Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  “What?” she demanded.

  “I think . . .” Not that he was thinking much. But somehow the deep yearning reached a peak and burst into something different than just sex to . . . more. Sharing intimacy.

  “Tenderness.” The word dropped from his mouth. Now he stepped back, still holding her hands, and locked gazes with her. A shudder ran through him . . . His body trying to overwhelm his mind, no, his heart. Not this time. He’d hold on to the sweet-painful edge of control to the very last instant. “Lemme show you tenderness.”

  A wild light in her eyes flamed, then banked; her expression turned completely open, defenseless, vulnerable. Her hands went limp in his, her body swayed to his and he almost, almost lost it. He swallowed. Raising her hands to his shoulders, he reveled in the touch of her fingers on his bare skin. He framed her face in his palms, again aware of their sensitivity, how smooth her golden skin was, then slid his hands into her thick, untamed hair, letting the strands move along the backs of his hands, the tips of his fingers. He caught his breath, scented her, and that added to all the other aspects that were simply Clare, his woman. His lover. His.

  He tilted her head, angled his own, and pressed his mouth gently, gently on hers. She opened for him, as she’d always opened for him, body and emotions. Their breaths mingled, and just that thinned his control to a thread. He withdrew from her, watching her nude body still sway, her head still back, her mouth still open, and her eyes closed. His woman openly showing her desire for him.

  With gritted teeth, he opened his belt, carefully unzipped his jeans over his straining dick, shoved down his jeans and boxers, and pulled off his shoes. Hell with the brace; he’d leave it on.

  Her head slowly straightened, her skin that blushing peach under gold. So tempting, all of her.

  She’d opened her eyes and the hazel of her irises, mixed green and brown with flecks of gold, were only a thin rim around her pupils. Her gaze dropped to his thrusting erection and she smiled.

  He swooped. Just lifted her into his arms, took the few steps to the bed, put her on it. “Please.” His whisper was hoarse. And was he pleading? Sounded like that. Who cared? “Let me look at you. Please.”

  Her breath sifted from her and she closed her eyes.

  So beautiful, full breasts now flattening a little, curve of the stomach, hair redder at the junction of her legs than on her head. He looked between her thighs and his dick twitched and he had to yank his stare back to her face . . . her lovely face, the overall shape of her, the just plain rightness of her.

  He leaned over her, touched her forehead, feathered his fingers down from her temple to the corner of her lips.

  She smiled and he knew with sweet pleasure that she thought of nothing but him; no shadows darkened her mind.

  He continued to trail his fingers over her body, cherishing her, the swell of her breast; the touch of her nipple on his palm again made his arousal stronger.

  The room dimmed. Though the rain had stopped, clouds moved over any weak sun. Shadows artistically shaded her body, emphasizing her beauty. He straightened and just soaked in the sight of her until her own eyes opened and she stared at him, pupils still big, mouth soft.

  Teasing himself, he lay down next to her. Propped on his side and his elbow, he caressed her some more, tracing her collarbone, drawing his finger down the center of her body. She stayed quiet. Back up and stopping to put his hand over her heart, the quickened thump matched the pulse in her neck. Her skin felt like silk under his fingers. Their gazes met and matched and as they looked at each other, everything else in the world dropped away. Only Clare was real.

  With the lightest of touches, he stroked one nipple, then the other, watched them tighten more into small thrusting peaks. His mouth watered as he recalled the softness and the shape of her breasts against his lips, but he didn’t want to move. The moment, the atmosphere of true intimacy spun around them, enveloping them in a bubble of special time.

  The natural light flickered as the limbs of the tree tossed dark patterns over them.

  “Just beautiful,” he said.

  She smiled, flushed darker, the pink of her blood under her tan making her even more striking. “You, too,” she whispered. Her glance went to his erection and her fingers crept close and he caught her hand and raised it to her lips. “Let me.”

  Now her lips formed in a pout. “I have been. And you’re being slow.”

  “Tender,” he reminded her. He leaned down, close, closer until his lips barely skimmed hers, let his breath brush over her lips, inhaled hers. They breathed together, exchanged that life essential. God. Wonderful. Had he ever taken the time to go so slowly with lovemaking when he wasn’t buried in a woman? He didn’t recall. Didn’t recollect sex with any other woman than Clare, not now. They’d all faded from his memory.

  He put her hand on his face, needing her touch there . . . and she stroked his cheek and he had to close his eyes at her gentle caress, as if she cared, as if she’d take care with him. Cared what he felt and thought and was.

  As he did with her. More than sex. More than a lover. Just plain more.

  His hand flattened as he wanted to feel the touch of her skin against all his fingers and palm. So very smooth as he caressed her, ending again at the juncture of her legs.

  They widened and her hips rose a little. He petted her, soft and gentle. As he met her gaze, he saw she remained focused on him. Her sex was damp, then wet as he drove her higher, watching her eyes fog, her body strain, caught up in the strive for climax. Her whole body flushed, tightened, tiny cries left her plump and parted lips.

  He could hold on. Could do this for her, watch her, stringing out his own fulfillment, living instant by instant with steel need because she looked so beautiful, responded so freely to his touch.

