When he neared her, he set his cane against the large round arm of the chair and embraced her. He was careful, as if her long, thin bones might break. When he rocked with her, Clare’s throat closed at the love expressed between them.
After Geneva let go, Zach reached for his cane and stepped back. Enzo, who’d been sniffing around, sat and stared, head tilted, ears lifted slightly, at Geneva Slade. She is a pretty and nice and sad lady.
Clare thought she saw a tiny flinch from Geneva and the woman’s body angled away from the spectral dog—could she sense Enzo?—as she faced Clare. The older woman’s smile bloomed and Clare relaxed. At least Zach’s mother liked what she saw. Maybe Clare would get through this meeting all right.
Geneva held out both hands. “Look at you, so lovely!” She smiled at Zach, too, including him in her delight. “Introduce us.”
“Clare, this is my mother, Geneva Warren Slade. Mama, this is Clare Cermak.”
Clare took the woman’s hands, soft in her own. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased also.” Geneva sent a teasing glance at Zach. “He hasn’t brought a young lady to meet me in ages.”
“Mama,” Zach protested.
“Then I’m doubly happy,” Clare said. “That I’m meeting you and that he likes me enough to bring me to see you.” That was only the truth.
Geneva squeezed Clare’s hands with a light grip then released them and gestured to the four chairs grouped around a low, square table of dark wood with fancy legs and carving around the edge. Atop it stood a beautiful china vase of pastel pink containing long-stemmed white roses. “Let’s sit and visit. Zach, you just missed Jim. He went out to play basketball.”
Zach tensed.
“But he brought me these beautiful roses.” Geneva sniffed at them before she sat.
It was easy for Clare to feel the emotional pain radiating from Zach. He’d given his mother those roses and she’d forgotten that, preferring to think that they’d come from his dead brother, who still lived in her mind. Preferring that child over this man.
Clare moved close to him and put her arm through his.
Enzo nudged Clare. Give her this. Something solid was in his mouth—although Clare still didn’t understand how that could be—and she took it and flinched at the cold metal. It felt like a trinket box. She moved to bump her hand against Zach’s, murmured so only he could hear, “A gift for your mother.” He took the little box in a smooth move that seemed more criminal-like than cop-like, betraying nothing on his face or body, and offered it to his mother. “I have something for you, Mama.”
“Oh?” Geneva looked quizzical, shook her head. “Don’t think you have to bring me something every time you come.”
He went over and opened his hand in front of her, and both of them jolted. Tears welled in Geneva’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks. She raised her hands to her mouth. “Oh. Oh,” she said from behind her fingers.
Zach stared down at the little box on his palm, gold-toned with a china top that had a painted classical pastoral scene. His head slowly turned to Clare, surprise in his eyes.
Geneva took the trinket, swallowed hard, and Clare drew some tissues from a container on an end table and hurried over.
The older woman turned the box over in her hands, opened it, and Clare saw hairpins.
“Oh! I lost this when—at a bad time in my life. It was my grandmother’s!” She put it down and used the tissues. “Zach, you are so clever to have found it.”
“Sure,” Zach said, his voice creaky.
Clare touched his wrist so he could hear Enzo, and sent a thought to the ghost dog. Where did you find that?
Enzo tilted his head in the other direction. It slipped in-between. Stuff sometimes falls in-between. His tongue lolled. Like the pocket watch and the gold coin that I got from in-between and put on your bureau.
Oh. Another thing to figure out when she had time. Though the very idea sent a shivery snake down her spine. She didn’t know if her mind could handle it.
Zach pulled away and moved a chair closer to his mother’s. “I didn’t want to make you sad. I can take it away if you—”
Geneva snatched at the little box, held it close to her bosom. “No. I truly want it, Zach. It’s too lovely to be sitting in the drawer of a bachelor’s desk or dresser.” She smiled now, lowered her hand, and stared at the treasure. “And don’t tell me you’d keep it out to look at, because you wouldn’t. Not a female thing like this.”
Clare took a seat at right angles to Zach. “You know your son well.”
“I know both my sons well.” She paused, murmured, “My very special sons.”
