Текст книги "Ghost Seer"

Автор книги: Robin D. Owens

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

One of the auctioneers strolled up and glanced at Clare apologetically. “It is a puzzle box,” the woman confirmed. “But we weren’t able to open it, at least without the force it would take to break it.”

“Ah.” Clare nodded, glad to put the thing back down.

The auctioneer sighed. “Not one of our better pieces. We have some lovely antiques tonight.” She gestured at one wall.

Clare wished to appear casual in her interest in the box in case anyone was watching and might bid against her, so she strolled toward the wall of antiques.

It’s Zach! Enzo barked. Zach is here! The spectral dog galloped away.

Now that he mentioned it, Clare’s gaze immediately focused on the tall man leaning slightly on the cane. He held it as if he didn’t need it at all, like it was a prop, though Clare knew better. A pang of pity went through her and she wiped any hint of it from her face.

An elderly woman standing next to Zach said something . . . and bent down to pet Enzo.

Zach’s head angled. He looked down, shook his head, gazed at the woman, then turned and stared at Clare.

Her stomach tightened and she flushed. She didn’t want to talk about Enzo to anyone, especially not Zach Slade.

NINE

CLARE STROLLED TOWARD the old woman, and the ghost dog that should definitely be a hallucination.

The woman straightened from her walker, which held a light designer bag fastened to the inside front. She offered her hand with a beaming smile and a sly, sliding glance at Zach. “Hello, I hear you’re a friend of Zach’s!”

Clare wet her lips. Zach stood extremely straight, a closed expression on his face. She took the woman’s hand, and the lady’s gray brows zoomed upward. “My, your hands are cold. Only to be expected of one with your gift, though.” She put her other hand over Clare’s and patted it. “Zach, introduce this young lady to me!”

Zach whisked a gesture from Clare to the woman. “Clare Cermak, meet Mrs. Barbara Flinton.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Clare said and a little ping went off in her mind. She knew of the wealthy Flintons. She opened her lips to tell her new acquaintance that she was an associate at a prestigious Denver accounting firm and realized that was untrue. Her shoulders slumped a bit.

“I’m pleased to meet you, too. And who is this fine fellow?” Mrs. Flinton braced a hand on her walker and bent down again to stroke Enzo.

Zach’s blue-green eyes darkened, with the green showing more. His brows dipped, though he kept the same expression.

“I don’t know,” Clare said, and caught a fleeting twitch of the lips from Zach.

I AM ENZO! the ghost dog shouted, jumping up and planting his paws on Zach. The man flinched and Clare stilled. Surely he couldn’t—see? hear? feel that imaginary illusion.

“You’re a very nice dog,” said Mrs. Flinton.

Enzo stared accusingly at Clare. She lifted her chin and ignored his dark eyes that looked more like holes than she was comfortable with.

Zach cleared his throat and his gaze slid toward Clare. “We’re here on business.”

“Yes!” Mrs. Flinton straightened. “I’m looking for some family antiques. A few mid-nineteenth-century pieces my mother had.”

“A con,” Zach murmured. Mrs. Flinton didn’t seem to have heard him. Clare noticed hearing aids in her ears.

Clare met Zach’s eyes.

“We’re here on business,” he repeated, touching Mrs. Flinton’s shoulder, then nodded at Clare again. “And you? I thought you had furnishings coming from your aunt’s estate.”

“I do.” Again blood rose in her cheeks as she sent a swift look at the counter, which showed small, uninspired objects like the box.

Of course Zach noticed her glance. He frowned.

“I, uh, am acquiring a box for an, uh, out-of-town friend.”

His gaze sharpened. He’d noted her hesitation, too, and that seemed to pique his curiosity. She wouldn’t have minded except he might want an explanation that she had no intention of giving.

Drawing in a breath, Clare said, “I don’t see any mid-nineteenth-century antiques.” With Sandra’s estate Clare had gotten pretty good at judging furniture. She gestured and continued, “I see some twentieth-century reproductions of mid-nineteenth-century pieces.”

Mrs. Flinton stopped, turned her walker to look at Clare, eyes piercing. “Is that so?”

Clare shrugged. “So I believe.”

The older woman plucked the catalog from her purse, unfolded it, and pointed with a gnarled finger. “It says ‘nineteenth-century sideboard, wardrobe, and wash stand.’” She stared in the direction of one of the auctioneers and lifted a hand. The woman hustled over to Mrs. Flinton.