  Then she shuddered, gasped, and turned her head, her eyes wide and her stare fixed on him. She smiled.

  And he lost it—the control and the wish to be tender. Evaporated in the steam of lust. With a grunt, he rolled to her, tucked her soft body under his and thrust into her hard. Wet, hot, tight . . . and her hum of pleasure rose to his ears and he felt big and hard and who cared about anything else. He had his woman under him, was in her, and would make damn sure she knew that no one would need her as much as he did. No one would give her more.

  He groaned with each desperate plunge into her, each withdrawal too long. Her arms and legs clamped around him, she arched, her hips kept time and God that was good! Then her inner muscles clamped around him and nothing in his entire life ever felt that great. Throwing back his head, he shouted as he came. Another, quieter moan, as he subsided on top of her, lay against her, felt the dampness of sweat between them, his and hers.

  His mind grayed and he slipped into a timeless place of complete contentment for a while . . . until her breathing slowed and began to sound forced. When he had enough energy to make the effort, he rolled and kept himself under her, let her cover him, and his own body went limp.

  She felt boneless, too. So it had to have been good for her. At least took her mind off every damn fear she might have with regard to this job. And, no, he didn’t want to even attempt thinking about this case. Let their brains rest, cherish the moment. Live in the moment.

  Time passed until he realized they lay in muted sun squares and understood what they meant—the rain, snow, sleet was gone. He got up and took a quick shower, meeting no one coming or going. As soon as Clare had done the same, and they were both dressed, he opened the outside door.

  “The day’s cleared . . . at least for now. Come on out on the balcony. There’s a fair number of people to watch.”

  “All right. Oh, there’re tables and chairs. I could work out here.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both went to the lavender rail. Zach tested it before he let her lean on it. Now birds had gathered in the trees and
chirped and peeped. Still no crows. All to the good.

  The street below, especially in front of the hardware store in the only town of Mineral County, had gotten some traffic.

  He watched people walk up and down the opposite sidewalk.

  Following his gaze, she saw him take in the closed bar at the south end of the street, in what she now knew was the first brick building to go up after the fire in June 1892, and she studied the old buildings as he did, the tourist shops, the restaurant, all the way up to the next street and to the large, newer construction—the county building. Which would, of course, house the sheriff’s department.

  She sidled closer to him, leaned against his side. His arm came around her, giving her more warmth in the cool air. No one below looked at them, and she didn’t hear any sounds from the rooms that shared the balcony with them.

  Keeping her tone light, she said, “I bet I can guess what you’re thinking.”

  He grunted. They stood another few heartbeats in silence and he looked at her. “What?”

  “That you want to go look at the actual site of the accident where the old lady fell and drowned, not just the stream as we did together.” Clare grimaced, not something she was interested in. “Then you’d like to talk to the sheriff again.”

  “I’d have to talk to someone in the sheriff’s department to find out where the accidental fall took place, maybe run it by them so I could take a look. But those Paises, elder ex-sheriff and the younger current sheriff, weren’t welcoming.”

  She gave a short laugh. “And you didn’t like that.”

  He jerked a shoulder. “Who would?”

  “But you want to be accepted by the local police.”

  “It sure would make finding things out here a little easier.”

  “You think clues in the here and now can lead to our historic ghost.”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right.” She pointed at him. “And you think that Pais the elder, the ex-sheriff, would have talked to his grandson about meeting us and given the current sheriff his observations.”

  Zach stared at her, scratched his jaw. “Well, yeah, of course.”

  She pursed her lips. “You think we made an acceptable impression on Pais?”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “Yeah, despite what he said, despite his threat, once he really thought about us, I believe he’d’ve revised his impression. I’m sure he’s curious, and I think that they both will have done a deeper research run on us.”

  “Oh.”

  He leaned over and kissed her mouth, and she felt the teasing sweep of his tongue on her bottom lip before he withdrew. “You’re squeaky clean.”

  “Except for being thought a crazy psychic medium.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “Well, yeah, except for that, and that’s relatively recent.” He slanted her a look. “I wondered why you brought that up with ex-sheriff Pais.”

  She shrugged. “He asked.” Her lips curved in a wobbly smile. “I always stated my profession up front.”

  “You were an accountant.”

  “A lot of people find—found—accountants boring.”

  “Not me.”

  “Thanks. But though I am changing, I can feel it, I want to keep some parts of me as much as I was as I can.” Her smile faded. “If that makes sense. Mason Pais, Jr., asked why I was here and I gave him a straight answer. One he might not believe, but one that reflected who I am . . . now.” She sighed. “And I have to become used to being thought a crazy psychic medium. That’s my life now, people doubting me. Evade or lie to them when they first ask and later they doubt me even more.”

  He kissed her. “You’re one of a kind, Clare.”

  Another sigh. “I’ve been hoping that’s not true. In any event, the elder Pais asked and I answered with the truth. Besides, I needed to emphasize that Caden is in danger and they should be watchful.”

  Zach’s fingers curved around the thin top of the rail, gripped, and released. “I’d bet good money that the Paises—or people they asked—contacted both Mrs. Rickman and Mrs. Flinton.”

