“Great. Just great. The view from this window is ruined for me.” She tromped back to the couch. Yes, she was being a drama queen! Sniffing, she rubbed her arms. She’d turned on the air-conditioning, hadn’t she? Because August continued to be record breaking? Yes, she had, and now she wished she hadn’t.
With a little more control she sank into the couch. She’d hated the wild drama of her parents, and as they continued their out-of-control emoting, she didn’t spend much time with them, and she buttoned down her own tendencies to any great emotional reactions. But look what her gift had driven her to! She was changing and no longer recognizing herself. So she took a couple of those deep breaths that Enzo had coached her in when she’d had her meltdown a few days ago. Her cheeks heated as she thought of the mess she’d been in public.
“Anomalies,” she said quietly to Enzo, repeating that word. Anomalies in accounting never meant anything good—usually hours of work backtracking to a mistake . . . or fraud.
We will not talk of her now.
So the ghost across the way was female. Clare shrugged and thought about making two home offices, one for the regular business of her life, and the second for all the wretched books and research and whatever that seeing ghosts would entail. Yes, that was a good idea. Different computer, desk, and setup . . . she wondered what color to paint that office . . . and maybe put it on the first floor instead of the second floor. Her real office would be next to her bedroom.
A couple of minutes passed before a chill no longer skidded along her skin. The contemplation of good, solid, practical ideas had helped with that. Another deep breath. She’d get through this, and without drama.
Enzo hopped down from the couch to walk over and sit about a pace away from her. He cocked his head and looked her up and down, his forehead wrinkling. You have only helped SIMPLE ghosts pass on, spirits without much trauma. Only one thump of his tail. The darkness of his eyes seemed to swirl.
Clare thought of the Native American. She figured he’d had plenty of trauma, she just hadn’t comprehended it. She swallowed, matching gazes with the dog. “What do you mean?” Her voice went high and her skin goose-bumped. She scrambled futilely for something else to think about, but . . . knowing the rules was important.
His mental voice began to take on that hollow depth she dreaded.
You think your gift demands the little effort you’ve expended so far? That helping souls transition is easy?
“No, no, I don’t think that at all,” she snapped.
A low thrum, not quite a growl, sounded in the phantom dog’s throat.
There is a special process for sending ghosts from this world to where they need to be.
All sorts of alarming ideas in that sentence made her brain hurt.
A process you must learn by doing.
She wet her lips. “A process I haven’t done and that isn’t easy,” she stated.
The dog dipped his muzzle and radiated sternness.
After an uneven breath taken and released, she held up a hand at the spectral Lab. “Let me guess. If I don’t learn to do this right, I’ll . . .” What would be the worst? “Go crazy,” she said. “Crazier.”
Enzo whimpered.
Clare gulped, then couldn’t fend off the emotional train wreck of the whole hideous week. Just when she’d thought she’d gotten better, accepted strange stuff that she never thought she’d believe in in a million years, the universe whacked her again. She burst into tears.
Flattening out on the couch, she let herself empty of tears, release all her anger and self-pity, sobbing, breath hitching, even letting a few wails out. When she thought of the loss of her great-aunt Sandra, she cried some more. She should have spent more time with her aunt that she’d loved, but Clare had wanted so much to be normal. Now she had regrets.
The door knocker banged, easily heard from where she lay. That had to be Zach. Naturally he’d show up when her face was red and blotchy, her eyes swollen.
Clare jackknifed up and yanked out tissues, took care of mopping up, though she wished she could take the time for a nice cold washcloth. Anyway, Zach was a manly man and probably didn’t care for tears. If she didn’t say anything about her crying jag, he probably wouldn’t.
When she opened the door, he examined her. “You okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He nodded.
She stepped back and let him into the entryway, saw him inhale the scent of well-cared-for wood and leather.
“Nice house. Really elegant.”
His eyes were those of a cop, scanning everything, checking for exits, no doubt.
She shut the large door behind him and gestured for him to follow her. “You want something to eat and drink? I have coffee, tea, milk . . . and two sorts of pie.”
He grinned and focused on her. “Pie? What kind of pie?”
“Blueberry with a crumb crust and—”
“Sold on the blueberry,” he said.
“Me, too.” But she walked slowly enough through the opening hall so he could check out the living room on the right and the door to the garage on the left before she turned toward the kitchen.
“Very elegant house. Know it cost you a bundle, looks worth it.”
She cringed as she thought of the price, then straightened the line of her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I have the money,” she said calmly, then glanced back at him and smiled. “I fell in love with the house.”
“Plenty to fall in love with,” he agreed.
Enzo loped up to them, straight through a wall. Zach is here, Clare! He wagged his whole body, the Other who used the ghost dog as a mouthpiece gone, leaving pure puppylike joy.
“Yes, Zach is here.” She glanced down at the dog.
He barked.
Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane, but he said courteously enough, “Hello, Enzo.”
He is talking to ME! He sees ME!
Clare stepped into the big kitchen with new appliances. “I don’t think Zach sees you, Enzo—”
“I don’t,” Zach said.
