Zach had overcome her thinking with bodily sensations before, but she hadn’t given her entire being up to sex . . . to loving . . . This time she had. This time she’d reveled in her physicality.
Because she felt safe and secure with him, and trusted him more than any other lover, probably more than any other person in her life.
She brushed away the sense of vulnerability. Zach wouldn’t let her down, just as she would never let him down. She loved him.
But she didn’t say the words.
Neither of them had repeated those words to each other since that crystal moment in the clear and cleansed mountain morning two days ago. That didn’t matter. Yet.
Zach groaned, and she blinked since it didn’t seem like his regular after-orgasm groan. Deeper, like it emanated from his innermost being. She liked the idea, and when she could move her limp arms, she lifted them to slide her hands under his shirt and stroke his back.
A chuckle got caught in her throat. She was completely naked and he partially clothed. She liked the contrast. Concentrating, she felt the smooth linen of his shirt, though his jeans, farther down his body, were no longer in reach of her hands.
She wondered idly if she’d damaged the bedspread when she’d clenched it with her fists. She hoped she hadn’t poked holes through the expensive fabric with her fingernails. She liked the looks of the antique spread on her bed, but perhaps she could find something nearly as nice and tougher at a lower cost.
“Clare,” Zach said thickly, and moved within her, and her mind misted again.
He rolled over, but took her with him so she lay atop him. She set her head just under his chin, smelled the sweat of him, felt the thin dampness of his perspiration that held his essential fragrance that continued to arouse her.
“Zach,” she whispered back, and rubbed her body against him just once for the supreme pleasure of it and a few tingly aftershocks. Nice.
His arms tightened around her, then fell away. “Never like this before. Not with any woman.”
Her heart clutched in her chest and huge emotion wrapped around it. “Not . . . not for me either,” she stuttered. He made not only her words stutter but her thoughts. No, she’d never had a better lover, in all senses of the term.
In fact, that was an understatement. She’d usually stayed in her own mind and thinking, with a brief cessation during the instants of orgasm, then gone right back to her rational self.
So she petted him, and kept her mind blank—or occupied only with the thoughts of her lover, the shape of his body, the tickle of his hair, the completeness she experienced with him.
They held each other. Cherishing each other—at least that’s how Clare felt. They’d nearly died a couple of days ago. And they’d spoken of love in Creede. But not on the plane back, or the two nights since. That situation had been so intense and fraught, she had pulled back a little from the sharp edge of needy emotion.
In the moments of drowsiness as sleep crept over her, as he wrapped his arms around her and brought her closer, she hoped his actions spoke louder than the words he didn’t say either.
* * *
Zach could almost feel Clare’s busy mind quiet as her body, already relaxed from sex, slid close to sleep. Tucked around her from the back, he smiled. Always a challenge to turn her mind off during sex.
The antique mantel clock on her equally old and expensive dresser chimed the quarter hour. It had taken him a while to adjust to those damn quarterly chimes and the strokes on the hour, but now he only noticed them if silence filled the room.
Early for them to fall asleep, but Zach figured every time a new project—and ghost—arrived for Clare to handle, it stressed his lover out. Texas Jack Omohundro seemed like a nice, easygoing guy, as phantoms went, not like that evil spook they’d just put down—but that poltergeist was another matter.
And Zach let his smile widen. Yeah, he’d liked the mental and physical stimulation of the last dangerous case, the adrenaline rush, didn’t even mind his life being on the line, though he sure hadn’t liked Clare being endangered. An easy ghost would be good for her, though the way the modern phantom threw around rocks that could bean a person in the head and kill them concerned Zach. He’d always want to minimize the risk to Clare. The gut twisting he’d gone through when she’d fought that nasty spook sure hadn’t been pleasant.
Clare snuffled and Zach closed his eyes, loosened his arms that had tightened around her at the thought of losing her. No, he wouldn’t think of losing her. Couldn’t think of that and remain sane.
