Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) (29 page)

Holding her hands, he stepped back to look at her, then moved in to kiss her lips, and she let his tongue probe her mouth. She savored his taste, and pulled his T-shirt up and off. His right hand reached to his back and he leaned and set his gun on the bedside table, and took a packet from the little drawer, dropped his own pants and boxers to reveal a thrusting erection, and sheathed himself with a condom.

Only the sound of their ragged breathing broke the quiet as they stood naked and facing each other.

They moved onto the bed at the same time, in tune like they’d been during the dance, her on the bottom and him between her open and welcoming thighs.

“I need,” he whispered. He locked hands with her, and entered her slowly, and she savored the feel of his body sliding into hers, fulfilling her . . . body.

And they glided together, skin caressing skin, slow to fast to perfect release as they cried out together.

He rolled and took her with him and they lay in the fading light together and she fell asleep.

•   •   •

His mind had turned off when he’d made love to her, but came right back on line when she went limp with sleep.

He’d let Clare down. Let himself down, dammit. And maybe he couldn’t talk about how his burgeoning psychic powers scared him. Maybe he couldn’t ask her to help. Not here, not now. But maybe he had a shot of figuring it out himself, if he worked at it . . . or followed his instincts.

Right now his gut said to go, because if he stayed, he’d hurt them both more, because she would press again and he’d remain tongue-tied. So beautiful, Clare. With luck, she should sleep through the night.

If he left, he might be able to clear this up fast, tonight. That wasn’t letting Clare help him, which would also hurt her. But he wanted this faced and done. He moved silently away from her and out of the house.

A bird cried and he flinched. But this time he stopped and deliberately looked around. And saw nothing. Not a bird, and no crows.

He opened the gate and went through, descended the three steps, and walked to his truck, ready for a lonely journey, because something twisted inside him couldn’t share.

He’d had no idea he was crippled inside, too.
That
he might be able to straighten.

Zach went to the place he’d be most comfortable, where strong people would surround him—a cop bar where a friend of his on the DPD hung out. Nobody would care if he talked or not, and would expect him to keep mum about hurt, his past, his lost brother, and especially, his strange psychic powers.

He was welcomed . . . with reservations. Some conversations stopped and some young police officers didn’t look at him because his disability stirred fears of the same in them. His friend was there, but preoccupied with a case he couldn’t talk about.

Though the atmosphere untangled a thread in Zach since he was among his tribe, it also emphasized his differences. He was more like an honorary member of the tribe, shoved to the side. Maybe consulted now and then about a piece of knowledge he might have that the warriors of the tribe didn’t, but he was no longer a warrior.

And this evening, some of these men and women were here in the bar because the alternative was an echoing empty apartment.

A cop’s life wasn’t easy, and often dangerous, and Zach hadn’t been ready to settle . . . before. Especially for a woman who didn’t understand the difficulty and danger. A woman who wasn’t strong enough to manage the wait while he was on duty and the dread of a knock at the door giving her terrible news.

He’d been in that situation of waiting for terrible news with his brother, Jim. He’d never forget that knock on the door.

He was no longer a warrior of this tribe.

Yet as he drove through the city bright and dark, he felt that despite their different pasts, Rickman and his men were accepting him into a different tribe. As a warrior, an integral part, not a man on the fringe.

He and Clare had taken turns in growing in fits and starts; occasionally he was ahead of her in the acceptance of their new lives category.

He’d dealt with the lack of respect others would give him in his new job first. He’d had no good opinion of private investigators in all of his career. And his cop friends pitied him because he had to step down into private investigations since he couldn’t cut it as a deputy sheriff anymore.

But in the depths of his heart, being disabled had always been a possibility in his career, and he’d known that.

Yeah, he and Clare had talked the “respect” thing out and he’d helped her there.

This evening, he wasn’t, quite, ready to let her help him.

Because if he did have some sort of gift in the past, it had failed him in his deepest need.

