rapidly hardening dick. He framed her face with his hands, so he could look into her beautiful hazel eyes. “Rickman knows you’re my priority now.”

  She blinked long lashes. “And he knows you would walk away from his company if he put too much pressure on you. You have your disability pension. Have you invested that securely? And have you made your will?”

  She’d been nagging him, and he sure didn’t want to think any-freaking-more about wills and inheritances and attorneys. So he put his hands on her rounded hips and pulled down. Oh, yeah, she should rub against him right there. “What,” he asked. “You gonna screw me to death?”

  Chapter 10

  She laughed! Her head tilted back so he could see the lovely curve of her tanned throat. “Of course not, but now that I know where your, ah, mind is . . .” She glanced at him sideways, from under her lashes, a look that never failed to stir him. Her lips had formed into a teasing smile that made him want to kiss her.

  And more. Nope, never any problem with getting heated up by looking at Clare.

  She slid off her shawl and he saw the press of her tightened nipples against the thin cashmere of her sweater.

  He put his mouth against her left breast, tongued her nipple through the sweater and her equally thin bra. She made a wonderful needy sound and began to rock against him, caressing his steel-hard dick, and thoughts began to evaporate, to transmute to only one thing: pleasing her and riding the rocket to orgasm. He loved suckling her full breasts. He knew her sensitivity there, and did a damn good job of making her writhe on him, forget her own thoughts in her head.

  Damn autumn! A coupla weeks ago she’d been in a sundress, making it easy for him to rip her panties, pull down his jeans, thrust into her.

  He fell back on the bed, sucking harder on her right breast, feeling her nipple engorge. He got to her jeans zipper and yanked it down, pulled the waistband of jeans and panties down, and took care with his own zipper that his hard erection pushed against.

  With his own jeans and boxers down, his hot and throbbing flesh found the wetness between her thighs and he forged in to the hilt and just lay there, savoring the best feeling of his life. Nothing ever felt so good as being in Clare. Soon he’d have to move. Soon he’d think of her pleasure again, but right now he was where he needed to be.

  But Clare wasn’t shy about taking what she wanted, and she raised her torso and began to slowly, too slowly, draw from him. He put his hands back on her hips but she batted them away, so when he had to grab onto something, it was the waistband of her jeans, letting the small ache from his harsh grasp nip into his palms.

  She rode him and his hips pumped and he arched and they strove together for climax. His vision turned red with lust, he panted and groaned, then release hit him like a fabulous fist, convulsing his whole body.

  When thought returned, he became exquisitely aware that they were mostly clothed, that only the skin of their lower bodies touched, damp with perspiration and sex. The notion and the sensations had him arching one more time, just to feel her softness.

  Then her head settled near the curve of his collarbone and neck, and her mouth kissed him, licked him, and damn but his dick twitched and tried to harden again. Not yet, but maybe soon. The dick was always optimistic about recovery.

  “Zach,” she murmured. “I love you.”

  She rarely said the words first, and he’d recently hurt her feelings, so he cherished the thought. No matter that it came right after mind-blowing sex. His arms that had gone noodle limp raised and encircled her, denim against cashmere. Too damn bad, no skin to skin.

  “I love you, too. I think you shoulda worn a gypsy skirt tonight. Can ya do that when we’re at home together in the evenings?”

  A choked sound came from her, and her left hand, curving around the opposite side of his neck from her head, stroked him. “I suppose we can. I’ll still wear panties, though.”

  He hadn’t thought to ask that she go bare underneath the skirt, and the idea incandesced in his mind and sizzled to a regretful death. But they were still new to loving, had barely done any kind of sex games at all. Maybe in a few mon
ths . . .

  * * *

  Clare opened her eyes, stretched in bed, already knowing that she’d slept in on a cloudy day and Zach had left for his job. As thoughts coalesced in her mind, she did as always and ran through her daily schedule. Nothing in the morning. Rubbing her eyes, she really thought. No appointments. No big ghost project to help a major ghost move on.

  Of course she always had activities. Beginning Yoga, some cooking, a creative bent that she’d decided to explore, and the standard transcribing and indexing and cross-referencing her great-aunt’s journals. The books that were supposed to let her know how to proceed with this ghost-seeing business.

  And Clare had turned it into a business. First a “curse,” a family psychic gift that forced her to accept it and use it or go mad and die. That remained the threat. She did her best with it, or rather pursued this particular path, or she perished. No choice about that. Then she’d slid into accommodation and vocation, a career without really being a business.

  Now she’d stepped totally out of the closet in hiding her psychic gift for helping ghosts of the Old West move on, and made it a business.

  With no clients today.

  Was she actually pouting? Perhaps a tiny amount. She’d also become accustomed to a more active lifestyle than sitting at a desk.

  The scent of excellent freshly ground and brewed coffee drifted to her nose from downstairs. She hadn’t yet put in a tiny kitchen nook in the corner of their sitting room up here on the second floor because she was reluctant to have people working in her house. Okay, men working in her favorite rooms of her new home. Hmmm. Maybe she could hire an all-female construction team. The Realtor she’d used last month might know of one.

  Zach had obviously gone for the best coffee in the house, down in the kitchen. She wouldn’t have missed him by much. Glancing at the clock, she saw it read seven forty-five. An early meeting for Zach, then, but late for waking up if she’d been working downtown.

  She slipped from bed, showered, and dressed for at-home work, went down and poured herself a cup of blessed coffee.