“That she is.” A tiny pause. “How’s Clare doing?”
“Better, I think. Her wound is definitely healed.”
“Also great.”
“Yeah, later.”
“You can bet on it. Expect Desiree to be coming around to your place this evening, probably Tony and me, too.”
“Right.” Zach ended the call.
Enzo barked, and Zach squinted down at the ghost Lab sitting near his feet.
Zach walked back to Clare, who’d raised her face to the sun and closed her eyes.
“Clare,” he murmured.
She opened her lashes and smiled at him, a carefree curve of lips he hadn’t seen since she’d been wounded. He’d reholstered his gun in the chapel as he watched Clare do her thing, and now he hung the curved handle of his wooden cane in his belt and offered his hands.
When she took them, he pulled her up and into his arms, her body against his. He smelled the faint odor of her sweat, and relief flowed through him. No more wound, and warm skin. For once, a ghost passing on hadn’t harmed her. If only that would last.
For now, he wanted to feel her, his Clare, who he didn’t have to be careful of anymore. He felt her soft stomach against his thickening arousal, slid his fingers into the soft and springy mass of her hair and massaged her scalp, then tilted her head so he could kiss her, determine whether her taste had changed.
Once more, a case had affected them both personally. Maybe it would always be that way.
Her pupils dilated and her lips parted, and she looked at him as no one in the entire world had ever looked at him. Only Clare.
She put her hands around the back of his neck and one of her palms lay on his nape, slightly stroking the sensitive skin there that sent sizzles of desire throughout his body.
So he encircled her. One arm across her shoulders, his other hand on her butt. He bowed her, so he’d feel every inch of her hard against him, and she’d do the same. No delicate touch, not when this overwhelming need for her, for her strength, roared through him. His mouth took hers and ravished, his tongue demanding entry so he could taste her and revel in having her back, healed and spirit unbroken. And now his whole body throbbed with heat and fierce passion.
She tore her mouth from his and said, “Dearest Zach, we’re in a churchyard! And there’s a house right there.”
“Yeah.” He matched her panting breaths, studied her pretty wide hazel eyes and cloud-like hair of dark brown with the sun teasing red from separate strands. Reluctantly, he straightened her, grinned when he had absolutely no problem with his balance. His stance was solid; his training with regard to his new circumstances paid off. One last squeeze of her butt, and he released her to take his cane in his left hand.
He scanned the area—very quiet for a weekday autumn morning, with trees along the creek blocking most of the view—and he looked for crows—none, favorable or ill fortunate. So he curled his right weapon hand around her arm and guided her to the truck. By the time they’d reached it, she climbed in with weariness and fumbled with the seat belt before she closed her eyes and went limp.
Turning to go around the front of his vehicle, he stopped as all the tension finally fell from him. The environment swept around him. Everything became more colorful—the sky, the white church with teal trim, the pines so green, even the grass looked more like summer than fall. The light seemed to take on the color of gold. His chest tightened with awe.
He turned and snapped a few pictures of this peaceful place—Our Lady of Perpetual Help.
“Thank you,” he said, and he projected the thought. Not his religion, and he hadn’t been sure of any religion since his brother died when Zach was twelve, but he appreciated the ambiance.
Chapter 35
As Zach took the few steps to the truck door, he limped and his mouth tightened. He realized that Rossi and his lady at the resort would see pairs of Zach’s special shoes, and ankle and leg braces. It shouldn’t bother him, but it did. He wondered if Clare would care if another woman touched her underwear as she packed it. Clare could be fussy that way. Too bad. Zach had made the decision that this case was done. Which reminded him that Clare had paid for it—Rossi’s time and expertise. Zach would pony up half to Rickman.
As they drove through Manitou Springs, the little town looked colorful and charming, or would to other eyes. Zach didn’t want to come back anytime soon. No doubt he’d have to tie up a few loose ends with the local police and El Paso County law enforcement, but he could do that by phone or SeeAndTalk. He smiled. He’d made good contacts in this area, too. Good deal.
Weariness pressed on him harder than he’d anticipated as he drove to Clare’s. Instead of slipping into a nice non-thinking state, a low-level depression set in. He lined up a mental to-do list, and the first item would be visiting his mother.
He’d ask Clare if she wanted to accompany him on the visit tomorrow. He’d been asking her to come about every other week, but had never pressed. Fortunately, Clare and his mother liked each other a lot.
And his mother had turned a corner to better mental health in the last month. Zach figured that was due to him being closer than the wilds of Montana, and because of Clare, and Enzo, too. Not necessarily in that order.
Geneva Slade no longer believed that his brother who’d been killed was still alive. Didn’t pretend Jim had just stepped out of the room. Didn’t think the flowers Zach had brought her had come from her dead son.
Yes, her firstborn was dead. Had been dead decades. Died in a drive-by shooting, wrong time, wrong place.
Jim had been off the new military base they’d moved to, looking for Zach. Who’d said he was going to leave, explore a new city, but had actually stayed within the walls. A whole lot of wrong had happened that day, and, nope, Zach wasn’t done beating himself up about it. Would never be done blaming himself, or with the guilt. But he lived with it.
