Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) (28 page)

“Uh-huh,” Tony Rickman said, then sat down and stared at his wife. “Do you want to do this debriefing or let me?”

Desiree sighed heavily, waved a hand. “We’ve already talked. And everyone in this room has given you a report. Just ask us what you want to know.”

Rickman pinched the skin between his eyebrows, rubbed his temples with his hand. Then his gray eyes locked on Clare again. “I wanted to express my regret that Ms. Cermak was placed in a dangerous situation while working for Rickman Security and Investigations.”

“Thank you,” Clare said.

“I also want to say you did an exemplary job and well represented my firm.”

“Thank you.”

“No one could have anticipated you’d run into a man guarding a secret gold mine on federal land who used it as his own personal savings plan,” Desiree said.

“I know,” Clare said.

“It’s been my experience with both of Clare’s cases that just the nature of her . . . profession . . . attracts the odd,” Zach said.

Clare’s mouth turned down. “I hope not. I don’t want to go through getting hit over the head and poisoned and shot at during each of my cases.” She put a hand on her still-healing ribs.

Rickman said, “There’s another matter I wished to discuss. I would like to keep you, Ms. Cermak, on the roster of my consultants.”

“FOR OCCASIONAL JOBS . . .
that fit the parameters of your expertise,” Rickman ended.

Desiree chuckled.

“I’m not sure,” Clare said, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

“Mr. Laurentine was quite grateful you stopped the appearance of bones in his home and in a timely manner.”

“He didn’t seem so yesterday,” Clare said.

“I reminded him, and one of my men escorted an early arrival of his hunting party to his ranch this morning.”

“Which also put pressure on the guy . . . and reminded him he was free of any embarrassing bones and could entertain at his equinox party in peace,” Zach said.

“He gave you a bonus,” Rickman said. He held out a check to her.

Clare stood and took the couple of paces toward the desk. Her eyes rounded as she scanned the check. Was the size so great? She set it back down on Rickman’s desk. Her lips compressed and she folded her hands. “In the papers I signed, I gave you the information for an electronic transfer of funds. Use it.”

Desiree snickered.

Rickman’s face froze, and Zach was pushed by his reading of the man, and Clare, to say something. “Hard to impress an accountant who’s inherited a lot of money with a check, but I’d say you did, Rickman. What, Clare, you earned for this job something like a third of your regular yearly salary at your previous firm?”

Her golden cheeks took on a little color. “A quarter.”

“Ah. Nice to know that you can get compensated by someone other than ‘the universe’ for your work, isn’t it?”

She let out a small sigh and relaxed her stiff back just slightly to rest against the chair. “It’s nice to know that I will have regular forms for income other than investment income to send to the IRS, like a normal person.”

Desiree laughed. Rickman’s nonexpression eased.

“To each their own comfort,” Zach said.

“Ms. Cermak, about future cases . . .”

“Yes, I will consider projects you send to me. But I’d prefer the accounting type.”

“Thank you,” Rickman said. “Since I have all your reports, is there anything else that needs to be covered at this time?”

Clare sat straight again, brows down. “We missed the arrival of our vests. I would like to pay for ours.”

“Yours,” Zach said. “I’ll pay for mine.”

“And I think I’d like to purchase some body armor including the deflecting knives type or whatever”—she waved her hand—“for myself as a precautionary measure. Perhaps you can recommend some?”

Zach sensed she’d surprised Rickman.

He nodded. “We can order you some through the company for a discount.”

Clare nodded. “Agreed.”

Zach stood and glanced around the room. “I don’t think anyone has any additional information with regard to the J. Dawson Hidgepath case, and I’d like to take Clare out to lunch.”

“Um,” said Rossi.

“Rossi?” asked Rickman.

The bodyguard cleared his throat. “I was just wondering. At one time you said something about the universe payment thing for the case. Did it, ah, come through?”

“No.” Clare stood, straight.

“Not yet,” Zach said, taking Clare’s hand and picking up his cane.

Desiree hopped from her seat and tilted her head. Zach tensed. Would she say something about the gold nugget? Maybe no other payment would be forthcoming since he’d snagged that.

“Has the universe come through before?” asked Desiree.

Clare had stiffened even more, no doubt not wanting to relate the story about the gold coin and the pocket watch.