He let out a long breath. Clare. He wasn’t going to say “I love you” first again. Let her do that. It bothered him a little, that those particular words didn’t flow back and forth easily between them. Even with his parents’ wretched marriage, he’d heard his father tell his mother that he loved her every day . . . while Zach’s brother Jim had been alive. It had been a boon and a support for her as a military wife.
But those words, when Jim died, had crumbled like the rest of their family life.
God knew the general never told his wife he loved her anymore. Never visited the outpatient mental health facility in Boulder where Geneva Slade lived. Never even sent a bouquet of flowers or a candy sampler box for her birthday. And now stupid irritation seethed inside Zach and he had to loosen his jaw because he’d gritted his teeth. Love, death, family. Basic experiences that could screw you up.
Enough angst about his mother and his parents. Their love had turned to ashes, their marriage fallen apart. He needed to focus on his relationship with Clare, all the passion and promise of it.
So neither he nor Clare had repeated the love words. So what? They had plenty of time. He wouldn’t let the lack annoy him. Besides, showing their love meant more than her saying words telling him.
Here in bed—well, also in the shower and on the couch, though God save him from the elevator—she responded to his lovemaking. And out of bed, she showed tenderness. Like he did. Clare did love him.
A chime for the half hour, and the house remained quiet, no cars on the street outside the French doors leading to the balcony. The air in the room smelled a little floral, a bit musky, like both perfumes Clare used. He bent his head to sniff the floral shampoo of her hair, got a whiff of sex that put the smile back on his face.
He wondered if she’d feel a little constrained with him in her house. As far as he knew, unlike him, she’d never lived with a man, a lover. There would be modifications—and compromises—as they learned each other’s habits, for sure. But he hoped that they’d be able to work out any problems. God knows, the changes in their lives continued to be daily, massive, and occasionally deadly.
His cell rang the generic tune and he rolled away from Clare and grabbed it from the night table on his side of the bed.
Clare popped up to sit. “Uhn,” she said, and rubbed her face.
“Slade,” Zach answered his cell.
“Schultz here,” the police officer said.
Chapter 5
“Glad you’re still up,” Officer Schultz said, a comment rather than a question. “Hoping to get this situation handled. Here’s what I’ve got.” She proceeded to tell him of her questioning of two staff members, one from the Buffalo Bill Museum and one from the café and gift shop, Pahaska Teepee.
Zach pulled some pillows behind him and leaned back to listen to her—a pleasure since she talked in cop speak, which he appreciated. It made him miss his lost career less. Rickman Security and Investigations operatives usually communicated in military speak. Her discussing the case with him in this manner cued him in that she respected him and his background. Like every other cop he’d met, she’d probably done a background check on him.
Clare frowned and muttered, went to the master bath, and turned on the low bedroom light right outside it, as well as the bright one in the bath. Once inside she kept the door open. Zach barely heard the tr
ickle of water as she washed, so she must have been paying attention to his side of the call, too.
The officer didn’t give him—them—any new information than what they’d gleaned from Welliam.
For his part, he sketched in the interaction and conversation with Welliam and told Schultz that he thought the older man wouldn’t be calling the DPD again. Instead the guy would interface with him, but more likely, Clare. Zach and Clare would work to resolve the poltergeist situation, and keep Welliam in the loop. That seemed to relieve Schultz.
Zach also advised the woman that another player, Maurice Poche, self-professed psychic medium and obvious con man had appeared on the scene, apparently doing well with the marks of Denver. Schultz didn’t recognize the name but disparagingly stated she didn’t keep track of the Denver supernatural culture. Zach stated that he’d be looking into the man’s background as deeply as he could with his computer and contacts.
As soon as he ended the call, Clare walked in, a damp washcloth in her hand. “What do you think of Janice Schultz?” she asked. Her voice sounded so even it warned him she had misgivings about the female police officer.
He grunted, lifted and dropped a shoulder. “Barely met her, but I liked what I saw.”
“Of course you would.” Another matter-of-fact statement from Clare.
