Ghost Killer (13 page)

“Of course.” Her eyes went blank, and her lips moved in the word,
Enzo
.

I am here, Clare!
the ghost dog replied. Zach actually heard him from a distance and a damn cold shiver
trickled down Zach’s spine.

Where’s here?
Clare’s mind-tone sounded just like her voice. Zach kept his arm around her, scanning
the sidewalk and the street. A couple of cars drove by, one woman walked her dog on
a leash, but several dogs without people wandered around on their own business. That
wouldn’t happen in any other town Zach knew.

Are you in Denver?
Clare asked Enzo.

Zach stared straight ahead, pretending that Enzo was right here . . . okay, pretending
a ghost dog he was used to speaking with telepathically was close . . . Yeah, and
that sounded so normal. For sure.

No.
A slight whine from the ghost dog.
I am here in Creede.

Are you hurt? Do you need me?

“Us,” Zach murmured.

Us? Do you need us, Enzo?

The big scary ghost WITH TEETH frightened me and made me dissipate and when I woke
up I was still where I was but the boy was there and he was scared too and we decided
to be scared together and I slept on his bed, and he was okay and I was okay and he
asked me if I would go to school with him today and I have never been to school and
thought I might like it, so I am going. Okay, Clare? You have Zach, but Caden is little
and has nobody. And we will be safe in school, I think. Okay?

Clare suppressed a tiny sob. Zach opened his mouth to protest to Enzo—alright, he’d
say the words at the same time as he’d think them to the Lab—but she turned and looked
at him, put her fingers over his lips. He frowned but she just shook her head.

That’s fine, Enzo. It’s absolutely best that you guard Caden
. Her mind-voice sounded light with a trace of cheerfulness. The woman lied well with
her mind, better than she did with her regular voice and her expression and her body
language. Interesting talent. Maybe because she had experience ordering her mind.
Zach’d remember that.

Thank you, Clare. See you later, Clare! See you later, Zach.

See you later, Enzo,
Clare said. She turned and they stopped and she hugged Zach. Her head bent so all
he could see was her pretty hair, and a bit of the delicate nape of her neck.

“Caden needs Enzo more than I do.” Her voice sounded muffled.

Zach stroked her hair. “If you say so.”

“It’s good that the Lab is with him during school.”

Zach paused. “I know what it’s like being an odd kid in school, we traveled so much—”

“We traveled so much—” Clare said at the same time. “I remember other children not
accepting my brother and me.” She raised her face. Her eyes appeared a little damp,
but her expression was so tender that Zach had to bend and kiss her. Let his lips
sink against the slight plush of hers, touched them with his tongue.

She stepped back, linked her fingers with his. “It will be fine,” she said.

In person, Clare was a very poor liar.

Hand in hand they strolled to a park and the yellow-painted with brown wood trim ex–train
depot that functioned as the town museum. Taped to the inside of the window were the
hours.

“Not until Friday,” Zach said.

Clare sighed.

A tiny building across the park was the archives library and they climbed the three
steps to look at the printed sign on that door. “Again, Friday hours, in the afternoon.
By Friday—”

“We’re not thinking of that now.”

“No, I don’t want to think of that,” she murmured. She leaned close to peek through
the door’s window. Zach looked, too. Shelves. Nothing much to see.

“I called and e-mailed the contact person of the Creede Historical Society. She hasn’t
called me back yet. I’m not sure how to research this without access to original documents.”

Zach nudged her. “You don’t know how to run an investigation.”

“No. I don’t,” she said in her prissy manner. That lifted his spirits a little, for
she was getting back to her normal self. He hoped. There was still a pallidity to
her skin that he didn’t care for.

“We talk and we listen,” he said. “We made a good start this morning when that guy
who had the hunters staying with him came in and complained.”

“He wanted to complain to all the world how they’d done him wrong,” Clare commented.

Zach chuckled. “Basic human desire. Especially since they were caught doing something
illegal that reflected on him. Explain, defend yourself. Complain. Usually works.”