“But he hears you.” She waved to the counter where an untouched blueberry pie stood on a platter under a glass dome. She’d bought several pies for the movers, some of whom had been female and all of whom had appreciated the food and drinks.
“There’re some pizzas in the fridge.”
“Pizzas? Plural?”
“Yes. And some good beers and lagers, too.”
“You fed the movers.”
“Yes.” She could afford to be more generous now, to reward good work with more than sincere thanks. “I even gave both sets—the ones who moved me from my house, and the ones who showed up from Chicago with Great-Aunt Sandra’s things—a bonus.”
Zach stopped in front of her and patted her cheek. “Good going, Clare.”
Then his eyes deepened, grew intent; his fingers lingered on her face. She reached up and put her hands around the back of his neck, stroked his nape, and he shivered, his eyes closed. Oh, yes, she’d discovered what he liked.
Slanting her head, she pressed her lips to his, ran her tongue along his lips, nibbled the lower one . . . and listened to his breath come short. He tasted of salt and nuts with a hint of coffee. Licks of hot desire flickered in her, spreading from her core, and she needed to feel all of him. Sliding her hands down his arms, she moved to stroke the sides of his torso, then curved her palms over his hips and guided him back to brace against the kitchen island. Then she pushed against him so she could feel him, the tensile strength of his muscles, hard. So, so, sexy.
She just dived in, letting his body cradle hers, appreciating the length of him. Again she took his mouth, found his lips open and realized her eyes had closed at the touch of him.
His tongue rubbed against hers and the taste of Zach exploded in her mouth and she went damp.
; He held her tight and that felt so good! A person, a solid being, interacting with her. She hadn’t had any but the most superficial of contacts with anyone other than him since the hugs from her co-workers when she’d left her job last week. Far too long, and she shouldn’t, couldn’t become dependent on him, but the man did feel good against her, vertically and horizontally.
His hands went to her butt, lifted her a bit and settled her against his arousal. Oh, yes, yes, yes!
Big hands, big erection. All hers, soon, but she had to breathe. She drew back, mind spinning, blood pulsing with yearning.
He grinned, seemed to hold her easily, as she balanced with her hands clamped around his biceps. Those were nice and hard, too. The man had no give in him whatsoever . . . at least not physically; his mind seemed plenty flexible.
“What kind of bed do you have here?” he asked.
She cleared her throat. “The same bed. Great-Aunt Sandra gave me the sleigh bed from one of her guest rooms as a housewarming gift when I bought my own home.”
He tousled her hair, pushed some strands behind her ear. “So I can’t offer to break in a new bed for you.”
“You haven’t seen the master suite. It’s wonderful.” Her voice came out breathy. “On the second floor.” She gave a little cough. “We have this tiny elevator . . .” He scowled.
“. . . and wide stairs with a landing.” She smiled. “Your choice.”
His brows were still down. “Let’s see those stairs, probably an awesome banister, right?” He gestured with his chin at the open door leading to the narrow secondary staircase off the kitchen. “Or we could go up that way.”
She wiggled and he put her down. Keeping her eyes on his, she drew her hand down the center of him to his most interesting muscle, traced it, testing his hardness, his length and breadth and thickness. Eyes going dark, he hissed out a breath, caught her hand in his, leaned back, and demonstrated exactly how he liked her to caress him.
Her breasts felt heavy, knees a little weak, mouth dried as heat spread throughout her body in a pounding throb of need.
Then he shaped her breast, fingers circling her nipple, lightly squeezing until she panted with him, knew her eyes had dilated as his had.
“Come with me.” She took his hand, heading back through the dining room to the hallway, and opened the tiny elevator door. He tugged at her fingers, and she smiled at him. “My elevator. I want to ride in my elevator in my new house.” Her eyes gleamed. “I want to make out with my lover in my elevator in my house on the way to the bedroom.”
Zach stared at her flushed face, couldn’t say no to her as she pulled him into the tiniest elevator he’d ever seen. It actually had a metal gate she had to draw closed and lock. She punched the button, then crowded him into the corner, not more than a couple of steps, lifted one of her legs and wrapped it around him between him and the wall. As she rubbed against his hard dick, he forgot everything. His aching foot. His name.
All he knew was the need to take this woman now. Get inside her. Make her climax around him so he could shout in release. God, he needed the release.
The slow elevator stopped.
His woman moaned and arched her hips against him, sending fire through him. He plunked her down, hands slipping under the waist of her jeans, under her panties, gripping the softness of her ass. Soft everywhere, especially her thighs against his hips.
He trailed his fingers to her dampness—wet!—tested her, slipped a finger inside her, pressed.
She screamed with pleasure and fell and took him off balance, and shooting pain yanked him back to the here and now. He drew his hand from her and they fetched up against the side of the elevator as he put out his arm to brace them. His cane had fallen to the damn floor—a floor too small to hold a man of his size lengthwise, the only thing that had saved them.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!
Laughing, laughing, she helped steady him and levered them up.
“Wow,” she said. “You are one incredible man. We tried out the elevator instead of the bed.” She frowned. “Wait, you didn’t . . . ah . . . um.” Swiftly she unlocked the gate, opened it, opened the regular door. Then she bent and handed him his cane and took his free hand. “Yeah, we gotta get to the bed ASAP.” She bounced as she walked, dammit, not an athletic female, but a completely healthy one. He hated this, his nonflexing ankle, his weakness.
