Текст книги "Ghost Seer"

Автор книги: Robin D. Owens

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

TWENTY-SIX

CLARE’S JAW DROPPED. This couldn’t be happening. She looked around wildly, but who else could the woman be talking to?

“I heard you were a medium. I’ve tried everyone else, heard you were new to town.”

Standing, Clare sidled away from the distraught woman.

“Please, please, I need to know,” the woman pressed.

Know what? Her daughter was dead. From the glance Clare got from the picture, the child looked in poor health but happy. Why would her ghost hang around? Clare didn’t know all the rules yet, but she was certain that her gift didn’t deal with contemporary ghosts. “I can’t help you,” she said.

The soft thud of the other car door sounded and a man in an expensive dark suit, also middle-aged and portly, came up to them. He put his arm around the woman’s waist. “Jennifer, you’re babbling; lay it out for Ms. Cermak.”

“Oh. Oh!” More tears, sobs, and wailing. Clare felt her eyes widen in horror.

“I can’t help you.” She tried to back away, but her heels hit the stoop step.

“Shh.” Mrs. Creedy’s husband squeezed her, helped her lower herself to Clare’s concrete stoop. “Just calm down a little.” He pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You said we’d take this slowly, and you jump out of the car when it’s still nearly running.”

“Oh, Bill!”

“I’ll talk with Ms. Cermak, why don’t I?”

Face muffled in the handkerchief, Mrs. Creedy said, “All right, Bill. Sorry.”

He patted his wife’s shoulder. “It’s tough.”

But his face hardened when he glanced up at Clare, jerked his chin to have her move with him a few feet away. He looked through the open door as he did so and his lip curled. “I don’t approve of you people. You leeches. But my wife needs reassurance. So I’ll give you a grand to tell her what she wants to know. Just do it, you fraud.”

“I’m not!” Clare’s voice rose. “I don’t see ghosts.”

Another black look. “You fucking lie.”

Fisting her hands, she fought for control, jutted her own chin up, willing back tears and staring at Mr. Creedy with hot eyes. “I cannot help you. I cannot help your wife. And I don’t need your money.”

“Look, woman—” Creedy grabbed her arm.

“You’ll want to let Clare go,” Zach said in a softly dangerous voice.

Creedy stiffened, dropped his hand, and swung around.

Clare hadn’t noticed Zach drive up.

Mr. Creedy flushed and raised his hands. “Fine, fine.” He appraised Zach and dismissed him. That informed Clare the man wasn’t as nearly as intelligent as he thought he was.

Enzo appeared, stared hard at the woman with those unfathomable misty eyeholes. The mantle of the Other was upon him. Tell her it was time for the child to die.

Clare gasped. Are you crazy! That’s . . . that’s horrible. And trite!

TELL HER. I can see what will comfort her. This will work for her.

Shivering with stress and the chill emanating from the dog, more to share comfort in this surreal experience than anything else, Clare sat down and put her arm around the sobbing woman’s shoulders. “It was . . . it was time for your Mary to die.”

The woman’s head came up. “Really!”

God called her to partake in the joy of being with Him, Enzo said.

Clare would never believe such words if something happened to her child, never. She didn’t have such faith.

But Mrs. Creedy’s gaze had latched onto Clare. Being serious was not a stretch, nor was keeping her voice soft. “God . . . God called Mary to partake in the joy of being with Him,” Clare said, and hoped she wasn’t struck down for saying words she didn’t believe, couldn’t understand herself.

Mrs. Creedy’s expression eased.

“You should talk to your minister about this.”

“That’s what Bill says.” Mrs. Creedy turned to look at the men.

Zach stood with deceptive casualness; something about the way he held his stick showed Clare that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it as a weapon.

She stood and urged the middle-aged woman to rise with her. “Well, your husband knows you the best, doesn’t he?” She groped for more words of solace, hated this; it all made her feel fake. Terrible! “You have your husband, too. He is grieving, too.”

Zach’s face paled and his lips thinned. He’d be remembering his brother.

“Cleave to your husband, give and take comfort from him,” Clare said thickly, hoping against hope those were the right words to say. She thought of the photo and how cheerful the little girl had looked, summoned up standard sympathetic sentiments. “She . . . was . . . is . . . joyful.”

“Yes, yes she is!”

Clare straightened to her full height. “Go in peace and with peace in your hearts.”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.” Clare had done nothing.

Mrs. Creedy turned and took a stumbling step to the car. Zach set his free hand under her elbow, helped her to the vehicle and opened the door. “Just you sit and rest, now,” he said.