Staring at her, he wondered if she might possibly be jealous, but dismissed it. He thought Clare’s grumbles came from envy since the competent Officer Schultz practiced her profession well, and Clare still believed she fumbled with her own vocation.
“Officer Schultz isn’t knowledgeable about Poche?” Clare asked.
“No.”
“She doesn’t believe in the paranormal,” Clare stated, then washed her face and went back into the bathroom for a moment before returning, hands free.
“Schultz isn’t a true believer like Welliam,” Zach agreed. “In her favor, she didn’t run when she saw the rocks set on those spears.” He tilted his head. “I think she might have a hard time with the poltergeist.” He slanted Clare a look, amusement in his eyes. “And she won’t like being around you when you talk to Texas Jack.”
“It’s difficult for the logical-minded to accept strange events,” Clare replied primly. She lifted her nose. “But I don’t anticipate talking to Texas Jack when Officer Schultz is in the vicinity.” She stared at Zach. “She thinks I’m either a con or weird. Probably weird because she admires you and would figure that you wouldn’t keep company with a con.”
Zach shook his head. “Absolutely nothing about you gives off con vibes. You exude sincerity,” he assured.
“I’m sure my logical and rational aura is taking a hit, though.”
“Hard to deny when you start talking to people invisible to the rest of us,” he said.
She sniffed again. “I don’t have invisible friends.” She puffed a breath. “That is, they aren’t friends, really.” In a lower voice she grumbled, “Not as if I can deny my gift. I must use it.” Now a full grimace molded her pretty face. “I may as well start wearing those long velvet jackets with fringe of Great-Aunt Sandra’s.”
Zach made sure his expression was pained. “Please. Don’t.”
The teasing made her smile. Good. He continued, “I like the perfume, but not the clothes.”
“Me, too,” Clare said, studying her lover lounging under a sheet.
Zach looked so good to her, muscular and fit. The way he smiled, like a special smile for her alone, vanquished some of the niggling doubts of self-confidence. This time she kept her sour face to herself. She’d been an excellent accountant and had no lack of confidence in that area, but with this odd ghost-seeing, strange-rules-cropping-up-every-darn-day situation, her morale had taken a direct hit. Apparently that had leaked into her self-image as a woman, too. She inhaled deeply and Zach’s gaze went to her bare breasts—she did have nice breasts—and she felt even better.
She banished doubts about living with a lover, focused on the physical. Directing her mind to the ghost business, she said, “Do you have any ideas how to move the poltergeist on?”
“Maybe. How about you?” His brows rose.
“Not really, no. I suppose I could ask the Other,” she muttered reluctantly.
“I think Texas Jack could do it,” Zach said. “He can talk to the ghost, right?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“I know you—we—don’t like messing with the Other, so let me try my way first,” Zach offered.
“How are we—you—going to find out who the poltergeist is?” Clare asked.
Zach grunted. “He’s a new ghost. Someone recently dead with a connection to Buffalo Bill. If I were Officer Schultz, I’d’ve asked the staff members whether anyone recently kicked the bucket.” He frowned, then stood and stretched, and Clare admired his body.
“Oh.” Clare nodded. “Will that be difficult to discover—”
He flashed her a smile. “I’m good at tracing missing persons. But working from an unknown—” His smile widened and he turned to flex for her. “I like the way you look at me, Clare.”
Her breath had caught in her throat and she cleared it. “I like looking at you.” She gave another little cough. “You were, ah, saying about working from an unknown?”
He stopped his show, stepped up to her and put his hands around her face, and smacked a kiss on her lips that barely gave her a true taste of him, then stepped back. Her gaze wandered to the linen-tumbled bed. She’d also like another round of sex with Zach—something she’d never, ever thought before.
“Yeah. This will be a challenge,” he said with relish. “Usually I start with at least one identity and description and find unknown whereabouts. This time I’ll have a location that’s important to the person, but nothing else.”
“Did Officer Schultz ask about recent deaths?”
