Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  Patrice Schangler shifted in place near the door, ready to open it when needed. But she missed her cue. The doors were flung open and one of the most stunning women Clare had ever seen strode in. She wore tight, faded denim jeans, a long-sleeved red top with inset white lace against gorgeous café au lait skin, and high-heeled boots of dark brown leather that came up to her knees.

  Her face showed the beauty of mixed races, with long and slightly tilted deep brown eyes, arched black brows, and long black hair with hints of mink brown.

  In general, Clare liked her body, thought of herself as womanly, soft with full breasts, a narrower waist, curvy hips. This woman was leaner, with defined muscles, and an air of complete competence. Clare suddenly wanted to have a body like the new guest’s, though it looked like it would take a lot of work.

  “Hello, Laurentine.” The newcomer inclined her head toward the multimillionaire. She turned to look at the housekeeper, who nearly vibrated with intense emotion. “Hello, Patrice. Can you have my duffel taken upstairs, please?”

  The moment and the atmosphere turned into one of those crystal-clear stage-like scenes for Clare . . . knowledge screeched along her nerves that the three other women here had slept with Laurentine.

  She hoped her face revealed none of the shock or distaste, but she did fade back a step, drawing the new arrival’s attention. The unknown lady flashed Clare a smile full of fun that nonetheless showed perfect white teeth.

  Missy Legrand had stiffened and strolled over to Mr. Laurentine, threading her arm through his the instant he pushed away from the chair. He disengaged and sauntered a few paces to embrace the striking woman.

  Clare was not surprised to see how easily the newcomer evaded him, but managed a kiss on his cheek, and caught his hands with her own.

  “It’s good to see you, Desiree,” Mr. Laurentine said. “What brings you here?”

  Of course she’d be named Desiree.

  “Why, Dennis, you always said I could drop in on you anytime. I needed a break from the city.”

  Clare blinked. Desiree’s voice was higher than Clare had expected; she’d thought she’d hear low and husky. Clare wondered which city she needed a break from, Los Angeles . . . New York . . . Paris. The woman had a slight accent Clare couldn’t place.

  With a smooth move like dancing or martial arts, Desiree turned and slid away from Mr. Laurentine and slipped one of his arms around Missy’s waist, then stepped out of the man’s reach. Desiree winked at the actress.

  Missy’s brows rose and her lips twitched upward.

  “Like I said, I needed a break,” Desiree said with a smile at Missy, then gave the same smile to Clare, who blinked.

  “And to keep an eye on things,” Desiree ended.

  A disdainful sniff came from Patrice Schangler, who was fiddling with her diamond watch, and jolted Clare into recalling the woman was there.

  “I’m not paying you, am I, Desiree, as a security consultant?” asked Mr. Laurentine with an edge of suspicion in his tone.

  The woman laughed. “Not this time.” Her brown eyes sparkled, and with a lilt of glee, she said to Clare, “I’ll bet no one’s shown you the highest lookout point on the ridge, have they? Come on, let’s take a walk.”

  Clare blinked as she realized that “keeping an eye on things” might refer to the assault on her last night. “You’re correct. I haven’t explored any of Mr. Laurentine’s estate.” She didn’t move.

  Another laugh from Desiree, with head tilted back and beautiful throat shown, though Clare sensed the woman still observed everything from under her lashes. When she finished the rippling laugh, Desiree held out a long, fine-boned hand to Clare. “I’m Desiree Rickman. Tony is my husband.” The laughter in her voice smoothed into a proud smile.

  Clare finally noticed a thin, engraved gold band on Desiree’s left ring finger. “Oh.”

  “Let’s walk and talk,” Desiree said, exuding charisma. Clare felt like she was sinking into a vat of effervescent syrup for the third time and going under. In no way would she be able to keep up with this woman.

  “All right,” Clare said, but glanced down at her frothy sundress and sandals. “I need to change clothes and shoes.”

  “I’ll wait.” Desiree put her hands on her hips, pivoted on one of her high heels, which Clare had no doubt the woman could stride up any hiking path in existence in.

  Turning slowly and studying the room, Desiree Rickman said, “Dennis, your house looks great. I didn’t visualize this when I saw the plans five years ago. Very well done.”