The guy reached into his jacket and came out with a wallet. Clare moved close to him. “Don’t you give me anything. I don’t want it, and I certainly don’t deserve it.”

His eyes narrowed and his head tilted.

“Take care of her. Show a little sensitivity. Don’t bring her back, and don’t give my name to anyone. I’m not in the medium business. Just go away.” She flapped her hands. “Go. Now.”

With a shake of his head, he stuck his wallet back into his pocket and went to the car.

They drove away. Clare sank to the stoop again and put her head in her hands. “No, I am absolutely not doing any darned consulting! That was horrible and I didn’t know what to say and I couldn’t help them anyway!”

“He’s not grieving.”

“What!” She lifted her head and glared at Zach.

“He didn’t abuse his daughter, but he wasn’t interested in her.”

“How do you—cop instincts?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen plenty of loss and I’ve been on the inside of a family who lost a child. I don’t think Creedy wanted the kid, and he won’t miss her.”

“That’s awful.”

Zach shrugged and lowered himself to sit beside her.

“How did they get your name?” he asked.

The question jolted Clare. “I . . . I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

Zach put his own arm around her and drew her closer.

“Cold?”

“Enzo . . .” Had she ever told Zach that Enzo wasn’t just a ghost dog? She didn’t think so, and this whole scene made her want to be as normal as possible. “Enzo said he knew what to say to Mrs. Creedy.”

Zach grunted, then repeated, “How did they get your name as a medium?”

Clare winced. “I’m not a medium! I don’t like that word.”

“What do ya wanna call it?”

“Ghost . . . ghost seer, I guess. Would Mrs. Flinton have told them about me?”

“Doubtful. She must have gone through similar scenes.”

Shuddering again, Clare said, “So despairing and desperate.”

“Yeah. You’ve kept your life pretty level,” Zach said.

She pivoted to face him, glare at him. “Have you forgotten all the crap I’ve been through lately?” Flinging out her arms, she said, “This wouldn’t have happened to me without my gift.” Tilting her chin, she said, “And maybe I like my life easy . . . as an adult. And as an adult I can choose an easy life.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes, my former life disintegrated around me and I’ll be rebuilding it. I’m dealing with the change. I’m handling it.” She was. “But I prefer to craft it according to my own plans.” That sounded good.

Enzo yipped. You are doing good!

“Thank you, Enzo.” She met Zach’s eyes. “But I won’t be hanging out a shingle as a medium. Not like Great-Aunt Sandra did. And I certainly didn’t get the word out—however the word of something like this spreads—that I was open for business. I don’t want to be, or be seen as, some sort of fraud.”

You are NOT a fraud! Enzo hopped around her. Sandra wasn’t either!

“I want to take this slowly, what’s wrong with that?” Clare demanded.

Respect showed in his eyes, a corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Nothing. Word did get out, though. I wonder if they have your phone number, too.”

Blood simply drained from her face. “I’ve had my cell off.” She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt, glanced at it. “Fifty calls. Fifty!”

His smile became sardonic. “You’re the new sensation.”

“To heck with that!”

“Clare,” Zach said reasonably, taking one of her hands. “Who could have known about you?”

“I don’t know!” She jerked her hand away so she could rub her temples, then dropped her fingers and went back into the house. After Zach came in, she closed and locked the front door, then stomped to the backyard and the little concrete patio and picnic table.

“Who did you talk to about . . . your gift?” Zach asked, taking the seat opposite her.

Enzo barked. Zach looked in his direction, then away as if uncomfortable. The man had been great with the Creedys, but Clare got the idea his patience with paranormal stuff was wearing thin.

So was hers, but this was her life, now.

She turned her mind to the problem. “Like I said, Mrs. Flinton, Bekka, you . . .”

“Not us,” Zach replied.

“The only one I told about the ghosts was Dr. Barclay.”

“I can’t see that guy breaking client confidentiality.”

Clare shrugged. “His assistant and receptionist might have heard something while I was coming and going, but I don’t know . . . and I don’t know whether they’d gossip about that or not.

“Pretty juicy gossip, seeing ghosts. And one or the other of them could be a believer . . . unlike Barclay.”

Zach nodded, “Unlike Barclay.”

Clare sighed. “Maybe they thought that me seeing ghosts wasn’t illogical and a mental problem, but a . . . a real psychic gift.” The admission still felt bitter in her mouth.