Clare frowned and her face pinched a bit. Dammit, she looked thinner than yesterday.
Did fighting the ghost do that? Not good at all. He loved her curves. He loved the
softness of her, especially her inner gentleness that had her believing in everyone’s
basic goodness, and he didn’t want that to tarnish. He’d fight to keep that spark
in her clean and alive.

He took her hand and pulled her down from the steps and back into the park that held
the depot and the library. Then they crossed the street to walk back up to the Jimtown
Inn. One of the proprietors of a shop saw Clare staring at the window and opened the
place early, welcoming them in. They looked around, with Zach studying the shirts.
The place had books by local Creede writers and photographers, and Clare picked up
a couple that even Zach thought were seriously overpriced.

Once they hit the street again, rain had begun to spit and sputter and they walked
a little faster.

“If this were . . . one of my regular cases,” Clare began, staring forlornly at the
closed archives across the street. “I could, perhaps, communicate with other ghosts,
who might know the culprit.”

“There are bound to be old timers here, descendants of those who stayed after the
silver boom went bust,” Zach said.

“Family stories get exaggerated as well as lose their detail, maybe even names get
changed,” Clare grumbled.

After snorting, he said, “What makes you think journalists of the time wouldn’t slant
the facts to make it a better story?” All right, some bitterness from his own experience
after the shooting escaped. Investigative reporters from the big city of Billings
had happened to be in town and had done a number on the whole incident.

She gazed at him with wide eyes. “You think so?”

“This was a rowdy camp, and during that time period those Wild West story pamphlets
were published and journalists were like Mark Twain, who also wrote tall tales. Of
course facts would be slanted in the newspaper. Always.”

She sighed. “And that’s pretty much all historians have to go on in this case, I think.”

“Since a ghost from the past is definitely affecting the present, we need to discover
some clues
in
the present.”

Nodding, she said, “The breakfast gossip was illuminating.”

“Actions of the ghost.” He lowered his voice. “Murders of the ghost.”

“I think so, too,” she whispered back. “I’m so sorry we can’t take Caden out of this.”

Zach shook his head. “Can’t do it. Everyone gets real tense if someone kidnaps a child.
The neighborhood, the town, the cops.”

“Not an option,” Clare agreed, her mouth turning down. She stomped along the sidewalk
for a few feet. When she gazed up at him again, her eyes held determination. “We distracted
that ghost last night. We can continue to do so. We are more of a threat to it.”

He caught her hand. On impulse, he lifted her fingers to his mouth, kissed them. “Not
the greatest of alternatives, but one that could work. I like the way you think.”
He paused. “Maybe I can smooth things a little by cultivating the local cops. Let
them see we’re the good guys.” Two of the sheriff’s trucks were parked outside the
county building.

Smiling, she squeezed his hand. “You like doing that.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a little rougher since the Pais guys don’t appear to like us.” Zach
liked the zip of challenge. “I’m sure that in the sheriff’s department, and even somewhat
in the town, what the Paises say, goes.”

He continued, “And I learned something important the night before last. Cops aren’t
my tribe anymore.” He squeezed her fingers. “You are. Primarily you are.”

Her smile at him was warm and some of the lingering darkness of the night blew away.
Then she nibbled her lip as if in thought. “The supernatural tribe?”

At that he flinched, wanted to grunt noncommittally, but grudgingly said, “Maybe.”
He drew in a breath of clean, fresh mountain air you just didn’t get in Denver, the
hint of prairie grass, hills glazed with frost, wet rock. “I’m making a tribe with
the Rickman Security and Investigations operatives.”

“Uh-huh. That reminds me. We ordered body armor. Do you think it came in?”

“Body armor might have been helpful last night,” Zach said.

“Yes. Though, in the end, I don’t think it will stop an evil being from munching on
me,” she replied just as matter-of-factly as he had, and put a hand to her midriff.

“Your ribs hurt?” Though she wasn’t touching them.

“It’s . . . odd. Like the thing left an icy splinter in me.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. He studied her. She wasn’t looking as good as she
had yesterday morning, but a whole lot better than last night, or even when she woke.
Infusing his voice with desire—not at all hard—he said, “Let’s see if we can melt
that ice.”