He didn’t want another one if it would fail him when he needed it . . . to protect Clare.

A DOOR CLOSING
woke her. The front door. Zach had left. She caught her breath on a sob, moved her legs up so she could rest her head on her knees, and let the tears wet the sheet as she heard his truck start up and drive away.

Would he come back?

Had she backed off of her core belief, that they should be equal partners, and compromised for nothing?

She let out a low moan, so different from the sounds they’d made a few minutes before. Finally she got up and put on a robe, stripped the bed, bundled up the sheets, took them down to the laundry room, and started a wash.

Then she braced herself for the bathroom—and the shower. She and Zach had made a practice of amazing shower sex.

She stepped into the glass enclosure with crossing sprays, readjusted them. She couldn’t avoid this just because it reminded her so much of Zach . . . but she’d never liked the bathroom in gray tints—who did that? Perhaps she’d consider replacing it sooner rather than later, done in cheerful yellow and colorful hand-painted tiles.

Enzo stuck half of his torso through the door.

“Eek!
” she squealed, slipped, and nearly fell. He’d been hard to see because he, too, was gray-verging-on-invisible.

Hi, Clare!
He gave a little sniff.
I like this water. I like the shower.

“Enzo! You scared me!” She stopped herself from demanding where he’d been.

His tail went from wag to droop.
I’m sorry, Clare.
His head swiveled.
Where’s Zach?

“Not here.” This time she said the words aloud, and they bounced harshly against all the walls in the room.

His forehead wrinkled.
You are fighting AGAIN?

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” she muttered, turning the spigots off.

Leaving the shower, with her legs passing through Enzo and chilling them so that the droplets froze and clinked in tiny tones on the floor as she moved, Clare toweled herself dry, then used the squeegee on the glass doors.

“I’m done talking about my relationship with Zach. You’ve been prodding me about learning.” She wrapped her plush robe around herself tightly and pulled the belt. “You once indicated that you could tell me which volumes of Great-Aunt Sandra’s journals would be the best to learn from.” She lifted her chin. “So let’s go do that now.”

Did she see a darkening of the mist in his eyes?

The Other answered her.
Look for the blue journals. The spirit who was Dillinger influenced her to put most of the information you—and Dora after you—need in blue journals.

Clare gulped, thought of the rainbow-colored bindings of all the journals she’d inherited from her formerly “weird great-aunt Sandra.” Only three or four were blue, weren’t they?

“Maybe you’d like to point me to a page . . .”

But Enzo was drooling on her foot.
I’m sorry Zach isn’t here with you, Clare.

Another swallow. “I am, too.”

Enzo licked her from ankle to shin in one long swipe. He stood and trotted toward the bathroom door, looked over his shoulder, and his eyes glittered with excitement.
But I have something for you, Clare! Yes, I do! It will cheer you up! Come look, on your dresser! You will LOVE it.
He jogged out of sight and Clare followed.

When she stepped on the thick carpeting instead of the cool, gray tile, her toes curled into it and she stood to savor the feeling that reminded her to live in the moment, not plan the future.

Enzo danced back to her, and around her.
Come ON, Clare. J. Dawson wanted something special from the in-between, and he made me promise to look and look and look and finally, I FOUND!

“Oh,” she said quietly, and now that Enzo was a dog once more and she could be vulnerable, she let tears trickle out. She hurried to her dresser more for the box of tissues than whatever gift J. Dawson had left her . . . and it was the ghosts who gave her gifts, not the universe rewarding her? Or maybe both . . . she’d received a coin as well as the watch the last time.

If the ghost has something he wants to leave you, he will.
Enzo sat by her dresser, panting.
J. Dawson’s things were all gone except for the nugget and Zach has that. But J. Dawson wanted me to give you something special.

“So it’s you who ‘rewards’ me?”

Enzo’s eyes shifted.
Maybe.