“Could be.” Now Zach shook his head. “Useless talking to them, they wouldn’t admit discussing a patient.”

“No.”

“Anyone else?” Zach asked.

“I didn’t tell anyone else.” She grimaced. “Maybe someone at the auction house—”

“I don’t think so.” Zach grinned. “You were acting a little strange, but so were other people.”

“Oh.”

“Want some lemonade?” He came around and kissed her.

“Yes, please.”

“Right.”

“Um,” Clare said. “I can’t think of anyone else, unless, of course, the ghosts told someone,” she ended with forced humor.

Zach paused by the door, shook his head, and went inside.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so, either,” Clare muttered, petting Enzo, who closed his eyes and leaned against her.

When Zach came out again, he carried a beer and a glass of lemonade on a small tin tray in one strong hand. “Why don’t we wind down.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Eat in a while, and later . . .” He smiled slowly.

Her heart began to pick up beat. “Absolutely.”

 • • •

She was up before dawn, moving what furniture she could and arranging it and organizing her boxes for the local movers to take from this fifties neighborhood to the more charming twenties one across town.

Zach had opted to sleep at his own apartment after another bout of sex, and that was fine with her since she liked to supervise her own way.

If all went according to her plans, her property in this place would be moved in the morning—the real estate agents had been happy to give her the code to her new home as soon as her first cashier’s check had cleared—Clare would attend the closing, and the huge truck bringing her share of Great-Aunt Sandra’s antique furniture would show up at the new place in the afternoon.

Clare hurried to the door and opened it, then set up the box fan, trying to minimize the heat. This would not be pretty, with her and men sweating during physical labor. She hoped the movers actually showed up on time at seven thirty A.M. for all their sakes. She truly didn’t think it would take very long if they were efficient, and they’d promised efficiency, the reason she’d chosen them, since they certainly weren’t the cheapest company out there.

A small square newspaper lay on her stoop, the tiny neighborhood paper. She went out and scooped it up, and hurried into the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker, one of the items she’d take in her car.

As she waited for the brew, she glanced at the paper, froze.

What is it? asked Enzo, just appearing.

She just wanted to point to the headline, but figured even a supernaturally intelligent ghost dog couldn’t read. So she forced her lips to say the words of the banner and first paragraph:

BREAKING NEWS! THE GHOST, WAITING BRAVE, IS GONE!

Two evenings ago, for the first time since our little neighborhood was founded, a member of the local Paranormal Research Society phoned in that the Native American ghost who lingers on Purple Ridge has passed on to his just reward. Apparently, several people note his presence each day, particularly in the evening, and were surprised to find his shade missing Saturday at dusk.

They are right! He is gone, and your work was noted and appreciated, Enzo cheered.

“Great,” Clare said, wiggling as a tingle slithered down her spine. Had someone associated with the local paper told the Creedys about her? She should have asked, but all she’d wanted was for them to go away.

The doorbell rang, followed by knocking on the metal screen door. Clare tossed the paper in the last open box, waiting for the coffeemaker, then hurried to the front and found a big, scowling man with grizzled gray hair. A moving truck stood at the curb. Yay, they were early!

She turned off the fan and moved it out of the way and against the wall, smiling. “You’re early!”

“Boss said there wasn’t any air-conditioning here.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He grunted, scanning the living room, the hallway, the part of the kitchen in view. “Organized. Good job.”

“Thank you.”

The mover rolled his shoulders. “What’re the big items?”

“The couch and a bed.”

“Huh. Should get this done fast, then.”

“I hope so.”

He turned and called to two other men. “Let’s rock and roll.”

Clare got out of their way.

Enzo followed the guy, tried to rub his legs and the others. No one paid him any attention.

For once, all went like clockwork, and Clare’s old home was closed up by midmorning, she was the proud owner of her new home by noon, and her great-aunt Sandra’s items were moved in and her new house eminently livable by the end of the business day. Amazing.

 • • •

She began to be aware of the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck . . . they seemed to mark the passing of time. Now and again during the day she’d found herself scanning for Jack Slade’s ghost, dread ratcheting up her nerves. She rather wanted to see him, get on with this task and get it over with so she could concentrate on learning about her new circumstances. To no longer be rushed, not worry that she might do something wrong that would hurt Zach or Enzo, or her. Pressure might drive her totally over the bend . . . the edge of madness that she’d never noticed in herself but knew would always be there for the rest of her life.

The deadline to save Jack Slade was in three days . . . until when? Next year? Next century?