  Clare just sighed, then checked her watch. “It’s way after business hours, maybe a volunteer from the historical society has contacted me by e-mail and we can set up an appointment to look at the archives before Friday.”

  “That would be good,” Zach said, but his stare remained focused on the county building.

  “Go.” She pushed at him. “I can look at those local books I bought, if nothing else.” She could also consider how to blood her ancestress’s darn bone knife. That was going to take some planning.

  “Right.” Zach pushed away, met her glance and stilled a second, curving his hand around her face. “Beautiful Clare.” Another quick kiss. “Later.”

  “Um-hmm.” She didn’t follow him back into the small room. Instead she wiped off the damp remaining from the rain, snow, sleet, or the whole combination, from the table and two chairs on their side of the balcony. Soon she heard the creaky door to the hotel below her open, then saw Zach stride out with that old-fashioned cane he used. Because he was studying an old-fashioned cane defense system.

  She would have to ask him for knife lessons. Darn it.

  As soon as he vanished through the side door of the beige one-story county building, she went back into the room, and the heat of it contrasting with the outside air made her just stand and soak it up a bit before she marched over to the thermostat. Zach had turned it up. So thoughtful of him.

  She got her tablet and checked the e-mail, nothing. She also checked her telephone because she’d left a message at the number printed on the notice taped to the archives window. No return call. Well, the people who helped out at the historical society with the records would have to be volunteering their time, doing it for a love of the history of their town and county, so no use getting upset at them for not being available on her schedule.

  After taking care of those two small tasks, Clare rose from the table. She couldn’t sit, couldn’t settle down.

  The amount of control she had over this situation was minuscule and she wanted to be doing, even researching, more than just looking at books that might not apply to her case, or scanning the Internet for more stories that were nothing but fictional legends.

  So she paced the small room, arms wrapped around herself. She’d have included the balcony, but she didn’t want the whole world to see how agitated she felt. Her ribs that had cracked in her last major case ached, and she could swear that she yet felt a twinge of where the ghost’s ice splinter had lodged during the fight the night before.

  This whole business emphasized the danger of her new vocation. She considered each of the last few weeks, and her few triumphs, as if it were a ledger sheet and had a bottom line of whether she’d achieved her goals or not.

  First, if she hadn’t accepted her gift, she would have died. She believed that implicitly since she had been dying, freezing to death in the hottest summer on record in Denver.

  She had accepted it and survived. Credit.

  Second, if she accepted her gift, but didn’t use it to help ghosts, she’d go mad.

  Currently her mind handled the ghosts in an orderly manner, and they appeared . . . acceptable . . . to her inner vision, dressed in what they wore, or cared to wear, during their lifetimes. But she vividly recalled when they’d come to her as they’d died, burned horribly, strangled . . .

  Or, even worse, when white wraiths and shredded spirits pressed around her, wailing in her mind like banshees that wouldn’t let another single thought into her head. She hadn’t seen or heard or experienced anything except them.

  No, not at all hard to go mad under those circumstances. As far as she knew, that particular circumstance lasted all of her life. If she didn’t use her gift she’d go insane.

  That had been close, b
ut again she’d prevailed.

  Worst of all, if she died or went mad and then died, the family gift would go to her nine-year-old niece, Dora, who lived in Williamsburg, Virginia, and loved all things of Colonial America. Dora might be more flexible of mind than Clare, but she sure wasn’t ready to handle the family gift-curse. Clare had spoken to Dora last week and the girl did want to discuss the gift and learn about it. So Clare could train her, eventually, not too soon. As far as Clare was concerned the looming gift-curse should not be allowed to besmirch Dora’s childhood.

  Without thought, she walked back to the table and her phone and scrolled through her contacts. When she reached Desiree Rickman, her finger hovered over the SeeAndTalk app.

  Yes, she wanted to talk to someone. Desiree Rickman was an operative, physically impressive, both in beauty and the command she had over her body. A woman who could keep up her end in a fight. Not at all like Clare in that area. And Desiree believed in psychic powers, even more than Clare. That was a plus.

  Most of all, she was the right gender.

  Clare touched the app.

  Before she could have second thoughts, Desiree’s fabulous face with a curious and cheerful expression appeared. “Hi, Clare!”

  Words fell from Clare’s lips. “Do you know how to soak a knife in blood?”

  FOURTEEN

  WITH JUST THE slightest lifting of her brows, Desiree said, “Hmm. Maybe. Let’s see the knife.”

  “It isn’t flat.”

  Desiree nodded. “That complicates things.”

  It had for Clare. She’d considered the volume she might need to soak the knife. Not really much if it was just the blade, which was thin, but for the hilt? That was a good two inches or so. She wanted to give up no more blood than necessary.

  “Let’s see the blade,” Desiree repeated.

  Clare hesitated. The knife drew the ghost, but how likely was the ghost going to want to confront the blade? The specter hadn’t liked the weapon the night before; Clare had sensed that.

  As far as Clare knew, apparitions didn’t get any extra-intelligence about supernatural things after death. Surely the monster didn’t know Clare would have to . . . bloody . . . the knife before it could really hurt the thing. “Just a minute,” Clare said.