Indicating the furniture, Mrs. Flinton said, “Is that the mid-nineteenth-century furniture?”

The auction house woman looked at the furniture and frowned. “No. We don’t have any mid-nineteenth-century furniture tonight.”

Mrs. Flinton held out the catalog. “It says here—”

“What!” the woman exclaimed. “I don’t know how that misprint occurred.”

Clare’s attention shifted from the women to Zach, who thrummed with tension. His gaze was focused on a smiling man in a dark blue suit striding toward them.

Everything about Zach’s manner had changed, sharpened. He stood arrogantly, eyes narrowed, ready to take action. Clare stepped away, unsure of him in this mood.

“There’s Mr. Whistler!” Mrs. Flinton said, smiling and gliding with her walker a step toward the man.

Zach took two strides and set himself in front of her.

But Whistler’s toothy smile vanished and his rising hand dropped. He changed paths abruptly, and Clare thought he tried to make it seem as though he’d seen someone he wanted to speak with. He angled away from them, hesitating briefly now and then to drop a word in someone’s ear, then sauntered to one of the exits and left.

Zach began to advance after him.

“Well!” Mrs. Flinton huffed. “Zach, please stay with me.”

Zach hesitated, then stilled. He appeared predatory, nearly straining to follow Whistler. Then he muttered, “The client is always right. I hate this. I could’ve had him.”

Mrs. Flinton tilted her head toward Zach, brow wrinkling as if she hadn’t heard. Zach pivoted back toward them with a teeth-gritted smile of his own.

“Hmm,” Mrs. Flinton continued, tapping Zach’s muscle-clenched arm. “Shall we look at that silver I was prepared to bid on, with an expert?” She beamed at Clare.

Clare shook her head. “I’m no expert. You’ll need one of the people who work here.” Even with the crowd, she thought a staff member would be available for Mrs. Flinton. If Clare knew her name and status, so would the salespeople.

As Mrs. Flinton smoothly crossed the room to the silver, she gathered a middle-aged man who turned out to be one of the partners in the Compass auction house. They spoke a little about the silver; the man shook his head at the newly engraved initials on the pieces and pointed out that they were made to look old. Jaw flexing, he apologized to Mrs. Flinton for the quality of the work and stalked off to speak with his partner and brother.

Mrs. Flinton emitted a heavy sigh, moved to one side of her walker, and leaned against Zach. His arm came around her and he said, “I know you wanted these to be your family’s antiques.”

Her mouth turned down in a fierce scowl. “I wanted to hope. It’s mean to prey on someone’s hope. Zach, I want you to investigate where and when and how those pieces disappeared and what might have happened to them.”

He winced. “The trail’s long cold.”

“You can start with Mama and Papa’s last housekeeper, Mrs. Langford. She was young and came from a long-lived family. She might still be alive, or have relatives who might know.” Mrs. Flinton stared up at him, her eyes a deeper blue than Clare had noticed before. “And you can work with computers, too, right?”

“Yeah,” Zach said.

With a firm nod, the elderly lady said, “You’re part of Tony’s company. I’ll let him know that I want you to work on this for me.”

Zach had gotten a position already? What kind? A sliver of envy stabbed Clare. He had something interesting to do with his life. She . . . didn’t. And where was Enzo? Not that she’d missed him. She scanned the room and saw him sitting next to the box, apparently guarding it.

“Now we can see what interests Clare, here,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“No, really . . .” Clare began.

But Mrs. Flinton was off.

Zach reached down and clasped her fingers, causing her to glance up at him.

“Your hands are cool. Plenty of people here to generate warmth, but the air-conditioning is on, too.” He grimaced. “Not much drop in the temperature in the nights nowadays.”

“No.” She liked the feel of his hand, callused in places she wasn’t familiar with—from carrying a gun? Using it? Probably. She liked the tingles that went through her at his touch, too.

Most of all she liked the interest in his changeable blue-green eyes. They’d been hard when he stared at Whistler, but his gaze seemed softer now. He touched the thick strap of her sundress. “Pretty Clare.”

“Thank you. I’m naturally tan.”

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

For the first time that evening her blood heated to warm her. She nearly closed her eyes, the sensation felt so sweet. Her lashes lowered and she smelled him . . . man, and a hint of leather and just Zach. Very, very nice.

“Thanks. I find you very, very nice, too.”

Her head jerked up and her eyes popped open. She’d said that “very, very nice” aloud?