As Clare lived with neglecting her great-aunt when the woman wanted to be close, to teach her about the Cermak gift.
Yeah, Zach and Clare had shadowy spots in their spirits in common. He looked at her as he drove. Finally, finally her wound was gone, her injury healed. Though he thought he could see the faintest of lines marking the skin near her eyes. Maybe those were there to stay and deepen, but the dark smudges under her eyes would fade. Thank the . . . Powers That Be.
And the whole train of thought got Zach brooding on an idea he’d had time and again, but had put aside because of Clare’s wound. He gripped the steering wheel hard. The notion ate at him. He’d have to ask Clare, soon.
* * *
When they pulled up to her driveway, Zach glanced over to see Clare remained completely out, deep in sleep. His jaw flexed. How he’d love to sweep her out of the truck, through her door, and up the stairs to her bedroom.
Wouldn’t ever happen. He’d have to make different romantic gestures, and he should have thought about those sooner. Flowers would be good. No, flowers were cut and dying and dead stuff. Flowering plants. Yeah, that would work. If they ever stayed in the same place and for longer than a week.
He leaned over and brushed her hair away from her face, kissed her temple, then her cheeks, and when she turned her face to him, he kissed her lips, glided his tongue across her mouth. Her sleepy eyes opened.
“We’re back.”
She blinked, glanced around and stretched. “Back at home! Wow, I slept longer than I thought.”
“I got tired of the resort and didn’t want to spend another night there. I arranged for our clothes and things to be packed and messengered up.”
“Um-hmm.” She unlocked her seat belt, drew up the tote that held her notebook computer as well as her tablet and smaller bag. “It’s all good.”
Easier than he’d anticipated. He exited the truck, scanned the area for any danger. No one stirred in the quiet, upscale neighborhood. Then he limped around to her
side and opened the door. She took his hand as she descended. He was useful for that, at least.
He drew his own computer bag from behind the seats, draped it over his shoulder, and caught up with her at the deep alcove of the oversized door as she unlocked it and threw it open.
A wave of dry-air smell hit him, and he nearly reeled sideways into Clare, who keyed in the security password. He stepped back to the edge of the swing of the door, kept it open.
He smelled Clare, a hint of the perfume she used, incense and old furniture, and the general tang of the house—the ingrained odor of the people who’d owned the place before Clare had bought it. Only one of those scents pleased him. Clare.
And as he made out the shadowy angles of hallway, stairs, and walls, the feeling of alienness crawled up his spine. Wrong shape for home. This wasn’t his place. Not his house or his apartment.
That feeling had hit often enough before, usually about his apartment or the town he lived in, and he got a strong urge to move on. He hadn’t anticipated it would occur with Clare.
Worse was that he was tied to this house. Or it was tied like an anchor to him. Clare hadn’t fixed the deed yet.
He stood in the doorway, watching Clare as she moved through the place, opening room doors for more light, switching on fans.
Which brought more smells to him.
Not his house, his apartment.
Not his stuff.
And that bothered him. The same emotions might have flooded him if he’d still been at Mrs. Flinton’s, since he hadn’t moved with many possessions, and the apartment had come furnished.
But this was worse because his name on the property nailed him down. Nope, not his place.
And because most of the stuff in the house, this house, wasn’t even Clare’s. He recalled the few pieces of furniture she had, not enough to fill one big room—and she, like him, had gotten rid of her couch.
Almost everything in this house had come from Clare’s great-aunt Sandra’s home.
Not good to stand with his back to an open door, but he stuck in his tracks. His fingers gripped his cane and the strap to his briefcase.
Clare’s footsteps hurried back. She looked at him with a frown. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t stay here, right now.” He angled himself in the doorway, took a step toward outside.
“What?” She turned big eyes on him.
His gut, all of him, tensed up.
“It doesn’t smell right.” He paused, slid a little closer to the door. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“And you are accustomed to leaving when situations don’t feel right.”
He put on his impassive cop expression. “I don’t leave jobs until they feel wrong in my gut.”
She raised her hands, palms out. “Okay, sorry.”
But he’d left places before, now that he thought about it. Weird. He’d believed he’d lost any sort of psychic ability the day his brother died until he woke up in the hospital after his gunshot wound. Maybe he hadn’t, maybe that first paranormal gift had transformed into a general sense of atmosphere. He’d started his law enforcement career on the Eastern Seaboard but had continually moved west—toward his mother? Maybe, but also . . . toward Clare?
He didn’t know, and the notion discomforted him.
Still, whatever gut instinct he had hadn’t prevented his and his partner’s mistake and his shooting.
He sure didn’t want to think about fate in that situation.
Another whiff of incense. He stiffened, continued to try to explain himself instead of just walking out the door. “The house doesn’t smell like you, or like us, as a couple.”
“And it doesn’t feel like us to you?”
“Nope.” Giving up, he closed the door behind him, but stayed in the entryway.
She bit her lip, stood straighter but just out of his reach unless he lunged.
They stared at each other in silence. He didn’t want to leave her, she didn’t want him to go.