Next year would be so much better.

Jack is a tough and determined man, Enzo said, standing next to her on the sidewalk of her new home. He is MOSTLY a sane ghost. They can devolve over time.

Doggie Enzo didn’t use words like devolve, so it must be the Other. Though her neck was beginning to ache, she kept staring down the street, not wanting to turn her head and look at Enzo.

The apparition of the gunman has been waiting for what you call a ghost seer, a ghost layer. If you fail him this year . . . he might not stay in control. And like the legend he was in his own time, both for good or ill, he could become a legendary problem, rippling and ripping the psychic planes.

Clare thought the older woman who lived across the street and one house up was peeking at her through the curtains. Clare believed she could see the glint of opera glasses. The yards in the neighborhood were large.

She would prefer to think about nosy neighbors, but sighed.

“Ripping the psychic plane,” she murmured, trying not to move her lips. She stretched as if finished with a big job, and pasted on a pleased smile as she turned to her front steps between the bricked columns that marked the opening of her front wall.

Since her back was turned to the woman, she said, “Ripping the psychic plane sounds bad.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

R IPPING WILL CAUSE ALL people discomfort, and attract minor psychics who will try to lay the ghost and get eaten instead.

Her breath sucked in, hard and sharp. “That’s an option? Being eaten by a ghost?”

Yes, but you are strong, stronger than even your great-aunt Sandra, so you should be able to handle a simple devolved ghost in time . . . but eating the spirits of others shatters them and the anomaly becomes bigger and more difficult to banish and—

“I get the idea. It’s best to handle Jack Slade here and now.” She opened the gate and went through, not bothering to lock it because though it was the original gate, several yards down the street was the cut for her driveway and that was open.

Yes, the specter of Jack Slade is eager to move on and helpful, but it remains a dangerous ghost. A good spirit for you to attract as your first major test.

“Great,” Clare said. For sure, the sooner this was done, the better. Where was the gunfighter’s phantom? Would she have to leave a trail for him to find her? Go back to her old house? She was so done with that place.

But she still wasn’t convinced, deep down, that she wanted to see him again, or that she could do this.

A few minutes later Clare relaxed in her new home. One she could envision living in for the rest of her life. The last truck was gone, the heavy furniture set exactly where she wanted, and the boxes for each room stacked neatly against the walls. As she’d suspected, the items she’d received from Aunt Sandra’s home looked perfect in her new house, especially the furnishings she’d chosen for the living room with the huge multipaned and roundly bowed window.

She stood there, since she disliked the specially made window seat pads the former owners had left. Looking out at the green and grassy front yard, the brick wall and iron gate, pleasure welled through her.

Her gaze was caught by a fluttering—a white and misty pulsing—at the window of the second floor of the Spanish-influenced house across the street.

Hand at her throat, she drew back in horror and spun to stare at Enzo, who lay on one section of the wide butterscotch leather couch her aunt had had in her consulting room . . . much as the live dog had done.

“I shouldn’t be able to see any ghosts in this area . . . in this neighborhood . . . it was built too late for my time period, in the twenties!”

Enzo lifted his head, then loped over to the window, hopped onto the semicircular window seat, and stared out.

Clare found her hands in her hair, tugging, as she muttered. “There are rules, right? I need to understand the darn rules!”

There are always . . . anomalies, Enzo said. But you are not experienced enough to handle THAT specter. Maybe in a few years. We should not discuss this, now. He seemed to shiver, then ran back to the corner of the couch and curled into it.

“Great. Just great. The view from this window is ruined for me.” She tromped back to the couch. Yes, she was being a drama queen! Sniffing, she rubbed her arms. She’d turned on the air-conditioning, hadn’t she? Because August continued to be record breaking? Yes, she had, and now she wished she hadn’t.

With a little more control she sank into the couch. She’d hated the wild drama of her parents, and as they continued their out-of-control emoting, she didn’t spend much time with them, and she buttoned down her own tendencies to any great emotional reactions. But look what her gift had driven her to! She was changing and no longer recognizing herself. So she took a couple of those deep breaths that Enzo had coached her in when she’d had her meltdown a few days ago. Her cheeks heated as she thought of the mess she’d been in public.

“Anomalies,” she said quietly to Enzo, repeating that word. Anomalies in accounting never meant anything good—usually hours of work backtracking to a mistake . . . or fraud.

We will not talk of her now.