His lips had turned up in the first genuine good-humored smile she’d seen from him that evening.

Enzo yowled, and words formed in her mind. The auction will be starting soon!

With a sigh, Clare moved away from Zach’s lips, so close that her own had tingled with anticipation. This was not the time or place to kiss him. And she didn’t want to show him the box or lie to him about it.

Mrs. Flinton aimed a wide smile at them, and to Clare’s pleasure, Zach tucked her hand between his side and elbow. He certainly was warm.

They crossed the room. She understood his slow pace and noted that he lifted his left knee more, only noticeable if you paid attention. His slow progress didn’t bother her, and all the rest of his movements were executed with muscular grace. She wondered how much effort it cost him to try to walk normally—and how small her problems seemed when she considered his. Well, maybe losing your mind wasn’t small, exactly, but she had hope that could be beaten . . . eventually. For right now she’d give in to the figments just to have her mind quiet so she and the psychologist could fix it.

Mrs. Flinton looked down at the box. “Interesting,” she said.

“How did you know what Clare was looking at from across the room?” Zach asked.

“The dog told me.”

Clare stiffened and attempted to school her face into the blandness that matched Zach’s voice, even as Enzo had risen to his feet and was rubbing himself on her bare legs. She couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“The dog?” Zach said. “You mentioned him before.”

The silvery-gray illusion that was Enzo sat in front of Zach and lifted a paw, though he looked at Clare. She can hear me if I shout. And he can hear me if I try hard, too. You should tell him about me.

She wouldn’t.

Mrs. Flinton lifted her chin and answered, “The ghost dog accompanying Clare.”

Zach said nothing; he leaned on his cane and stared down at the box. “Junky box.”

Clare’s shoulders tensed, and she moved them to relax the muscles. “I know.” She pressed her lips together, then said, “But I promised I’d buy it, and I keep my promises.” Even to apparitions of her own mind. Maybe there was something in her that wanted this particular thing. Most of the events in her life lately had taken on a dreamlike quality. She hadn’t ever been the sleepwalking sort, but that could be another, a different, problem she was suffering. Maybe there was something in the box that she had lost and needed. It might even have belonged to Sandra at one time.

Plenty of other options than Jack Slade, the gunfighter who was a “real” ghost.

One of the staff clanged a bell.

Zach stepped away from the table, and Clare realized a couple of her fingers had curved into his sports jacket and she let her hand fall. “Shall we leave?” he asked Mrs. Flinton.

TEN

CLARE SWALLOWED HER protest to ask them, especially Zach, to stay. Not to leave her with the dog, who seemed to also be visible to Mrs. Flinton, and who might also affect Zach.

“Leave since I won’t be bidding on anything?” Mrs. Flinton’s voice quivered. “Not . . . not yet. Whistler didn’t come back?”

Clare examined the room, but apparently Zach didn’t need to do that. He said, “No. Probably he’s long gone and his name isn’t Whistler anymore. I’ll report that to Rickman and he’ll decide how much to follow up.”

“Whistler abandoned his items?” Mrs. Flinton asked.

“We don’t know anything about those items. My best bet is that he stole them. Or he’ll contact the auction house later.”

Mrs. Flinton sniffled, then waved at the plum wood box. “The box is in the first lot to be auctioned. Let’s stay for that.” She stood straight and turned her walker to the rows of chairs.

“Thank you,” Clare said. She looked up at Zach. “And thank you for staying. I know this is business for you.”

He smiled down at her and her pulse sped up; her cheeks warmed as if she were blushing again. “Pleasure mixed with business,” he said. Then he winked. “And what if I told you I was getting paid by the hour?” His free hand curved around her elbow. She hadn’t realized that bone was cold, too. She should just keep him around as a personal heater. She felt warm all the way to her core . . . her body interested in his.

She struggled to recall what they’d been talking about, some topic that she, as an accountant, should have picked up on as they progressed smoothly toward where Mrs. Flinton sat . . . oh. “If you told me you worked by the hour, I’d be very surprised . . . unless you got a consulting job?”

The smile edging his lips flattened. “No. Trying my hand at private security and investigation.”

Obviously he wasn’t as pleased as she’d thought he was, and she didn’t know why. “You’d be good at that,” she replied matter-of-factly.

His brows came down. “You think?”

“Absolutely.”

“What are you discussing?” asked Mrs. Flinton as Clare negotiated beyond the walker and Mrs. Flinton’s end seat and took the second chair down, letting Zach sit next to the older woman—his client. He treated her very well, and that boosted him in Clare’s estimation.