He shrugged. “Not that she said. I’ll go back and re-interview. Not sure how much off-duty time she’ll want to put in on this case. But enough shop talk.” With a grin, and not bothering to hide his disability—his left foot dropped when he walked—Zach sauntered naked to the bathroom, lifting his left knee high. Of course her gaze focused on the flex of his butt rather than the non-flex of his ankle.
Knowing that the moment she entered the bathroom and saw Zach in the large glass shower stall all thought and willpower to resist him would hit, Clare followed the trail of her discarded clothes with her own grin. She picked them up and dealt with each garment, then made sure the elevator doors were closed and ready for use.
Then she hurried to join her lover.
* * *
She awoke in the silence of predawn Sunday, needing to get on with her newest case. That necessity coated her skin like a static buzz. If she wasn’t careful, the constraint would sink down into her nerves and pinch them until she couldn’t sit still or even think.
Though if she reached over and slid her hand down Zach’s bare chest to his shaft . . . that would distract her, but not cure the I-need-to-get-on-with-this jitters.
Slipping quietly from bed, not looking at her lover because she wanted to be back in that bed, she stretched and stepped lightly across the thick rug to the walk-in closet and dressed in jeans, a cashmere sweater, and took out a light windbreaker. Up on Lookout Mountain would be colder than here in the city.
She and Zach had a standing Sunday brunch date with Zach’s landlady, Mrs. Flinton, and her housekeeper, Mrs. Magee, at the mansion the women resided in, and Clare wanted to be back by then. Buffalo Bill’s grave wasn’t that far out of town and mostly a straight shot, so she should have time for the trip and to speak with Texas Jack. She’d get more details of what he needed so she could help him pass on.
Leaving a quick note for Zach on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, one she didn’t sign, “love,” she took off.
She decided not to call Enzo, and instead set the stopwatc
h timer on her phone to discover how long it would take before Enzo showed up. How long it might take him to sense she was in work mode. She was still determining the parameters of his existence, too.
She threaded a route free from ghosts of her time period through near-deserted Sunday morning streets. To keep herself company, she turned on the jazz station and found that she’d tuned in to an hour of Native American music and stories. That winged her thoughts back to leaving Zach in bed, his bronzed body against her cream-colored Egyptian cotton sheets.
As Clare exited the highway and drove the winding loop road up the mountain, she saw light spill over the plains as the sun rose. She let out a sigh of relief that she would have missed any temper tantrum of a poltergeist-ghost she couldn’t help. Tough enough to accept that she had to move specters on at all—something her logical accountant mind didn’t care for—let alone be at the mercy of ghosts all the time.
Stop whining, stop pouting, stop the pity party. She relaxed her shoulders, which had gone tense during her drive, and saw that the gate barring the road up to Buffalo Bill’s grave site and museum was closed. So she backtracked to the nearby Denver City and County-owned Mountain Parks, put on the hiking boots she kept in the back of her Jeep, and walked up the one-person dirt and rock trail.
Lights shone in the gift shop and café windows, people preparing for the influx of visitors. Her nose twitched at the scent of baking as she passed the building, Pahaska Teepee, that housed those enterprises. She’d already passed the museum. She strode up the asphalt path, a little nervous. The park hadn’t officially opened and the gate remained shut. As usual with her cases, she could be trespassing. She didn’t like that, but was slowly becoming accustomed to breaking those particular laws . . . and she had Officer Schultz’s name to give people if seen, stopped, or questioned.
When she reached the top of the hill, another gate remained shut, so instead of walking directly up the shallow steps to the graves, she had to circle around. The site itself looked a lot like they’d left it last night, with quartz rocks balanced atop the iron fence spears, though many had fallen from inertia or wind. She didn’t think the staff had tidied up the place from last night’s spectral activity, which she completely understood. If she had been tasked with such a duty, she’d wait until the poltergeist visited during dawn so she wouldn’t have to do the cleanup twice.
Ghost Talker Page 4