“Not that special, Mama,” he replied as softly as she. His gaze slid to Clare, then away, and his jaw flexed.
An awkward pause ensued.
Geneva said, “So, Clare, are you a Colorado native like my sons?”
Clare cleared her throat. “No, I was born in Chicago, where most of my family is from, though my parents traveled quite a bit and my brother and I grew up all over the States.”
Geneva’s face stiffened. “You don’t look like a military child.”
Clare didn’t know what that meant, but answered, “No, my mother was lucky enough to inherit a sizable trust fund when she was twenty-one, and she and my father prefer to travel. They took us with them.”
“Ah.” A faint line of disapproval showed in Geneva’s forehead. “I understand about trust funds.” She made a graceful gesture. “But my family and I believe we are custodians of the money for the future.” She shrugged. “To each their own.”
“I agree with you about fiscal responsibility,” Clare said, leaning toward Geneva. She’d already invested most of her inheritance and made a will in favor of her niece . . . the next victim of the curse of ghost seeing if Enzo was right. Clare smiled. “I’m an accountant.” And she was; she just wasn’t with a large firm anymore, because someone else needed the job more than she.
“Oh.” Geneva smiled. “You don’t look at all like my accountants. They are the typical stuffy old men.”
Zach reached out and clasped Clare’s hand. “She’s also a gypsy.”
Now Geneva’s expression cleared and she chuckled. “Oh, how intriguing! That would explain the need to travel.”
Clare nodded. “It could. And my father is from a Romani family, too, though I don’t think my parents, or even my grandparents, were an essential part of their clans. I believe the connection was lost when my family emigrated.”
“Ah. And I think my family tends to hold on to its roots too much.” Geneva shrugged. “It’s in how we were raised, even in our blood, I think.”
Enzo barked as if in agreement, went over, and put his head on Geneva’s knee. Good blood, good family.
Geneva turned pale and began gasping, her hands twisting together.
Enzo, Clare sent a mental rebuke, I think you should leave. You are bothering her.
But, Clare! She smells really, really good. Not as good as you or Mrs. Flinton or Zach, but gooood. He gave her the big puppy dog eyes.
Zach had gotten up and drawn his mother into his embrace, frowning at Clare.
Enzo, go! Surely there are some ghost squirrels to chase . . . or real ones for that matter.
Squirrels! Enzo squealed, hopping to his feet and looking at the window, zooming through it without a word.
Geneva rested on her son, then said, “I’m sorry, I seem very tired now.” She looked up at Zach and smiled. “Thank you for visiting, and bringing Clare.” The older woman held out a hand and Clare was glad to see it didn’t tremble. Clare wrapped her fingers around Geneva’s, thinking that something in addition to cherishing family roots traveled through the woman’s blood. This was where Zach got his sensitivity—which he wasn’t forced to acknowledge as she had had to do—or which he didn’t admit to her.
They said their good-byes and left, Zach limping heavier than he had going in.
He studied her car. “I’d lik
e to drive—do you mind?” It was nearly an order.
“All right.” Clare handed over the fob, glanced around for Enzo, who was nowhere to be seen.
Once in the car, Zach flexed his fingers on the wheel. “Do you think my brother’s ghost haunts my mother?”
FIVE
HER BREATH GASPED on the intake so she couldn’t answer as casually as she’d hoped. Scrambling for all she knew about ghosts so far, she said, “Your brother sounded as if he was a well-adjusted person. I’m not sure that he’d . . . remain, let alone bother your mother.”
Zach’s fingers flexed again on the wheel. She saw a movement of his left foot, as if he’d been used to a clutch and standard transmission. His left foot didn’t flex on its own, how hard for him!
“Yeah, Jim was very well adjusted, but his murder was never solved.” Zach gazed at her. “And he might feel like he’d left things undone.” One side of Zach’s mouth twitched up. “Like looking after his younger brother.” More quietly he said, “Or the rest of his devastated family. God knows, he was the one we all loved best. Isn’t that always the way. The keystone of the family, lost.”
