Zach didn’t say he’d be there as long as it took. “A week maybe.”
“Enjoy Creede,” the sheriff said, dismissing him.
“Thanks, I will. I’ll leave you to it. My lady and I can check out the Bachelor Loop tomorrow.”
“Have a good stay,” Linscomb added.
“We’ll do that.” He gave them a half-salute, and walked back to Clare, swinging into the old cop stride, no matter that it tired his leg.
He figured either Linscomb or Pais would check him out, maybe before he and Clare got to the LuCettes.
Zach sure as hell hoped he didn’t see any more sets of four crows, but he doubted that hope would come true.
He told Clare briefly what had happened, but made it evident that he wanted to think about the situation and discuss it later. He got the impression that she did, too. He reversed to the last large turnaround spot, then drove back into town.
The LuCettes’ motel was a medium-sized U-shaped building of dark wood that had been treated to withstand the mountain elements. What looked to be a small swimming pool behind a fenced area had been covered for the season. A boy sat swinging in a little playground, watching their car as they pulled into the sparsely populated parking lot.
Zach heard Clare catch her breath. “Caden.”
“Looks like.”
SEVEN
ZACH PARKED AND they exited the car. He took the time to stretch the kinks out. The boy stopped swinging and came to the edge of the grass. He squinted at Clare, glanced at Zach sideways. Without looking at the kid, Zach bent down and massaged his left calf and ankle, adjusted the brace a little. When he straightened, the boy was staring at Clare and taking small steps toward her. Definitely Caden. Cute kid with something of Mrs. Flinton’s bone structure he’d have to grow into.
Clare said, “Mrs. Flinton sent me.”
Caden bulleted into her, hugging her tight. Clare’s hands fluttered, she held the boy for a moment, then crouched.
“Gram sent you. She did! And you’re like me, aren’t you?”
“I’m a ghost seer,” Clare said so quietly that Zach could barely hear her. “And, yes, I’m here to help you.” Though she put force into the words, Zach caught the edge of doubt, hoped the kid didn’t.
Caden gulped. “You won’t let it come after me? Won’t let it eat me?”
“Absolutely not.”
With a sigh, the boy stepped back.
Zach caught a movement through the window of the motel check-in, and said, “Let’s keep who we are quiet. Tell your parents if they ask. And, yeah, we’ll help you. We have a ghost-killing knife.”
As expected, the boy came around to greet Zach. “Can I see it?”
“Caden?” The door opened and a short, curvy, blond woman came out.
“Hi, Mom!” Caden’s cheer sounded forced to Zach. “Our new guests are here.”
“I see that.”
Clare turned to the woman and held out her hand with one of her professional smiles on her face. “Clare Cermak.” She tilted her head in Zach’s direction. “My partner, Zach Slade. We have reservations.”
The word partner had zinged to him, actually to his dick. Clare might mean it in a business sense, but his gut reaction had been that she was claiming him as her man. Oh, yeah, he liked that.
“I’m Jessica LuCette.”
Caden walked back to her, face bland. A kid shouldn’t have to hide his feelings like that from his mother. Zach and his older brother Jim hadn’t . . . only when the General was around. But this granddaughter of Mrs. Flinton didn’t support her son.
As the General hadn’t supported Jim and Zach, and enough about the ancient history of his childhood. This was here and now and they had this boy to save. Zach snagged his cane and limped heavier than usual around the car. Yeah, pity came to Mrs. LuCette’s eyes and he used it to distract her from any judgments she might have made about Clare. Zach didn’t think she’d seen the hug between her son and Clare.
The women had finished shaking, so Zach put his hand out. “Pleased to meet you.” Her grip was sturdy and short.
Zach smiled ruefully. “We’re ready to check in.” Mrs. LuCette turned for the door. Caden, after a wide-eyed look at them, followed her.
Zach used some of his professional charm on her, and got her chatting about Cruisin’ the Canyon. He didn’t bring up the murder-suicide or any other rough topics. She didn’t volunteer anything about her family or Caden, and he didn’t ask.
He lifted out the suitcases, slammed the trunk, and rolled his own to the door, because he didn’t think he’d need his free hand for his weapon.
So far, the town had been quiet, but not as slow as it would be in winter. Some of the businesses had closed already; most would shut down at the end of the month until late May or June.
Tourists from local towns or Denver might have driven down to see the fall color and stay. Clare had told him that Bachelor Loop was well known to have beautiful shows of golden aspen. From experience, an accident like the one they’d stumbled on—which a tingle at the back of his neck that snaked down his spine told him was no accident—would only close the road for a couple of hours.
No accident, but a murderous ghost. He rubbed his nape. He was really going there with cause and effect. A bullet of belief had lodged in him that a supernatural entity caused those deaths. He gave a passing thought to other freaky deaths he’d seen in his career, then rolled his shoulders. Those were past. This was right now, and he had to help Clare, protect her.
He sure didn’t like the sound of a ghost that ate people, particularly ghost seers. Clare was a rookie in the business. Sure, he’d seen her help specters pass on, and she’d handled herself well, but he didn’t like that a novice swimmer was being thrown into the deep end of the lake.