Clare raised her voice so Mrs. Flinton could hear. “I think Zach will be excellent in a private security and investigation job,” Clare said into a sudden silence that fell when the auctioneer stepped onto the platform.

People turned to look at them, and Zach, who now appeared so coplike that even Clare, a very law-abiding citizen, noticed. Some people slid from their chairs and slipped out the nearest exit.

“Thank you,” Zach said, setting his cane—which somehow now looked like a weapon. Interesting!—on the floor, then sitting down.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” the auctioneer projected, and everyone settled. “Lot one of unremarkable items to get you warmed up.” He flashed a smile and there were a few sighs, some chuckles.

Mrs. Flinton snuffled, and Clare saw her watery gaze go to the large silver punch bowl as her chin wobbled.

Zach put a long arm around her shoulders, squeezed, then dropped it.

Clare leaned toward him and murmured, “You’re kind.”

His expression turned impassive, and she figured that masked his being uncomfortable.

Enzo wiggled into the space not quite large enough for a solid dog his size and collapsed on all of their feet. Mrs. Flinton smiled; Zach stretched out his legs so his feet were under the chair ahead of him, though his cane remained in Enzo’s body. Clare felt the weight of Enzo’s upper body, the chill of his drool hitting her even below her sandal strap, and she just suffered through, aware of his accusing eyes for ignoring him. Zach nudged her when the box came up.

She hadn’t attended many auctions, but she knew the basics and lifted her paddle when she had to. Four bidders began, then diminished to three, then to two, and she got the thing for a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Paid too much,” Zach murmured.

For a box that had been around in 1864? She didn’t know. How special were old and scruffy items? The staff seemed pleased.

Mrs. Flinton led the way to the checkout table in an anteroom of the building.

“Thank you again for staying,” Clare said. Zach’s presence on her right side, his warmth and sheer solidity, balanced out the cold and mirage of Enzo walking along her left side.

Mrs. Flinton stopped. “You thanked me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a good girl.”

Clare paid and gingerly took the bag with the box in it, and then they ambled out into the night. In only a couple of minutes, a new-model luxury car drew up in front of them.

“Come to tea tomorrow at two P.M., Clare. Zach will give you the address when he accompanies you home,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“What?” Clare and Zach asked at the same time.

“You two have a lot in common and should spend some time together,” Mrs. Flinton insisted. “Inside, the dog distracted you from making more of a connection. Zach will accompany you home and make sure you’re safe.”

For an instant, sheer relief flooded Clare. Then she shook her head and said, “That’s not necessary. You’re his client.”

Mrs. Flinton gestured to a stocky Asian driver who’d come around to open the door for her. “Mr. Yee is plenty of security for me.”

“Mrs. Flinton—” Zach began.

“You told me where you parked today, and Tony Rickman has your car,” Mrs. Flinton said. “He can have it sent around to Clare’s address.”

Anger fired in Zach. Yeah, he’d told Mrs. Flinton about the parking garage, but one of Rickman’s operatives must have found his vehicle by the license number, which Zach hadn’t given anyone. He hadn’t done any paperwork to be hired by Rickman.

Zach shut down the irritation and loosened his grip on his cane, which he wanted to slam against the Mercedes. He had a job he wasn’t sure of, though it had felt damn good to scare that son of a bitch Whistler with just a look. Zach had an apartment he wasn’t quite sure of, either. Hell, he’d known Rickman had checked him out, would have gotten his license plate number.

With a sigh, he heard Clare give the location of her home to Mrs. Flinton, who arched her brows, nodded, and swept into the car. Yee closed the door on her, folded up her fancy walker, and put it in the trunk. He inclined his head to Zach. “Mrs. Flinton will be safe with me.”

“Right,” Zach said between his teeth, and watched as Yee drove away.

“I’m sorry you were forced to do this,” Clare said.

He gazed at her, noting that she appeared pale under her natural tan. Man, how he liked to see the peachiness of color when she blushed. Staring, he narrowed his eyes. Might just be the lighting that made her pallid, but he didn’t think so. “You okay?”

She jerked a shrug, opened the sack and took out the box, slipped the handle of the bag over her wrist. Her fingers worked on the wood as she turned it over, checking each side.

