Meanwhile, Welliam continued, aiming his stream of words at Clare now. “Maurice Poche is the psychic and medium to see in Denver.”
Con. Man. Preying on those who believed in his no-doubt false abilities.
Welliam continued to burble. “Maurice’s reputation is first-rate. I wanted him to know about the latest appearance and activity, too.” Smiling up at the bigger man, Welliam said, “I believe I got the best video of the poltergeist yet!” He glanced around. “You didn’t bring the television crew?”
Crap. The DPD wouldn’t like this. Zach would have to contact Schultz about this new development.
“No,” the man responded in rich tones. He obviously used his voice as a tool. Zach’s fingers tightened on his cane.
Maurice said, “As you know, the local station has not quite decided I’m the right man for their show. I want to be sure of any phenomena I place before them.”
Would prefer to set them up, Zach heard.
“But a poltergeist at Buffalo Bill’s grave! It’s a real story!” Welliam protested.
“Very true,” Poche said. His glance flicked once more over Zach, then the guy’s gaze focused on Clare. “And this delightful young woman?”
“Oh, of course.” With a flourishing gesture, Welliam said, “Maurice Poche, I’d like to introduce you to Clare Cermak, the up-and-coming medium.”
The con artist’s expression stayed cheerful, his lips curved, but his blue eyes had sharpened to cutting ice shards. He wasn’t at all happy to see Clare. Zach drew a little closer to her so she’d feel his support.
“I’m not a medium,” Clare said in that cool, precise tone of hers that reflected the accountant Zach knew she still wished to be.
“Always a pleasure to meet a colleague,” Poche lied. He gestured to the huge state-of-the-art video screen. “Shall we see that video?” Now a small lilt in the tone of his voice indicated interest—in how he could profit from a poltergeist messing around with Buffalo Bill’s grave.
A couple of minutes later, Zach and Clare shared one end of a long sectional couch with the other two men spaced out from each other.
Zach sipped from a cup of excellent newly ground coffee that a man older than their host—maybe early seventies—had brought in and given to him. Clare got one, too, and she’d smiled at the aroma. Her pleasure had made the server stand a little straighter as he left the room without a word.
About the only thing Zach saw in the video that he’d missed in real life was when the quartz lifted to the tops of the fence spears enclosing the graves.
Welliam had caught Clare’s preoccupation with Texas Jack, though that individual, of course, did not show up on the screen. From the corner of his eye, Zach noticed Poche lean forward, and a sizzle of warning ran down Zach’s spine.
Janice Schultz came on screen and spoke.
“Who’s that?” Poche demanded.
“The Denver Police Department finally listened to me and sent an officer to check things out.”
Not quite the truth, or a fib. The DPD was aware of the case but wanted to keep it off the books, especially since neither Welliam nor anyone at the grave site had filed an official complaint. But Schultz would keep an unofficial eye on things.
Zach wondered if that would have Poche cutting his losses on this project once and for all, and hoped so.
Clare looked at Welliam and said, “We’re here to help, too.” She rose as the video stopped in the middle of Zach’s conversation with the off-duty policewoman.
Crossing to their host, she held out her hand. “A pleasure meeting you.” To Zach’s surprise, she sounded sincere. She smiled. “We’ll keep in touch.”
Welliam leapt to his feet. “Of course.”
When Zach joined them, she took his hand, squeezed his fingers—he supposed she’d read that surprise the way lovers could. She let his hand go and nodded formally to Poche. “Nice to meet you.”
The con man rose with smooth grace.
“Always satisfying to meet a colleague,” he repeated.
Zach met Poche’s gaze, then Welliam’s. “Thanks for the coffee.” He shook Welliam’s hand, and he and Clare were out of there and driving back to Denver in under five minutes.
Clare let out a sigh as she settled into her seat.
Zach said, “I guess it will be up to me to research Poche—”
“A charlatan,” Clare said.
“That’s right.”
“And try and find the poltergeist. A new ghost, Texas Jack said?”
“Yes, so he’s present-day.”
“He?”
Clare frowned. “You heard Texas Jack and Enzo. Texas Jack referred to him as male. And as a young ’un.”
“Just wanted to make sure I heard what you did.”
He caught Clare’s wary glance, saw a shudder ripple through her. Nope, she wasn’t happy at all that they could occasionally communicate telepathically. And what a rush that had been! Touching her mind.
Obviously she didn’t feel the same way, but Clare didn’t care to reveal her emotions, thought of that as a weakness.
Like Zach’s father did, and heaven knew Zach loved to be contrary to any of his father’s rigid rules—which was why Zach remained interested in people, and how they dealt with their emotions.
Having Clare a little wary of him added spice to their relationship. Discreetly he stretched his muscles as they drove through the black night of the hills and back to the shining lights of Denver.
Clare said, “We need to find the poltergeist before he devolves. We don’t want to deal with another malignant ghost, and he’s already destructive.”
Zach put a hand over both of hers, that seemed locked together in her lap. Too soon after their big case for her.
Clare preferred negotiating to fighting. But her gift meant she’d have to become a fighter, change her life even more, and Zach understood that loomed scarily before her.