Clare cleared her throat. Neither she nor her brother was very important to her parents, and though she loved her brother, of course, they weren’t very close. She loved her niece, Dora . . . as did her brother and his wife . . . Dora, who’d inherit the ghost seeing talent if Clare died.
They lived in Williamsburg, Virginia, and Dora loved colonial history. Clare winged a prayer to The Powers That Be that Dora would be spared the insanity Clare had gone through for several weeks. She’d make sure to talk to Dora about the talent somehow.
Now she flipped the original question back on Zach. “Do you think your mother sees your brother’s ghost?”
His shoulders went tense. “I don’t know.”
So he wasn’t going to talk about how Geneva might have seen Enzo. And she didn’t want to bring anything up that might have them at odds when she wanted to get her hands on him.
“I don’t want to go to dinner.” He sucked in a breath. “And I’d like to ask some follow-up questions of you.”
Of course he would. “Eating at my place is fine.”
He stared straight ahead. “You can’t see ghosts of the present?”
“No.”
He cleared his throat. “Would Enzo know if my brother’s ghost haunted my mother?”
Clare blinked. “I don’t know. I can ask.” It only took a mental thought to have the spectral dog appearing on her lap and licking her face.
Hello, Clare! I love you Clare! His breath was . . . indescribable. What kind of strangeness was that?
He burped. Ghost prairie dog energies are de-li-cious.
Well, that answered her first question but, as always, brought up a slew more.
Zach might have felt the chill, because he wrapped his large fingers around the nape of her neck, blessedly warm, prompting Clare to ask, “Ah, Enzo, would you know if Zach’s brother is haunting his mother?”
Another freezing swipe of tongue on her nose. Maybe, Clare! He looked at Zach and barked. Maybe, Zach! Turning back to Clare, Enzo said, But I am tuned to you now, Clare, and you are tuned to Old West ghosts. He yipped and Clare thought she heard the answering wails of wraiths. She shivered.
Still not looking at Clare or Enzo, Zach said, “Would that other spirit who sometimes comes through Enzo know?”
Clare froze. Had she spoken of the Other to Zach? She couldn’t recall. Bracing herself, she waited for the being/whatever to make its appearance. This was important to Zach so she wouldn’t fuss, would endure any scrutiny the entity gave her. She always felt insignificant to the Other, as if she were an ant marching in an army while it watched the pattern.
Enzo got heavier on her lap, the atmosphere in the car crystallized—thin and cold. Zach shifted his fingers on her neck, lovely heat.
The phantom dog’s eyes went from dark to milky white with split irises of smoky gray with fog moving in them.
Yes, Clare? The low reverberation of the Other’s mental voice rasped her nerves. She’d avoided it as much as possible, praying it would leave soon. Not this time. Zach’s thumb stilled on her neck, so they were linked enough for him to hear the Other.
Clare dampened her lips automatically, even though she’d be speaking telepathically. Does any ghost haunt Zach’s mother, Geneva Slade?
Zach slid his hand down to hers and linked their fingers, squeezed. The Other swung Enzo’s head to contemplate Zach. Clare was glad not to be under its scrutiny, and thought Zach’s heartbeat pulsed faster.
The Other turned its stare back to her and spoke into her mind. I understand why you would ask such a thing. The answer you would comprehend is that Geneva Slade occasionally attracts the energy of her mother and that energy only. Not her older son.
With an almost audible pop, it was gone and Enzo leapt off Clare’s lap and through the roof. Gotta run, Clare! Gotta run and run and run! See you at home!
Clare realized she was stiff and quivering a little.
“Sorry about that,” Zach said. “I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t need to reveal all your secrets to me.”
“That’s all right,” she gasped. “The Other says Jim doesn’t haunt your mother.”
“No. It isn’t all right, but it’s done now.” Both his hands closed around her waist, and he lifted her with pure strength from her seat to his lap.
She ended up sideways on his lap, not cramped as much as she expected. There were reasons to buy a luxury car. And once she felt his thighs under her, his chest against her shoulder, she shifted to get even closer, so she could hear his heart. All her tension drained, leaving her limp. Her breath sighed out, and she listened to the thumpity-thump of Zach’s heart.