Zach grinned at Desiree, who nearly throbbed with curiosity. “Yes.” He lifted his cane. “Later, all.”

Rickman stood. “Zach, you’re an asset with your local police contacts, and I’ve heard your good rep is getting around. I should have another couple of jobs for you this week. And I have for you.” He held out an envelope.

Zach kissed Clare on the cheek before he dropped her hand, then crossed to Rickman’s desk, felt the envelope. “This isn’t just a check.”

“The check from Laurentine for solving J. Dawson’s murder.” Rickman smiled. “Not nearly as substantial as Clare’s. No bonus.”

“I didn’t fall down stairs, get poisoned, and have my car totaled in an explosion,” he said. He heard a gasping gurgle from Clare. “And I’m probably not the one he’ll call on if he has any more trouble. He may need Clare in the future for more ghosts.” Zach opened the envelope with his thumb, looked at the check. Reasonable and in line with the work he’d put in. “What’s the key card for?” he asked.

“Your key to the building. You have a space in the underground parking garage. The entrance near the gym,” Rickman said. “As you know, this is a twenty-four hours, seven days a week building.”

“Good deal, Zach,” Rossi said.

“Thanks.” Zach nodded to them all once more. “Later.” He took Clare’s hand. She appeared a little pale. “Let’s get a really good meal in you.” She’d been nervous about her first debriefing that morning and had picked at a bowl of cereal.

He was rewarded with a smile. “I’d like that.”

•   •   •

After an early lunch, Zach had left Clare in her “ghost layer” office at her home, studying her great-aunt Sandra’s journals and her own notes, which seemed to combine writing on paper and sketchy little drawings as well as clicking away at a formal report on the keyboard. It looked like she was setting up a table of contents and an index.

Shaking his head, he gave her a good kiss to tide them over until night, then he returned to his own apartment in Mrs. Flinton’s mansion. The women welcomed him with more food and excellent coffee, and he spent some time entertaining them with talking about the nonconfidential parts of the case—about J. Dawson Hidgepath, the one whom his landlady was most interested in anyway. He did note she wasn’t as chipper as usual, showing more her age, but though he left space open for her to unload on him, she didn’t.

He did regular stuff in his own place—his laundry, put his clothes away, repacked his go duffel with different stuff, checked and cleaned his guns. When he came to the gold nugget, he put it with the pocket watch in the safe.

He watched some sports, glad to let the atmosphere of his own place soak into him, but as the sun sank toward the mountains and dusk, he got restless and returned to Clare’s house.

A knock on the door, and she stood before him, and he breathed in her scent, spicy Clare.

She wore her hair long and loose, the way he liked it, and it sprang around her head, framing her face, and he caught his breath at her beauty. Whatever she’d been doing to keep it sleek, she’d stopped.

And she wore gypsy garb, full skirt, low gathered blouse. Fascinating. Tempting.

But her expression held a hint of shadow that started a ticking alarm in the back of his mind.

Still, he reached out and held her . . . heard pulsing music in the living room. For a minute he thought he’d dance her in there, then the simple flex of his fingers on his cane reminded him he was crippled. Realization crashed down, nearly flattening him. Again. He gulped, straightened his shoulders, took her hand, and led her to the room. She hadn’t turned on a light and that made everything more intimate.

The music throbbed around them, low, smoky jazz with a beat. He couldn’t dance well anymore, but he could step and sway.

With a sigh, he propped his cane against the couch arm, drew her close. She stiffened and that little alarm tick in the back of his mind got louder. He ignored it.

They swayed, he rubbed his face against her hair, and she became more flexible. Then the song ended and some soprano’s voice rose in wordless purity that just made his heart ache, it was so close to what he felt for Clare . . . special. Not that other word that had come to mind,
necessary
.

“We fit well together,” he murmured, and that did it—something. She stepped away from him, more than a pace.

She stared at him with dark eyes, and the cloudy evening sunlight in the room vanished and her face was lost in shadows. He heard a quiet sigh, a quick intake of breath, and she said, “You know, Zach, the reason that we fit so well together is because you have a psychic gift, too.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said that to me. I’m pushing, I know. So I want you to listen.” Her mouth set and she ran her fingers through her hair and it fluffed out even more. She inhaled deeply, never a good sign.