Another noncommittal answer. This time she wouldn’t press. She caught the gleam of gold and jewels in the low light and gasped. Turning on the small lamp, she stared at the brooch. The nearly three-dimensional, full-blown rose was layered in diamonds. Down the stem, the two buds set in gold had to be cabochon rubies, and the third was another diamond. The leaves of the small floral spray were enameled green with gold edges around them, framing the rose and buds, just gorgeous. Three long stems were also gold and tied with a diamond bow. Clare touched it with her fingertips. “It’s fabulous.”

Yay, yay, yay, we pleased you!
Enzo hopped around in circles.
J. Dawson saw a pretty flower like this on a rich lady’s dress and he wanted you to have it!

“It is very, very beautiful,” she replied solemnly, looking the phantom dog in his eyes. “Thank you.”

You’re welcome, Clare.
Enzo came and rubbed against her legs, and she decided she’d need a floor-length robe.

We appreciate you, Clare. And that you use your gift to help.

“Thank you, and thank J. Dawson for me, too.”

But Enzo shook his head.
I can’t. He’s gone to where I can’t go.

“All right.” Clare patted Enzo’s head and rubbed his ears. “It’s pretty early, but from the way I feel, definitely time for bed.” She hesitated, wanted to ask if she’d be presented with another case very soon or not, then decided she wasn’t in the mood to find out.

•   •   •

Maybe he could sweat the fear out of him, yank another strand or two of the twisted mess inside him straight enough that he could talk to Clare.

The gym for Rickman’s agents was downtown, always a pain to drive in, but the best option. He found his designated parking spot near the door was a handicapped one. His stomach tightened, but that would help with his aching foot and leg.

Fifteen minutes later he’d changed into workout clothes and limped into the gym, cane in hand. He had to leave the leg brace on, but guys wore braces, soft and hard, when they worked out. No big deal.

Yeah, it was, but he’d get over it.

And the man grunting on the weight bench wouldn’t care, not Tony Rickman. He must have caught the shadow of movement in the door because he looked at Zach and didn’t settle the weight in the rests, which seemed to have been his first instinct.

“Zach,” he said.

“Tony,” Zach replied, moving to a strength trainer, but feeling better about the brace. Rickman wore a tank that showed a couple of tats and more bullet and knife scars than Zach had.

Man had gone through some serious pain and hospital time. No wonder he got Zach. And as Zach grunted through the last training program his physical therapist had set up, he figured that many, if not most, of Rickman’s agents would be as battered as the two of them. Zach had been unlucky enough to draw the disability card, is all. Yeah, he liked Rickman. He liked Rossi. Zach could accept them as his tribe.

By the time he’d sweated through an hour of workout, he knew what he’d do about Clare.

•   •   •

Zach strode up to Clare’s door. The pattern of lights left on was different. Clare’d awakened, and he hadn’t left a note before he’d gone to untwist himself. Women hated that. He hadn’t spared her, them, trouble.

He used the doorbell, and when she didn’t answer, his gut did a loop and a squeeze that she was ignoring him, had already given up on him.

A worse idea was that she wasn’t home. Stupid to think an independent woman like Clare would stay where he left her. The neighborhood was safe and close enough to bustling Cherry Creek that she could walk to a club if she wanted.

So he used the fancy brass knocker. No answer.

Maybe she’d gone from sad to mad. That was okay; he could deal with her anger. It even excited him, his uptight Clare coming unraveled.

He was just about to go around the fence and to the backyard—he didn’t think she’d forgive him, yet, if he broke into her house . . . and had she already changed the alarm code on him? That was a question, a real indicator of where he might stand. His fingers shifted to the keypad, flicked in the air, ready to tap.

The door opened and Clare stood, hipshot and frowning, wearing a robe. He couldn’t tell whether she was naked under it or not. She crossed her arms over her breasts, looking magnificent, her hair wild, her skin with a glow that he had to resist kissing.