As soon as the door closed behind them and they were in the clean, tidy, and rustically furnished pine-paneled room, he said, “Show me this ghost-killing knife.” He was curious, and he wanted to see what would do the job.
* * *
With her bag still standing on its end, Clare unzipped a large compartment and pulled out the silk bag. She sat on the bed and picked at the fancy knot that tied two red silk tassels together. Zach stood leaning easily on his cane and watching her, which made her even more nervous.
“It feels like the sheath for the blade is about six inches long, and the handle is at least five. That’s over the knife-carrying limits for Denver, right?” She cleared her throat.
“Certainly, but we’re not in a big city and don’t know whether the blade is sharp enough to do anything except dispatch ghosts.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.” The knot finally wiggled loose and she straightened the drawstring. Then she opened the bag, reached in, and gripped a handle.
She froze.
“What?” asked Zach.
Forcing her lips to move, she said, “The handle feels right in my hand but also . . .”
“Also?” Zach prompted.
She wet her lips. “Bone. It feels like bone.” She’d hunched over, so now she straightened her spine, inhaled, and scowled. “I’ve learned the feel of bone in the last five days.”
Zach’s brows went up and he nodded.
Slowly she pulled out the knife, her palm sweating a little. Sure enough, the two knobs of a bone showed first . . . a large bone. A little squeeze of her stomach had her thinking this was a human bone. She’d handled those in the last week, too.
The whole hilt was bone; the curved blade remained snug in the sheath.
“Nice sheath,” Zach said.
“Beautiful,” Clare breathed, recognizing cloisonné work, enamel over metal, and decorated in an intricate pattern that pleased her eye—a blue, green, gold, and black wavy Hungarian pattern. With her free forefinger, she traced a sinuo
us golden line from tip to hilt, received a little sizzle along her nerves. Obviously a magical sheath, wide enough to accommodate the curve of an equally magical blade. The whole thing no doubt one of those gifts of the universe Great-Aunt Sandra wrote about.
A smile edged Zach’s mouth. “Intricate but not too girly.”
She lifted her chin. “I will have you know that the two or three ghost seers in my family before Great-Aunt Sandra were men.”
“Two or three? That’s not an exact figure, Clare,” he joked.
Clearing her throat and not meeting his gaze, she said, “My great-great-uncle Orun didn’t make it. He didn’t accept the gift and died. Froze to death.”
“Clare.” Zach sat next to her, took her hand. Her fingers were cold, not from ghosts, not from upcoming winter, but from simple fear.
Her glance grazed across his face before she continued, “It was bad for me, but worse for him.”
Now Zach moved his arm to around her shoulders, squeezed her, and warmth radiated to her from his lean and muscular body. “How could it be worse for him than for you? I saw what you went through.”
Leaning her head against his shoulder she met his eyes. “Yes, I nearly died of cold in the hottest ever Denver summer. But Orun inherited the ghost seer power in one of the coldest Chicago winters.”
“I see what you mean.” Zach squeezed her again and his arm dropped lower so his hand curved over her left breast.
“Ah, Zach, do you recall I have a blade on my lap?”
“I think I’m more interested in something soft than something sharp.”
“You don’t want to see what will kill a ghost?”
His lips came closer and closer, brushed the corner of her mouth. He took the sheathed knife and tossed it onto his horizontal bag, then lay down and carried her with him. They both rolled on their sides to face each other.
So fascinating, this man, to her. Strong, fierce features, the touch of bronze in his skin, his black hair with tints of dark mink brown. She feathered her fingers across his brow, down to the edge of his cheekbones, smiled. “I like looking at you.”
He chuckled. “No woman in my life has said that.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tease and mention his mother, but his mother was no teasing matter. Instead she laced a Hungarian-Slavic accent into her voice and said, “I am coming to appreciate the unusual.”
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close enough that she felt his arousal. “That’s my blooming Clare Cermak, leaving her tight, rational seed-shell.”
She put her arms around his neck, pressed even closer so her breasts flattened against his chest. “Having to leave my shell, much to my dismay,” she admitted. “And pretty much kicking and screaming.” She moved her mouth closer and closer to his, until she could smell his minty breath and could warm his lips with her own exhalations. Desire twined and spiraled between them, her heart sped up, her sex clenched, mind and body recalling the pleasure that this man could give her, would give her, without even asking for it.
With the tip of her tongue, she traced his lips, liked the shudder of his body against hers, showing she affected him. She wanted him more than just in her, and she realized he was more to her. He was close to her heart, the need for him rooted inside her so that if he walked away, she would tear. Her arms convulsed around him, yearning for that closeness that she’d felt with no other. No standing one step away from a relationship with Zach Slade.
Then his mouth slanted against hers, his tongue probed her own, and he tasted wonderful as he always did, and this time her heart gave an actual little lurch as she knew she was falling in love with him. She hadn’t ever been deeply in love before.
Thrilling.
Terrifying.
“My sweet Clare,” he murmured.