“Yes.”

THEY GOT BACK
to the restaurant as it closed after breakfast hours. Some people filed out; a few
lingered in the deep alcove of the main restaurant door. Zach nodded to the Texans
as they took off across the street to the hardware store, then opened the closer door
that led straight up the stairs to the hotel rooms. For curiosity’s sake, he tested
the door at the bottom of the stairs that led into the restaurant. It was locked.

He smiled. “Doesn’t sound like anyone’s in their rooms.”

“No.” Clare’s answer was breathy and went straight to his groin, hardening his dick.
He touched her back so she went first.

“This is the best idea we’ve had all day,” he said.

“Yes.” She hurried up the stairs and Zach thought her jeans weren’t quite tight enough.
Her ass was prime . . . yeah, he’d seen tighter, more muscular. Often. Even naked.
But Clare’s butt simply felt the best in his hands, the right mixture of soft-give
and muscle underneath. And it looked great to him. His palms itched, and his dick
pressed hard against the front of his jeans in demand to be cradled by her soft stomach,
to be slid into her sweet wetness. To climb and shatter with her in orgasm.

God, his mouth watered. He took the steps faster.

She had to jiggle the key in the door and he caught up with her before she opened
it, pressed against her so she could feel how hard he was, how much he wanted her.
Yeah, absolutely perfect ass. Even more of his blood plummeted to his dick, and his
mind dimmed with lust. He angled his hips, once, twice, rubbing against her.

She gasped, and another surge of pleasure wound him higher, because she sure wasn’t
gasping in fear this time. The portion of her angled cheek he could see was flushed . . .
and . . .

He stood, simply stood and closed his eyes, concentrated on her. She trembled. His
mouth dried, oh, man, he
needed
her. To be in her.

The door opened and she rushed into the room. He moved quickly after her, and that
was damn good because someone else came out of one of the other rooms and she’d have
been embarrassed if they’d been caught while he was rubbing up her.

She began to turn, but he stopped her, drew her back so his cock could settle between
the firmness of her buttocks again. His fingers went under her jacket to the front
of her jeans and slid inside, down her silky skin over her curly hair at the apex
of her thighs and lower, to dip between her moist folds and caress her.

“Zach!”

He wasn’t interested in answering her, so he only growled, continued to stroke her,
felt her getting wetter, warmer, plumper.

His other hand went to the top of her jacket zipper and he slowly pulled it down,
the evocative sound of undressing her making him all the hotter. She shifted a little
against his fingers, leaned back against him. So it had an effect on her, too.

The thin cashmere sweater caressed the palm of his other hand as he stroked up to
her left breast and curved his hand over her budded nipple, let it thrust against
her tank and sweater in the center of his palm, tease him there. He made her move
against his fingers at her sex, and her reactions ratcheted his passion sky high.

His jeans were too damn tight and the rain had come back and smacked the roof and
balcony as backdrop to their heavy, ragged breathing.

He thought she made little mewling sounds, too, but the blood began to pound in his
ears, odd because he thought it was all in his dick. He couldn’t recall the last time
he’d been so turned on . . . okay, maybe the first time he was with Clare . . .

“Sex only gets better,” he mumbled, aching as he withdrew his hand from her, grabbed
her jacket, and wrenched it off, dropped it. He took the bottom of her sweater and
tank with both hands and yanked up, threw the garments across the small room, flicked
open her bra and tossed it, too.

“Oh. My. God,” she whispered.

Her nipples looked thick and rosy. Some other time he’d suck on them. Some other time.
Needy fire moved in his veins, along his nerves, demanding completion.

His thumbs found her skin again, the snap of her jeans, and slid them and her panties
off. He couldn’t help himself; he had to touch and squeeze that ass. Just. Incredibly.
Right.

“Zach!”

She stepped from her clothes and away, turned, and came back, her fingers flicking
the buttons on his shirt open. Then the shirt was gone and she pulled his tee off.
He stopped her hands at his waistband.

“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.