The heat of irritation and anger turned back into lust when she stood with him beside the bed.
TWENTY-EIGHT
SHE UNBUTTONED HIS shirt, opened it, smoothed her hands over his chest, flicking her nails over his nipples, had him swelling against his pants again. He welcomed the greedy passion, the lack of thinking that would come with surrender to sex.
Her hands went to his fly and he closed his eyes, tried to settle into a balanced stance that had once been second nature, had to grip his cane. Then he gripped it even harder as she unzipped his work trousers and slid them down his legs.
He stepped out, glad she always seemed focused on his dick instead of the hideous scars on his leg and ankle.
She stood, skimming her fingers up the inside of his thighs, and he flinched and his cock jerked at the anticipation of numbing pleasure. Her fingers came closer and closer to where he really wanted them, and she cupped him and he kept an aching groan behind his teeth and fought to keep from grabbing her. He’d give her a little control before he ripped it from her, letting the reins of his own self-command blow away in the hot wind.
The slightly dazed look in her eyes, the plumping of her lips, the flush in her cheeks, all gave him gut-deep satisfaction. She was in this thing with him, all the way, and as completely as he.
He’d stop thinking soon, but now he savored the thickening and heaviness of his dick. His own lust and the evidence of hers. Hell, even his cheekbones felt hot as she smoothed his pants with trembling hands, folded them over the back of a chair. Oh, yeah.
Bracing his leg against the bed, he propped his cane on the curved wooden footboard, slid his thumbs into his boxers and dropped them, nearly groaning with pleasure as his erection was freed.
She turned back and her gaze went straight to his cock and he swelled even more and gritted his teeth as she sauntered back toward him, eyes glittering. Standing no more than a foot from him, with her usual efficiency, she stripped, jeans and cotton panties dropped, showing the slight curve of her stomach, the pretty dark curls covering her sex, her long tanned legs. His breath caught, his turn to focus on her every movement as she pulled up her tee, folded it, paced back and put it on the seat of the chair holding his pants. His mouth dried as she unhooked her bra and let her beautiful full breasts spill from it, the tips rosy and nubby with passion.
When she bent down to pick up her jeans to fold them, too, Zach thought he’d whimper. His mind went blank and all there was, was the blood pounding inside him with need, need, need.
Walking back, she wore that half smile before sex that yanked at his heart as well as his balls. She touched him and that was it; he picked her up—hardly noticing the pang in his leg—and threw her to the middle of the queen-sized bed. White bedspread, golden Clare. Perfect.
“Zach,” she said, and he didn’t know if it was slurry because she said it that way or he heard it that way. She lifted her arms and his gaze went to her breasts and he had to taste them.
So he did. Touching her, he made sure she quivered, shuddered, slicked with sex, and yelled his name as she climaxed. She yanked at him, pulled him over her, not pleading, no, demanding he thrust into her. He did that, too, slid into wet heat that drove him mad and he pounded into her and the bite of her nails on his shoulders added to sweet, sweet desire, stoked him and he grabbed her hard and held her and their bodies arched and flexed in a hammering rhythm and he emptied into her, whispering her name as she yelled his.
Slowly the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears calmed
. His chest didn’t rise and fall so raggedly and the noise of his harsh breathing diminished. His muscles should work now, and he rolled and slipped from her and grunted at the loss.
Turning his head, he saw that her brown hair had tumbled around her face, no smoothness here, and she looked great. “Give me a coupla minutes,” he said.
She laughed, teeth white in the fading light. Man, he wanted to study her, a golden goddess against the white, like he’d seen her moments before, like the image that would be burned in his memory forever. Her pupils had turned more golden-brown than green in the hazel of her eyes. Her lips were red, her cheeks pink under that tanned skin, peach.
Just absolutely beautiful.
Perfect.
As he was not. He’d never be whole again. No, he didn’t like that thought and pushed it away.
• • •
They showered in an awesome glass deal that had six crossing streams. He got his hands all over her slippery, sexy body, and this time he didn’t disgrace himself in a small enclosure.
Clare changed back into one of the sundresses she preferred, this one with a built-in bra that he approved of, and, to his disappointment, she slipped on cotton panties. White, sort of innocent. The more he thought about that, it drove him a little crazy. But despite her wild Gypsy side that she let loose in bed, Clare was innocent in most of the ways he wasn’t. She believed the best of people, believed they’d try their hardest—with the exceptions of her parents. She lived by her rules, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t broken any of the major ones that were important to her.
He’d broken quite a few rules . . . but none that were important to him.
They didn’t eat in the formal dining room, thank God. That would have reminded him of his childhood before he’d lost Jim. The room was pretty enough, with a polished and gleaming dark wood table and a set of eight chairs with nice tapestry cushions. Instead, with a wide wave of her arm, she indicated the patterned brick patio and a couple of fancy outdoor lounge deals. They didn’t look new, but they did appear originally expensive. Probably some of her great-aunt Sandra’s furniture.
Ghost Seer Page 23