His hands had gone to her breasts, cupping them, molding them, his thumbs brushing across her nipples that had turned ultrasensitive and had her lower body pushing against his, which wrung a low moan from him.
She sank into the kiss, closed her eyes, and soaked in the pleasure of Zach’s taste and smell and the length of his body next to hers. Cherished this one moment.
Then she pushed against him and rolled away, off the bed and onto her feet.
“Wha—!”
“You have too many clothes on.”
His eyes gleamed. “You do, too.”
She grinned, wiggled her brows. “Let me help you with that issue.”
“Ah. All right.”
He sat with a smooth flex of excellent abs, smiled, and waited.
Clare moved before him, matched his gaze, loving his blue green eyes, loving, more, the sparkle in them. She set her hands on his shoulders, measured the muscle of them, the strength, the breadth. “Fine, fine shoulders,” she found herself saying.
His smile widened. “Glad you like them.”
“You are one prime male, Mister Slade.”
A shadow passed through his eyes, perhaps a thought of his disability, though, to her, that meant nothing but that he’d hurt and healed. Not without flaw, on the outside. And she knew some of his flaws on the inside—like a reluctance to let anyone help him in tight emotional spots, even his lover.
His hands settled on the curve of her hips and she nearly jolted. “You’re too quiet. I’m not sure I like it when my woman is too quiet. She might be plotting my downfall.”
Her brows rose and she gently knocked his hands away and he let her. “You’re right there, Mister. I’m going to make you . . . crazy. Crazy with lust.”
“You don’t have far to go.”
“Good.” Her fingers moved to the top button of his blue and gray flannel shirt. For a moment she flattened her hands against his chest so she could feel the soft material over the hard muscular wall of his body.
“Fine chest, too?” Zach asked.
“For sure.” She got to work on his buttons, not too slowly, not too quickly, just a steady rhythm that they could both appreciate. Now and then she’d put her hands inside his shirt and stroke his lightly haired chest, liking that texture against her palms, too. He sat still, but his breathing sped up.
She reached the top of his well-worn jeans and unsnapped them, slid her hands around his waist, pulled out the bottom, and finished working on the buttons, her fingers brushing his abdomen, his thighs, his erection. She wasn’t ready to give them both the pleasure of stroking his sex yet.
Putting her hands inside his shirt, she slid them up his strong torso. His body was hot, and hers was definitely getting there. The more she touched him, the more her own sex dampened, clenched, demanded his shaft. Again she moved her hands to his chest, trailed them upward to trace his collarbone, then removed his shirt. She folded it and placed it atop his bag.
Zach made a choking noise.
She met his amused eyes.
“These things have a proper order,” she said in her most prissy tone.
“Baby, you are driving me crazy.”
“Hardly, yet.”
“Uh. Do you think you can take your sweater off, too?”
She wore a thin burgundy cashmere sweater, and had put on black, lacy, and comfortable underwear for him. Studying him from lowered lashes, especially the thick length of his erection, she tilted her head. “I don’t think it’s time for me to disrobe.”
“Baby, lose the clothes.”
“No.” She took a step back.
EIGHT
“I LIKE LOOKING at you,” she repeated.
He sighed and his chest went in and out and accented more muscles. He remained a little thin from the shooting that had ruined his career and disabled him. He’d be even more incredible when he regained that muscle. Oh, yes.
Stepping back to him, she put her thumbs on his nipples and scraped them.
&
nbsp; “Good God, woman!” He jumped to his feet, six foot two to her five foot seven.
“You like that. Nice to know.” She reached for the zipper of his jeans and slowly drew the tab down; she couldn’t bear to hurt him.
His breath was still rapid, but had gone unsteady.
Finally, his jeans were open all the way and his hard arousal in white boxers pushed through pale denim.
If she dropped his pants, she’d have to mess with jeans around his shoes, so she knelt at his feet.
“Oh, man.”
“Woman here.”
“Don’t I know it. Sexy woman.”
“Not tonight,” she said. “Later.”
He swayed, steadied himself, and removed his holstered gun and bent to put it on the nightstand.
She waited, then went to work on his cross-trainers. She untied the laces, lifted his feet out of them, one, then the other, stroking the soles of his feet. The right one arched and flexed away from her touch; the other couldn’t. She placed each foot on the floor, went to work on his left ankle and calf brace and took it off, then his socks, folding them and putting them in his shoes. She rubbed his feet. He groaned and looked like he might topple backward before she got his jeans and boxers off, so she stood and stuck her thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and pulled them down, lifting them away from each foot.
Then she rose slowly, and on the journey, rubbed her body against his, her cashmere sweater teasing his abdomen and chest, and her hand went naturally to his erection, curved around it, hard, hot, thick behind his boxers. She tested his length, watching his straining expression and the barely controlled wild in his eyes, then she skimmed her fingernails along his shaft.
He made an incoherent sound, dragged her close, one hand clamped on her butt, the other curved around her neck, and he angled her head and ravaged her mouth with a deeply surging tongue.
Her knees weakened, her mind spun, and, oh, God, she wanted him in her, thrusting like that, sending her—them both—to ecstasy.
Ghost Killer Page 7