  Mr. Laurentine beamed. “Thank you. Let me, uh, us, show you around. Patrice?”

  “I have work to do. I’ll get your bag.” The housekeeper slipped from the room. Mr. Laurentine shrugged, made a sweeping gesture. “Take a good look, Desiree.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Clare murmured. Yesterday, she’d have taken the stairs fast. Now she scrutinized each step before she set her foot on it.

  When Clare returned to the great room, Desiree Rickman was talking to Rossi and the man who Clare recognized as the main caretaker of Curly Wolf, and a security guard. Clare was sure Desiree drew a small crowd of men—anyone—within her range. She had that kind of charisma, and seemed a sociable sort.

  Desiree nodded to Clare. “Let’s go. You’ll love the view.” With a smile for her admirers, she strode out the door and Clare trailed after her dubiously.

  Once they were away from the house, Clare felt Desiree’s scrutiny but said nothing as they walked up the hill. The path wasn’t too arduous an incline and was wide enough for two. Most of the way had a rising hillside to her left and a steep drop-off to her right. Desiree took the outside.

  Fifteen minutes later, they’d hiked up and along the ridge to a craggy point that was only slightly taller than the house. There Clare found a bench had been set in concrete atop a rock outcropping. The seat was wood, the arms and back were curlicued iron, showing the initials DL in the top. Any small trees and brush that would have blocked the view of South Park basin had been cleared. The wide mountain valley rolled out in front of them, showcasing the north fork of the South Platte River, which wandered through the yellow-grassed landscape.

  “Quite a view, isn’t it?” asked Desiree.

  “Yes.”

  To the right, and below them, she could see the peaked roofs and false fronts of Curly Wolf, then the winding and manicured drive from the DL Ranch into the valley, then South Park itself.

  Desiree said, “I wanted to introduce myself to you and welcome you to the Rickman Security and Investigations family.” She met Clare’s eyes. “And let you know you can trust me, in every way.”

  Desiree sat first, and Clare looked out at the view and soaked in the quiet before taking a seat. If she couldn’t trust Tony Rickman’s wife, whom could she trust? But not in every way.

  Enzo? she asked. The dog appeared and zipped around the woman sniffing. I like her, Clare!

  Clare wasn’t sure that was any recommendation.

  She smells good! Enzo barked, then laid his chill body on Clare’s feet.

  To Clare, despite Desiree’s beauty, the woman smelled slightly astringent. Clare brushed her hair back from her face so she could get a whiff of her own perfume, the one that called to her gypsy heart and made her feel sexy.

  As she studied Desiree with a sidelong glance, which the woman knew about and seemed fine with, Clare figured that Desiree was the type Zach would usually choose: muscular, able to handle herself in any situation, thought fast and well on her feet . . . Most of those qualities Clare lacked.

  Desiree stretched out her legs, seemingly casual, though she felt alert next to Clare as Zach so often was. Clare let the fresh air, the warmth of the sunlight, slip serenely through her, aware of Desiree but letting silence spin between them. A few more breaths and a meditative state began to envelope—

  Desiree’s feet twitched. “Wow,” she said, turning her head to meet Clare’s eyes. “You do that pretty well.” She continued
to consider Clare. “There’s a lot under that uptight accountant look of yours, isn’t there?” Another smile showing perfect teeth.

  Clare responded with a stingy smile of her own. “Meditation is a new process for me. Due to circumstances.” She ignored the slur. Somehow, even in jeans and a silk shirt—well, all right, it was a button-down shirt with a collar she’d had forever and was soft and . . . but the collar was buttoned down. Yes, her image hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought, especially as much as she felt she’d changed. She slid more into a slouch. Desiree laughed.

  Words escaped Clare’s lips. “So you’re Tony Rickman’s wife.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Desiree said, returning her stare to the view. Her smile moved into a grin. “He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?”

  “I didn’t notice,” Clare said politely. She hadn’t paid much attention to the man, and her main impression was big, tough, older than she, and authoritative.

  Another ripple of laughter from Desiree. She nudged Clare with her elbow. “Good.” And with a sigh, the woman’s manner became quieter, not so much look-at-me! Did she reel in the charisma somehow?