“You— we can do it,” he assured her.
A faint smile curved her lips. “We’re a team, that’s what Enzo keeps saying.”
“And we are. Where’s the dog?” He didn’t see the wavy-aired presence of the ghost Lab in the rearview mirror, and he would be able to if Enzo was there and Zach looked hard. He also didn’t see any more crows, which was damn fine with him.
“We haven’t been in the foothills much since this whole ghost seer thing started.” She gestured with a lot less tension in her hands. Good. “He said he likes the smells.” Then she looked out her window and grinned, and Zach thought Enzo ran—or whatever—beside the truck and had commented to her.
“He says there are many ghost chipmunks here, and real ones, too. That it’s a beautiful night and he wants to run. Go run,” Clare said indulgently, then let out an audible breath. “A new case. I like Texas Jack but am worried about the poltergeist.”
Zach patted her thigh. “You worry too much.”
“I know. I’m learning to live in the moment, but I’m still such a beginner at this that every case is a new experience to master, not something I’ve done before.” She bit her lip. “I wonder how long that’s going to last.”
“How long did it take when you first started your profession as an accountant?”
Her head turned and she blinked a couple of times. “It’s not the same.”
He shrugged. “I think it is.”
This time she let out a gusty sigh. “A year to a year and a half before I felt competent and comfortable.”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “I don’t think you should plan on feeling comfortable in this career for a long time.”
She scowled and crossed her arms. “Great-Aunt Sandra was comfortable, I know that.”
“She wasn’t you.”
“And she’d been a ghost seer for years before I was even born.”
“We’re
a team,” Zach reminded her with the words that usually helped her.
“Yes. I’ll have to talk to Texas Jack, whom I don’t know much about except that he was a friend of Buffalo Bill’s and died in the time period to which I am sensitive.”
“And I’m pretty sure that Welliam is going to stick with us. He’s given us something to start with, at least, though I think I’ll have to talk to him some more. But that can wait until later. Poche first.”
Clare stared at Zach. Of course he’d be more interested in going after the con man first. She nodded decidedly. “First items of a plan in place.” Suppressing another stupid and futile sigh, she pulled out her phone to do basic research on Texas Jack, a quick skim of online encyclopedias.
Zach drove in silence as she told him the biography of the man. Her lover nodded and commented, looking interested. Yes, a military scout and frontiersman would intrigue him. Perhaps even the business aspect of Texas Jack’s life. Though Clare was sure that the showman and Jack’s acting career didn’t engross Zach so much.
Too late by far for a library to be open, but she took screenshots of the books she might need from there and the History Colorado Center library. She also ordered the one and only biography of Texas Jack in hard copy from an online bookstore, and bought and downloaded an electronic copy of a book written in 1917 by one of the English noblemen Texas Jack had guided on a hunting trip.
Zach turned onto one of the main streets of Denver and Clare relaxed a little when she realized that they were driving to her house to spend the night.
Tears of relief prickled behind her eyes, as foolish as her previous sighs. Zach would stay with her tonight at her home of two-and-a-half weeks. She must remember she had such blessings in her life now. A fabulous and sensitive lover, though he’d hate that word; new and interesting friends; a beautiful historic home; enough money to never work again. She wouldn’t concentrate on the downsides of this new vocation. The past needed to remain in the past.
They’d barely made it through the front door and set the security, when he spun her back to the door and pressed his big body against hers as he took her mouth, plunging his tongue into hers so she could savor the taste of him: coffee and male arousal. Oh, yes.
Chapter 4
The scent of him, the denim and leather he wore, the hint of soap from his last shower, his underlying smell of plains and prairie grass, had her wrapping her arms around him. Zach.
Best of all, the feel of him, the hardness of his wide chest flattening her breasts, his hips angling into her, proving he wanted her as much as she wanted him. Her core dampened and she lifted a leg to move her own needy sex against his and rub.
He gasped, taking some of her breath, and pulled away, shaking his head as if to clear his mind. “God, Clare. God, I need you.”
She swept her tongue over her lips, enjoying his lingering taste. “Yes, and right now.”
His cane had fallen to the floor. She picked it up, gave it to him, took his hand, and hauled him to the tiny elevator, making sure he had no time to think of being manly and taking slow steps up the wide stairs. For some reason, he didn’t like the elevator.
She closed the gate, then the outer door, pushed the button, and turned to get busy—though he’d nibbled at the side of her neck and sent sizzles of lust down her nerves. As she turned, she swept her hands under his jacket and pushed it off him. The gun in his shoulder holster didn’t give her a jolt anymore, it was simply a part of Zach. Her fingers worked fast on his shirt buttons, flicking them open, sliding her nails down his muscular chest to the next button. She liked his warm panting breaths that stirred the hair near her temples.
Liked it better when he undid the large buttons of her jacket and put his hands over her breasts, circling her nipples with his fingertips. Her turn to pant.
The elevator stopped and she whirled to open the doors. He crowded into her, making sure she felt his thick erection against her backside. Yes, yes, indeed her body readied for him. Her inner muscles clenched in anticipation, needing the man inside her. A wave of heat spread through her from her center out. She fumbled at the gate opening and he pushed it aside, then he stripped her jacket from her and tossed it down, but she still burned.