So the ghost across the way was female. Clare shrugged and thought about making two home offices, one for the regular business of her life, and the second for all the wretched books and research and whatever that seeing ghosts would entail. Yes, that was a good idea. Different computer, desk, and setup . . . she wondered what color to paint that office . . . and maybe put it on the first floor instead of the second floor. Her real office would be next to her bedroom.

A couple of minutes passed before a chill no longer skidded along her skin. The contemplation of good, solid, practical ideas had helped with that. Another deep breath. She’d get through this, and without drama.

Enzo hopped down from the couch to walk over and sit about a pace away from her. He cocked his head and looked her up and down, his forehead wrinkling. You have only helped SIMPLE ghosts pass on, spirits without much trauma. Only one thump of his tail. The darkness of his eyes seemed to swirl.

Clare thought of the Native American. She figured he’d had plenty of trauma, she just hadn’t comprehended it. She swallowed, matching gazes with the dog. “What do you mean?” Her voice went high and her skin goose-bumped. She scrambled futilely for something else to think about, but . . . knowing the rules was important.

His mental voice began to take on that hollow depth she dreaded.

You think your gift demands the little effort you’ve expended so far? That helping souls transition is easy?

“No, no, I don’t think that at all,” she snapped.

A low thrum, not quite a growl, sounded in the phantom dog’s throat.

There is a special process for sending ghosts from this world to where they need to be.

All sorts of alarming ideas in that sentence made her brain hurt.

A process you must learn by doing.

She wet her lips. “A process I haven’t done and that isn’t easy,” she stated.

The dog dipped his muzzle and radiated sternness.

After an uneven breath taken and released, she held up a hand at the spectral Lab. “Let me guess. If I don’t learn to do this right, I’ll . . .” What would be the worst? “Go crazy,” she said. “Crazier.”

Enzo whimpered.

Clare gulped, then couldn’t fend off the emotional train wreck of the whole hideous week. Just when she’d thought she’d gotten better, accepted strange stuff that she never thought she’d believe in in a million years, the universe whacked her again. She burst into tears.

Flattening out on the couch, she let herself empty of tears, release all her anger and self-pity, sobbing, breath hitching, even letting a few wails out. When she thought of the loss of her great-aunt Sandra, she cried some more. She should have spent more time with her aunt that she’d loved, but Clare had wanted so much to be normal. Now she had regrets.

The door knocker banged, easily heard from where she lay. That had to be Zach. Naturally he’d show up when her face was red and blotchy, her eyes swollen.

Clare jackknifed up and yanked out tissues, took care of mopping up, though she wished she could take the time for a nice cold washcloth. Anyway, Zach was a manly man and probably didn’t care for tears. If she didn’t say anything about her crying jag, he probably wouldn’t.

When she opened the door, he examined her. “You okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He nodded.

She stepped back and let him into the entryway, saw him inhale the scent of well-cared-for wood and leather.

“Nice house. Really elegant.”

His eyes were those of a cop, scanning everything, checking for exits, no doubt.

She shut the large door behind him and gestured for him to follow her. “You want something to eat and drink? I have coffee, tea, milk . . . and two sorts of pie.”

He grinned and focused on her. “Pie? What kind of pie?”

“Blueberry with a crumb crust and—”

“Sold on the blueberry,” he said.

“Me, too.” But she walked slowly enough through the opening hall so he could check out the living room on the right and the door to the garage on the left before she turned toward the kitchen.

“Very elegant house. Know it cost you a bundle, looks worth it.”

She cringed as she thought of the price, then straightened the line of her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I have the money,” she said calmly, then glanced back at him and smiled. “I fell in love with the house.”

“Plenty to fall in love with,” he agreed.

Enzo loped up to them, straight through a wall. Zach is here, Clare! He wagged his whole body, the Other who used the ghost dog as a mouthpiece gone, leaving pure puppylike joy.

“Yes, Zach is here.” She glanced down at the dog.

He barked.

Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane, but he said courteously enough, “Hello, Enzo.”

He is talking to ME! He sees ME!

Clare stepped into the big kitchen with new appliances. “I don’t think Zach sees you, Enzo—”

“I don’t,” Zach said.

“But he hears you.” She waved to the counter where an untouched blueberry pie stood on a platter under a glass dome. She’d bought several pies for the movers, some of whom had been female and all of whom had appreciated the food and drinks.

“There’re some pizzas in the fridge.”

“Pizzas? Plural?”

“Yes. And some good beers and lagers, too.”

“You fed the movers.”