  “Tony’s aura is so complex and intense, layered with deep colors,” Desiree said.

  EIGHTEEN

  CLARE JERKED, STILLED. She should have guessed. Everyone she knew who was associated with Tony Rickman had shown herself or himself to be a little odd. “Aura?” Clare asked.

  Another nudge from the woman.

  “You don’t believe in someone who can see auras, Ms. Ghost Seer?” Desiree asked, then continued. “Tony’s like the sun, pulling interesting people into his gravitational field. But then, he has help with that from his godmother, Barbara. She introduces people to Tony. She has a pretty aura, too. All blues and pastels with a hint of sparkle.”

  “Barbara?” Clare asked.

  “Barbara Flinton.” Desiree’s lips curved. “She has a smattering of several psychic gifts. Nosy old lady,” she added with great affection.

  Enzo shifted on Clare’s feet then leapt right onto Desiree’s lap, nearly taller than she. She showed no indication she noticed him.

  He thumped over to Clare, swiped his cold tongue along Clare’s cheek, and hopped back down to her feet. This time he sat, looking up at her, and his tongue came out to flick his nose. This female smells good. But she doesn’t have our magic. Our gift. Her gift is for the living only.

  A pang went through Clare, and envy nipped at her with little sharp bites. This woman, so full of life, had a gift that embraced life. Clare was stuck with ghosts. What did that say about her?

  Enzo barked. It says you can see more! That you are a Rom, a Cermak. Like Sandra and all the others!

  This time Clare felt the weight of the quiet between her and Desiree, and that it had lasted a little too long. Clare said, “Barbara Flinton being Tony Rickman’s godmother explains a couple of things.” Like how Tony knew all about Clare. She and Barbara Flinton had met and been to tea before she and Rickman had met.

  “I’m sure it does.” Now Desiree had angled to scrutinize Clare again, perhaps looking at her aura.

  “Clare, may I call you Clare? Please call me Desiree. And if I could make a personal comment, Clare?” Desiree said.

  Clare was surprised she even asked. Shrugging, Clare said, “Sure, call me Clare. As for personal comments, why stop now?”

  Desiree chuckled. “Your aura is a little thin around the edges.”

  “Is it? What does that mean?’

  With a sober expression, Desiree said, “It means you’re coming into your gift. You still have layers and layers to go. But it’s very beautiful.” This time her smile was sincere in the face of Clare’s gaze. “And someday, all those gypsy colors—the scarlet, the gold, the purple, the gleaming copper—will be radiant around you, nearly blinding to the inner eye. I’ll need sunglasses.”

  “Uh-huh,” Clare said skeptically.

  A movement caught Clare’s eye and she turned to see Zach striding up the path, using his cane and with a fierce expression on his face.

  When he saw her, he seemed to ease . . . though his gaze had gone to Desiree first—because she was a newcomer, or a threat, or because she was stunning?

  “Hrmph.” Desiree scowled, a little line twisting between her eyebrows. “I suppose that’s your Zach Slade? Jackson Zachary Slade?”

  “Yes.” Clare knew that even that one word lilted with affection, perhaps more, for the man.

  Desiree looked irritated. “Rossi would have told him you were safe with me.” She squinted as if checking out Zach’s aura. Then her tone changed. “Hmmm. I understand what you see in him. Nice colors. Darker than my Tony’s. More pain, both old and recent.” She stared at Clare, then Zach again. Desiree’s lips quirked and a brow rose. “I can also see that you complement each other.” There she really caught Clare’s attention, enough that she wanted to probe deeper into the topic.

  Desiree frowned as she continued to appraise Zach. “He has some sort of gift, too. Not surprising, but . . . hmmm. What is it?” She shook her head. “I can’t tell, because he’s suppressing it.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Clare muttered.

  Desiree switched topics. “Nice body.”

  Clare tensed. “Yes.”

  “Go to him,” Desiree said with a small urgency. “He’d like that.”

  Sitting straighter, Clare asked, “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” Desiree hit her with a shoulder nudge.