“Uh, Clare?” Zach said in a strained voice.
“Uh-huh,” she replied, discreetly sniffing the scent of him through his fine linen shirt—Zach, a trace of his aftershave, and a faint whiff of sweat. September continued to be hotter than normal.
“Clare. We’ve got to leave. Now.”
She became abruptly aware of one extremely hard muscle. The best muscle on his body, despite her appreciation of his shoulders and his butt. Sexual warmth and need filtered through her, warming her from her core and sensitizing her skin.
“Nice as it is, this car isn’t good for getting it on.”
Clare choked on a laugh.
“I want you in a damn bed and under me soon.”
Her brain seemed to fizz away, tangled with passion. “Me, too.”
He moved her back into her seat. “Hold on, I’ll be pushing the speed limit.”
“Sure.”
And he peeled out of the parking lot. She snuck a glance at him, tall in the seat next to her. Her height was five feet seven inches, but he was six-four with broad shoulders and a muscular body.
Studying him, she noted he was still a little too lean, and lines of weariness and pain etched in his face showed in the harsh afternoon light. His black hair, shaggy around his collar, showed no hints of another color. Her own body thrummed with the memory of sifting her fingers through that hair as she strove to reach climax with him. Holding him close for deep kisses, to feel his body pressed atop hers, linked by mouth and sex.
The sunlight also brought out a hint of gorgeous bronze in his skin. He’d told her that he had some Native American blood, and it certainly added to his attractiveness.
And she recalled his comment about secrets. She was learning his body, but thought he still shielded vulnerabilities from her.
As she did from him.
• • •
Zach set his teeth as he turned down Clare’s street. He’d howl soon if he didn’t get his hands on her. His dick pushed against his jeans, hard and throbbing and ready to plunge inside her.
She murmured words he didn’t hear, but liked the intimate tone of.
But he knew he wasn’t going to make it up the stairs with Clare to her bedroom before he pou
nced. Need for her consumed him, fire blazing through his veins.
SIX
BY THE TIME he pulled into Clare’s driveway, Zach’s movements weren’t as smooth as usual. If he lifted his hands from the wheel, they’d shake. He didn’t bother with the garage. Didn’t want to take Clare on concrete. She deserved much better . . . like the polished hardwood of her entryway. He eyed the alcove holding the deep-set front door; too bad he’d installed a nice bright light above.
But he’d had no idea he’d want her this much. Hadn’t thought he’d ever want a woman this much. It was her scent. Had to be. Or maybe the timbre of her voice.
Something. He didn’t know what. But his mind had taken a hike. He didn’t think Clare had noticed.
Or maybe she had. She’d stopped speaking and her breathing had turned ragged. Her skin seemed to gleam a little—sweat? He hoped she was hot. And wet. A hot and wet Clare . . . his seat belt trapped him in the car as he flung open the door.
He stumbled as he got out of the car, forgetting his foot and leg didn’t work right, and flushed with embarrassment, but by the time he got his cane from the back and slammed the door, he saw the wisp of Clare’s floaty sundress skirt disappearing into the alcove. She seemed to be in a hurry, too. He heard her swearing—the endearing mild curses she used—at the alarm system.
Grinning, he picked up his pace, leaning on his cane. Right now the fact that his foot didn’t flex didn’t matter. What mattered was that his favorite muscle was about to be satisfied.
He caught her in the doorway just as the alarm light turned green. She pressed the iron latch and he used his cane to shove the heavy oak door open, then let his cane clatter to the floor. He found her waist easily in the dark, as if he’d always know exactly where his woman was, slipped his arm hard around her, and lifted her for the two long steps to the wall. He moved until he could feel his whole body against hers and, most of all, his needy dick. His mouth found hers, and his heart did that jump thing again when he discovered her lips were open.
He slid his tongue into her wet depths and groaned as his hips angled into her, holding her against the wall with his weight . . . and his arm behind her hurt and there were damn better things for his fingers to be doing, like sliding under her skirt to find if she was just as wet—or more—down below.
Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) Page 5