She opened the outer door and he moved even closer, his body radiating heat. His hands clamped around her upper arms and he lifted her, moved her across the small threshold of the elevator. “God, Clare, I wish I could carry you to bed!” His hands dropped away and she bolted from the elevator toward the bed and stopped after two strides so she wouldn’t outpace him. Together, they had to do this together, a portion of her brain insisted.
“It doesn’t matter.” She reached and grabbed his free hand.
“I want to hold you. All of you.”
“You will. Better, you’ll be inside me.”
He groaned, took his hand from her fingers to curve it over her butt, nudge her. “Faster, woman.” She moved her bottom back and his fingers almost touched where she wanted, but her jeans felt hot and tight and she yanked at the snap and zipper as she rushed to the bed, then stopped for a half step and dragged her thin cashmere sweater over her head, dropped it. Leaving a trail of clothes on the floor, even inside the elevator, because she was so hot to have sex. Incredible. And fabulous.
When her knees rammed into the pillow-top mattress, she halted and dragged off her bra, let it fall from her fingers. Her breasts felt swollen, her nipples had tightened into hard buds, ultra-sensitive and needing Zach’s touch.
All of her needed Zach’s touch. Her body yearned for his, her spirit for the joining to come, the pleasure and the ecstasy shared. Shimmying out of her jeans and panties, she stepped out of the folds of them and turned—only to be stopped by Zach’s hands on her shoulders and faced front.
“You’re lookin’ good.” Zach’s voice was thick and rough, with that trace of native Colorado accent.
His fingers trailed from her hairline at the nape of her neck down her back and between her bottom cheeks. She angled forward.
“That’s it,” he said. “My woman, naked for me.”
The sensual jolt from his words raised her temperature.
So she lowered her torso to the bed. The raw, nubby silk of the bedspread chafed against her nipples, her feet slid back against the area rug, and Zach stepped between her legs, widening them. The rough denim of his jeans against her calves, then her inner thighs, made her gasp with excitement.
In the intense quiet, she heard the unsnapping of his jeans, the slow and careful lowering of his zipper.
Her heart beat faster in anticipation, waiting, waiting. She’d never played sex games like this before, and thrills ran along the surface of her skin.
Without another word, Zach’s big hands went around her hips, lifted her. Angled her for penetration. She heard nothing but the blood pounding through her.
Slowly, slowly enough that her fingers clenched around fabric and a whimper of sexual longing escaped her, he set himself at the entrance of her body, pressed.
“Zach.” This whimper, his name.
“Yeah, I like hearing your need,” he said, his voice low and guttural.
He entered her. Not much, but sending incredible shocks of sensation through her, she was so concentrated on him and what he was doing.
“You’re wet, good,” he said, then slid all the way in. “So good.”
She thought so, too. Or didn’t think, only felt. His shaft seated in her, his hands around her hips, the denim of his jeans against her tender thighs, her nipples pressed to the silk, all combined to send igniting sparks of sheer pleasure through her.
“And now . . .” he muttered and began to move, gradually pulling himself from her until she cried out with the loss of him, then another far-too-deliberate thrust into her. Only his hands and his sex touched her, and she’d never been so aroused in her life.
He slid inch-by-inc
h into her. She gasped. Then he withdrew. Smoothly gliding.
Only three times before the orgasm hit hard, flung her into darkness and diamond-bright shooting stars.
“Wait,” Zach gasped. “Wait.”
She barely heard him as she floated down from her orgasm, soft and drifting like a feather.
“I can’t see your face well. Gotta see your face when you come. Must.” He drew back and out of her and left with all his hot tenderness, and a soft cry of loss escaped her. Then his hands were at her hips again, and he rolled her over.
Her gaze latched on to his strained face and glittering eyes. His nostrils widened as he stared at her. She glanced down to see upthrust nipples. Her legs had fallen apart and she knew her sex glistened with her own moisture.
Then she stared at him, his shirt open and hanging—she’d done that, right? She could barely remember, but what she saw of his chest, taut and lightly haired, was prime. So were his tight abs, and . . . his sex . . . proudly jutting, thick, fascinating . . . throbbing. Her mouth dried, and the walls of her own sex clenched with anticipation, again and again.
“Gotta be in you. Right now.” He moved and the shadow of him—so dark and substantial, so solid and human moved toward her, loomed over her. Then he plunged inside her again and warm pulsing enveloped her, expanded from her heart and blood and breath, and mingled with the lunge, thrust, pant of him so the thick dark around them vibrated like a struck drum.
Shot her into another orgasm. Glorious pleasure.
She screamed her ecstasy as she clamped around Zach, arms, legs . . . cock. Only he existed as she fell through a universe of fireworks, all bursting inside of her, sinking into skin and muscle and down to marrow.
Zach’s groan came strangled as he powered into her with one last thrust. They rocked together, then he relaxed atop her.
When her mind settled, she realized that she’d completely lost control during sex for the first time ever.
Ghost Talker Page 3