  Clare stood and ran the few yards toward Zach, who’d reached the flat area. He stopped and braced himself, but she didn’t fling her weight at him, just moved in easily, hugging him, brushing a kiss on his lips.

  For an instant his arms tightened nearly painfully and she thought another piece of uptight Clare crumbled.

  She didn’t know exactly who she was becoming, this ghost seer, Clare; Zach’s lover, Clare. Fear of change still zoomed a whirlpool inside her. But she might be able to like the person she was becoming. She did enjoy the feel of his strong, hard, rangy body against hers, and how her own, softer parts cradled against his.

  She hooked her arms around him and swept her tongue across his lips . . . but his taste and that of coffee and maybe a hint of chocolate tempted her and she tested his mouth with her tongue. He opened his lips, and she delved in for more than a taste.

  “Yo!” called Desiree, far too soon, and Clare leaned back to look into Zach’s darkened blue-green eyes.

  “Glad to see me?” he asked with a pleased smile at her.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He stepped back from her and began walking toward Desiree. Clare wanted to take his arm, but couldn’t. Disabling his gun hand wouldn’t endear her to him.

  Desiree watched them approach with a smile. When they were a couple of yards away, she said, “You know how to use that cane as a weapon.”

  They stopped and Zach scanned Desiree with his cop stare. “Yeah. I know how to use the cane as a weapon.” He twirled it, a side of his mouth lifted and he winked at Clare.

  To Desiree, he said, “You’re Rickman’s wife? Pleased to meet you.”

  “Tony’s my husband,” Desiree said, coming to them and offering her hand. “Call me Desiree.”

  Zach shook it briefly. “You and Tony are quite a pair, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we are.” She rolled a shoulder and continued. “How’d your discussion with the sheriff go?” Desiree asked, just as Clare said, “What did you find out at the Park County Archives about J. Dawson’s death?”

  “We’ll talk later.” He glanced at the view, said, “Pretty,” then jutted his chin back toward the path.

  “You want to leave already?” Clare asked. She swept a hand to the bench. “It’s lovely up here.”

  Zach grunted. “We’re on the job.” He glanced at Desiree then back to Clare. “At least you and I are.”

  Clare shook her head. “No, I consider this personal time.” She suppressed a sigh. “And you have new information.”
<
br />   “Not exactly new, but important.”

  “All right.”

  Zach gestured for Desiree to go first.

  She lifted her chin. “I’m taking care of Clare.”

  “Clare can take care of herself,” Clare said. Neither of the two deigned to reply since they were caught in a stare-off and didn’t want to give an inch, so Clare started down the trail herself.

  “Dammit, Clare!” Zach called. “Stay close.”

  Desiree’s rippling laugh followed Clare as she strode down the path.

  There was a shot, and the next thing Clare knew, she was on the ground with a body atop her and the pain in her ribs stopped her breath and had black spots dancing before her eyes. Her cheek had hit a rock, but she didn’t think it was broken.

  The body—Desiree, who wasn’t as tall as Clare but whose muscles were sure enough harder—removed herself and dusted herself off.

  “Wha—” Clare blinked as the sun hit her eyes, dazzling her.

  Zach dropped his cane, reached down, and hauled her up, one handed with his left hand. His right fingers curled around the grip of his weapon. Nausea swam in her stomach, crawled up her throat, and she dropped her head and concentrated on breathing through it.

  “Wow,” Desiree said. “You really hit your cheek. Gonna have a bruise.”

  “Rifle shot, Desiree,” Zach said. From the corner of her eyes Clare could see him scanning the area.

  “I don’t think it was aimed at her, Zach. I didn’t see anything,” Desiree said. “Maybe the shot wasn’t even here on Dennis’s ranch. Sound carries.”

  “I don’t like it,” Zach snapped, but he holstered his weapon under his jacket. He bent down and picked up his cane, went around to the valley side of the path, and crowded Clare nearly into the hillside. He took her arm. The better to throw her down again, she figured. “Though there’s bound to be some sort of hunting going on now.”

  “Stop it, Zach,” Clare managed.

  “What?” he asked, not looking at her, his gaze continuing to rove from the hillside to the path to the valley. Desiree walked behind them.