Instead he pried one of her hands away from her opposite elbow and stuck the key fob in it, spoke first since she deserved that he did so. “It’s hard for me to talk about some stuff,” he said.

“I don’t think partnerships, relationships should be easy.” She took a breath. “How can I help?”

They stared at each other under the light. He straightened his spine, met her dark gaze. “You can go with me to see my mother to puzzle out my psychic gift. She’s up and waiting for us. We’ll take your new Jeep. You can drive.”

That brought shock to her face, and her gaze went beyond him to the red Wrangler parked at the curb. He’d liked the one with the granite gray metallic paint job, but Clare now spent a lot of time in a world of grays, so he’d gotten the fire-engine red. “My. New. Jeep.”

Irritated, he hunched a shoulder. “Yeah. I bought it for you. Great for off-roading in the mountains . . . mountains without ghosts, even.” He tried a smile. She didn’t seem to notice as she stared at the vehicle.

“It’s pretty,” she murmured.

He winced. Looked tough and muscular to him, a nice vehicle for a guy or a gal.

Her stare arrowed back to him, her expression a little softer, and he relaxed.

Her brows went up. “You bought it?”

He expanded the explanation. “For you. I bought it for you. Your new Jeep. I have a good, black truck.” He wouldn’t mention that he’d gotten the option of “easy passenger access.”

She blinked. “You can’t give me a car, Zach. It’s too expensive a gift.”

But she was damn well weakening, wasn’t she? Her grip on the fob was solid.

He snorted, put his free hand up against the jamb, and leaned toward her. He wanted more than a slight whiff of her, wanted a real good sniff. Yeah, she’d showered him and the scent of their sex off. “I may not have the resources you do, but I’ve got enough money to buy a damn vehicle for the woman I’m involved with,
exclusively
, when she doesn’t have wheels.” He kept leaning and leaning and leaning in until he could see tiny gold flecks in her hazel eyes, until his lips hovered close to hers.

“The woman you’re involved with?” she asked in a breathy way that went straight to his dick.

“Yeah.”

She sighed out, shook her head. Her hand planted against his chest and pushed. “No kiss.” She met his eyes, all serious Clare. “Seen any crows today?”

He flinched, didn’t pull back. She’d figured that much out about his gift, either before and hadn’t said, or in the couple of hours since he’d left. “Nope. Not today, Clare.” His shoulders had risen high, but he kept his stare matched with hers. “I want to . . . talk to you.” More, she needed more and deserved it from him. “I want your help,” he managed to mumble without wincing. True enough.

Again her gaze went past him to the Jeep.

“My mother’s waiting for us.”

Tilting her head, she stared into his eyes. He could have fallen deep into her gaze, lost himself.

“So, Zach, will you tell me the next time you see crows?”

He nodded slowly. “I will.”

“And what the crows mean?”

He glanced aside.

“They are your ‘touch of the sight’ that Mrs. Flinton talked about once?”

So he moved his cane and made it soldier-straight, too. “My maternal grandmother knew a rhyme she taught to me.”

Clare nodded as if she weren’t surprised that whatever gift he had, touch of the sight or not, came through his mother.

He recited:

“One for sorrow,

Two for luck;

Three for a wedding,

Four for death;

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Not to be told;

Eight for heaven,

Nine for hell,

And ten for the devil’s own sell—self.”

He stared at her. “Is that sufficient to show I’m accepting my gift?”

She gave him a slow nod. “For now. If you’ll let me know . . . occasionally . . . when you see them.”

He returned a half smile. “Occasionally, huh?”

“Yes, and I’m pleased to help you, Zach.”

•   •   •

The exit for his mother’s facility was coming up, and Zach hadn’t spoken to Clare except to say he wanted her help in tracking down the source of his . . . gift.

Clare had driven silently, giving him room.

He flexed his fingers, moved his left foot, still in the braces that he was getting really tired of wearing today.