“Yes.” She could afford to be more generous now, to reward good work with more than sincere thanks. “I even gave both sets—the ones who moved me from my house, and the ones who showed up from Chicago with Great-Aunt Sandra’s things—a bonus.”

Zach stopped in front of her and patted her cheek. “Good going, Clare.”

Then his eyes deepened, grew intent; his fingers lingered on her face. She reached up and put her hands around the back of his neck, stroked his nape, and he shivered, his eyes closed. Oh, yes, she’d discovered what he liked.

Slanting her head, she pressed her lips to his, ran her tongue along his lips, nibbled the lower one . . . and listened to his breath come short. He tasted of salt and nuts with a hint of coffee. Licks of hot desire flickered in her, spreading from her core, and she needed to feel all of him. Sliding her hands down his arms, she moved to stroke the sides of his torso, then curved her palms over his hips and guided him back to brace against the kitchen island. Then she pushed against him so she could feel him, the tensile strength of his muscles, hard. So, so, sexy.

She just dived in, letting his body cradle hers, appreciating the length of him. Again she took his mouth, found his lips open and realized her eyes had closed at the touch of him.

His tongue rubbed against hers and the taste of Zach exploded in her mouth and she went damp.

He held her tight and that felt so good! A person, a solid being, interacting with her. She hadn’t had any but the most superficial of contacts with anyone other than him since the hugs from her co-workers when she’d left her job last week. Far too long, and she shouldn’t, couldn’t become dependent on him, but the man did feel good against her, vertically and horizontally.

His hands went to her butt, lifted her a bit and settled her against his arousal. Oh, yes, yes, yes!

Big hands, big erection. All hers, soon, but she had to breathe. She drew back, mind spinning, blood pulsing with yearning.

He grinned, seemed to hold her easily, as she balanced with her hands clamped around his biceps. Those were nice and hard, too. The man had no give in him whatsoever . . . at least not physically; his mind seemed plenty flexible.

“What kind of bed do you have here?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “The same bed. Great-Aunt Sandra gave me the sleigh bed from one of her guest rooms as a housewarming gift when I bought my own home.”

He tousled her hair, pushed some strands behind her ear. “So I can’t offer to break in a new bed for you.”

“You haven’t seen the master suite. It’s wonderful.” Her voice came out breathy. “On the second floor.” She gave a little cough. “We have this tiny elevator . . .” He scowled.

“. . . and wide stairs with a landing.” She smiled. “Your choice.”

His brows were still down. “Let’s see those stairs, probably an awesome banister, right?” He gestured with his chin at the open door leading to the narrow secondary staircase off the kitchen. “Or we could go up that way.”

She wiggled and he put her down. Keeping her eyes on his, she drew her hand down the center of him to his most interesting muscle, traced it, testing his hardness, his length and breadth and thickness. Eyes going dark, he hissed out a breath, caught her hand in his, leaned back, and demonstrated exactly how he liked her to caress him.

Her breasts felt heavy, knees a little weak, mouth dried as heat spread throughout her body in a pounding throb of need.

Then he shaped her breast, fingers circling her nipple, lightly squeezing until she panted with him, knew her eyes had dilated as his had.

“Come with me.” She took his hand, heading back through the dining room to the hallway, and opened the tiny elevator door. He tugged at her fingers, and she smiled at him. “My elevator. I want to ride in my elevator in my new house.” Her eyes gleamed. “I want to make out with my lover in my elevator in my house on the way to the bedroom.”

Zach stared at her flushed face, couldn’t say no to her as she pulled him into the tiniest elevator he’d ever seen. It actually had a metal gate she had to draw closed and lock. She punched the button, then crowded him into the corner, not more than a couple of steps, lifted one of her legs and wrapped it around him between him and the wall. As she rubbed against his hard dick, he forgot everything. His aching foot. His name.

All he knew was the need to take this woman now. Get inside her. Make her climax around him so he could shout in release. God, he needed the release.

The slow elevator stopped.

His woman moaned and arched her hips against him, sending fire through him. He plunked her down, hands slipping under the waist of her jeans, under her panties, gripping the softness of her ass. Soft everywhere, especially her thighs against his hips.

He trailed his fingers to her dampness—wet!—tested her, slipped a finger inside her, pressed.

She screamed with pleasure and fell and took him off balance, and shooting pain yanked him back to the here and now. He drew his hand from her and they fetched up against the side of the elevator as he put out his arm to brace them. His cane had fallen to the damn floor—a floor too small to hold a man of his size lengthwise, the only thing that had saved them.