“Zach, you confronted me about my problem at the ranch, about my commitment to Rickman and Laurentine. And you helped me through that.” She paused. “You have a gift, like me.” She moved and a last wavery shaft of sunlight painted her face luminously. Her tongue flicked over her lips, and even though his mind denied her words, his emotions seemed to close down, and a low ache began to spread throughout his body. And maybe his heart, since he was looking at some sort of doom barreling his way.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“I don’t exactly know what it is, or what you do, but you have some . . . insight.”

His mouth dried. Flashes of crows across a gray sky haunted his mind’s eye.

“That we have gifts and complement each other is part of our attraction. I think you should accept your psychic gift. You believe in it . . . on a deeper level.”

“I’ve . . . been getting there.” Letting the sucky knowledge seep through him, but not really looking at it, because it was a puzzle and he’d have to investigate it and that meant looking at his whole damn life. Looking at what happened to him and Jim.

“But you haven’t wanted to talk about it.”

“No.”

“It’s affecting you, Zach, and affecting us. I don’t know when your gift is kicking in and I wonder when that might be happening. What I can do to help.” The ends of her mouth flicked up in a bitter smile. “I believe I know what you’re going through, Zach. Let me help.”

“Why are you pushing me on this right now?”

“Because it seems to me that you will help me, in every way—”

“Sure.”

“Then let me help you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“So. You can help me, but I’m not allowed to help you. What kind of relationship do we have if you help me, but won’t let me help you?”

“I . . . can’t.” His mind, his emotions, flashed back to the day Jim died. It hurt and he couldn’t bear to touch the hurt even with thought, let alone shape it in words and expose it to another.

“And if I can’t help you, I’ll feel like the weak one in this . . . I can’t become dependent on you.” She paused. “We have to be equal, Zach. You’ve seen my vulnerabilities and problems, and helped me. Let me help you.”

He hadn’t really . . .
leaned
 . . . on anyone since he’d become an adult. Of course he’d let doctors help him, accepted help professionally. Sat through torture sessions with psychologists after the two shootings that had changed his life.

Rustily, he said, “You have helped me. Helped me get my head straight about my disability. Last month.”

She put a hand between her full breasts, tightening the loose fabric over them, said softly, “Yet it feels unequal.”

He watched her, but his throat had just closed and he couldn’t—something in
him
wouldn’t let him speak. So he waited for her to throw him out.

Staring back at him with big eyes, she ran her hands through the mass of her hair. They stood for eternal minutes. Finally she said, “All right.” Her lips thinned, then she asked, “Are you hungry?”

“Only for you.”

Her lashes lowered, hiding her gaze; when they came up, her eyes looked liquid. She offered her hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

He took her hand.

•   •   •

Zach’s hand clasped hers firmly, and as they walked slowly up the stairs, she let the hurt drain at his refusal to discuss his psychic power. She wanted to share and help. He didn’t or couldn’t.

Didn’t the man deserve time? And secrets? Was she asking too much? Pushing too much? Or was she making excuses for him and being dependent? She didn’t know, was so confused.

And she wasn’t sure that making love would help or harm . . . but they
did
connect then. She wanted his skin against hers, him inside her, an affirmation.

The sun hadn’t quite set, and pink and gold light shifted through the leaves of the tree beyond her balcony to pattern her carpet.

Zach stopped her beside the bed. “Clare,” he whispered.

She didn’t want to hear any words at all, so she lifted her hand to his lips. He kissed her fingers, and his own hands went to the shoulders of her low-draped white blouse and pushed it down, released her bra, and caressed her breasts.

So good, his gentle touch, the stroking of his thumbs on her nipples, beading them. Yearning spiraled high. Soon, soon, her mind would click off and there would be joining, and peace.

Then he took her silencing hand, kissed the palm, and set it aside . . . so he could undress her.

He didn’t speak, and the dim light didn’t reveal any emotions in his gaze, but his hands, his touch, were tender. He drew her blouse and bra from her, dropped them to the ground, and held and kissed her breasts, laving her nipples until her mind fuzzed and she shifted from foot to foot with desire. His hands feathered over her torso. He stroked lightly, not pressing on her bruises, but acknowledging them, traced her ribs, then he slipped her skirt and petticoat down, returned to discard her panties.