“Okay.” She waved her arms—only once, but he thought it a hopeful sign that her buttoned-down manner began to wear off. “Scent we can fix. What kind of fragrance do you want?”
“Nothing like old lady or incense.”
She slanted him a glance. “What, we should empty a keg of your favorite beer on the kitchen floor?”
“That would help,” he said seriously.
She made a disgusted noise, began a big gesture with her arms again, then crossed them. “All right, you don’t care for the smell or some of the furniture.” Her lip curled a lot. “We’ve made love enough times on the couch in the living room that I think that’s safe from you.” She paused. “I can rub it down with some leather cleaner or something.”
He stopped himself from shifting from foot to foot. “And you need to take my name off the deed.”
“Absolutely. Tomorrow. I promise.”
His grip tightened on his cane, still not wanting to move further into the place that felt odd.
“What’s your favorite room?” Clare asked quietly. “We’ll make it just the way you like.”
She’d braced her stance.
Suck it up, wait it out. He could weather this atavistic feeling. Maybe they could fix the place so his gut felt it was okay. He turned the question on her. “What’s your favorite room?”
She pointed to the door to her right. “The living room, with the curved windows.” Then she flung up her arms. “Our bedroom.” She paused, opened her mouth, maybe to correct the pronoun, then firmed her lips, the bottom poking out a little and hurt in her eyes.
That dragged on him and he narrowed his own eyes. He jutted his chin up and toward the back of the house. “Are you including the sitting room upstairs in the bedroom?”
She stilled, slowly blinked her wide eyes. “No, just the bedroom. The walk-in closet.”
He knew where this was going, angled his chin up and toward the back of the house. “I like the sitting room space.”
“Anything you want to do with it is fine with me,” she said.
“Bronco orange and blue?”
She winced, but stood solid. “Anything you want.” She glanced at the clock. “Some box furniture stores are open, if you want to start immediately. We could get paint.” She cleared her throat. “I thought the whole basement could be yours to . . . arrange however you wanted.”
“I don’t think it will be enough,” he said roughly, moving his shoulders again. “I’ve got an itch.”
She went white to the lips. Her full breasts rose as she inhaled. She trembled.
Nausea filled Clare. She could understand him roaming until he found his right place, his right home. He’d seemed happy here with her.
Wrong.
She didn’t want to break up with Zach. Nothing, nothing could be worse. Not in her entire life. She shuffled to the side, until she could rest a hip on a chest, bracing her since her knees had gone weak, and she looked at Zach. He stood angled to her, staring up at the stairs.
The stairs he couldn’t run up or down. Her heart began to pound. She’d fallen in love with this house, had bought it immediately, but she’d barely known Zach at the time, hadn’t imagined they’d be a couple. She liked her great-aunt Sandra’s furniture, too.
Think positive! He hadn’t left. She could talk to him.
They could work this out.
She hoped. She took little sips of air, then said, “So you don’t like the house. If you leave, are you going to ask me to go with you?”
He whipped around, square to her, and appeared highly insulted. “What the hell do you think?”
She answered quietly. “I think you’ll never abandon someone you love, so you’d stay here in Denver with me until you fall out of love with me.”
His eyes narrowed further. “Not going to happen.”
Huge relief filled all of her, seemed to flow through every artery and vein, slipped down every tiny nerve, pumped with every beat of her heart. But she continued with her line of reasoning. “You might fall out of love with me if I tied you down.” Another breath. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you.”
She smiled. “A good start. I want you, too.” She wet her lips, thought her legs were less noodle-like so she could at least walk across the hall to sit on the carved storage bench. “What about your job?”
His muscles seemed to ease. “Rickman’s okay.”
Relief trickled but she couldn’t relax. “Do you want to stay in the Denver metro area? Rather be in Colorado Springs, or, ah, stop the lease on your family house in Boulder and live there?”
Zach shrugged.
“Help me out, here, Zach. What do you need to stop itching?” Darn, her voice began to rise. Steady. Easy. “Do you want to buy a house of your own? Obviously, your name on this house doesn’t make you feel like it’s yours. As I said, I’ll correct that error tomorrow.”
“Good.” His shoulders rolled as if he struggled with a burden. “Nothing permanent.”
“Do you want to talk to Mrs. Flinton and Mr. Welliam about moving back into your apartment at her place?” Clare coughed. “With or without me?” Trying a smile, she found she could curve her lips, which had seemed cold and frozen like all the rest of her face. “I think, with a little nudging, they might, ah, make the decision to marry.”
His head tilted. “No, I don’t want to live there.”
All right, now her patience had strained. Don’t show it. “You walked in and the smell hit and made you feel itchy.”
“Yeah.”
“And that the house isn’t what you want.”
“Sort of.”
“What do you want!” she snapped, hoping to surprise an answer from him.
“I want a good neighborhood to jog in!”
They stared at each other. This was a good neighborhood to jog in.
“I can’t jog,” he said flatly, tromped over, and sat next to her.
She took his strong hand, twined her fingers with his.
Ghost Maker Page 29