Zach studied the thing in her fingers and realized it didn’t have an obvious opening. Okay, that made it interesting, and that the woman had bought such a box with no opening intrigued him, too. He didn’t believe for a minute she’d bought it for a friend. Clare Cermak became more and more compelling. He certainly appreciated the sizzle between them.

“It isn’t a solid block of wood, is it?” he asked.

“It’s a puzzle box,” she said in a stilted tone. “I haven’t figured out how to open it.”

“Will your friend know?” Zach kept his voice even. He didn’t believe in her friend, and he thought she understood that.

She flushed, then went pale.

“What’s in the box?” he demanded, a cop’s tell-me order.

“I don’t know.” She looked up at him, angry.

He softened his tone. “Any idea?”

Slowly she shook her head, and it came to him that the contents were a mystery to her. “May I see it?”

“Sure.” She handed it over to him quickly, another clue that it might not be something she’d wanted. Fascinating. She herself was a puzzle box a whole lot more appealing than the piece of wood he turned over in his hands. The box was smooth, but with an occasional sticky sort of residue like old grease covered with dirt and dust. He felt no moving pieces, either.

The bright outside lights had come on since the light blue-purple evening had become blue-black night.

“I guess I’ll have to check the Net to open it up.” Clare sighed.

“Why not let your friend do that?”

Again her flush seemed to warm away the slight tinge of gray under her skin. What was with this lady? She didn’t strike him as overly emotional, and not nearly as out there as Mrs. Flinton, but Clare certainly reacted as if something were going on. Could she have been in on the scam with Whistler? But Zach had met her completely coincidentally. On the other hand, coincidences did happen. A bird called and he flinched. No, not a crow. Not.

And Clare frowned up at him, reminding him all too well that he had his own secrets and twitches.

She grimaced. “Yes, I can let my friend do that. He should know how.”

“He?” Dammit, should Zach be interested in a woman this . . . with problems like he had? Maybe with demons like his?

Her lips moved into a half smile as she slid her glance toward him. “An acquaintance.” He saw her stop another sigh; her shoulders straightened. The guy was a burden, then, not a lover—at least not a current one, maybe a past mistake.

“May I have the box?” she asked.

Zach hefted it in his hand. “I don’t think the cubbyhole inside could be very big; doesn’t feel at all heavy.”

Mouth twisting, she said, “I don’t think it’s ounces of gold.”

A dog barked in the distance and Zach got a buzzing in his ears. He shook his head to make it go away and handed the light box back to her. When she reached out, her fingers trembled.

“Maybe I’d better drive.” His voice was hoarser than he wanted because, damn, this quiet and tidy woman with the haunted eyes was appealing. But he didn’t want to get mired in any of her problems.

Her full breasts rose under the top of her sundress as she breathed in. “All right.”

“You’ve got an automatic transmission?” he asked, able to keep up with her slow pace across the parking lot. With concentration, he kept his left knee as low as possible and still kept his foot from dragging across the pavement. Grudgingly he understood that he needed to move on more than he had—he thought he’d been pushing himself physically, and he had, to get back into shape.

Now he needed to learn how to live as a cripple. Walk with stealthiness, use his cane as a weapon . . . maybe get the damn brace he’d been resisting.

When he saw Clare’s car, he smiled at her very sensible choice, an older model that held its value. She handed him the key before he asked, and when he inserted it and turned, she went around to her side, a lady unused to having a gentleman open the door for her. If he’d been whole, he could have lengthened his stride, caught up, and surpassed her to open the door. His fist clenched around the cane. No more hitting things. Once had been enough.

He opened his door, stowed his cane in the backseat, sat in the driver’s seat, leaned over and opened her door. Then he adjusted the seat and mirrors. The car was warm, but Clare looked like she shivered. “Are you all right?”

Another grimace. “Well enough. I’m waiting for some tests to come back.”

“Doesn’t sound good.” Checking around them, he reversed and drove to the cut to the street.

Her chin lifted, her lower lip sticking out a little. For some reason he found that cute. “I’m fine. I will be fine.”

Since he didn’t care for comments on his own health, he said nothing more, but a chill tingle touched the back of his neck and sank into his shoulders—no sort of hunch or anything. If he’d been in a room, he’d have thought of drafts, but the summer night was warm. Too warm for the jacket he’d forgotten to take off before getting into the car. Clare had wrapped her arms around herself, so turning on the air-conditioning was out. He hit the switch to roll down the windows.

She tapped the detachable GPS and set it to “Go Home.”

“I don’t need voice directions; the map is good enough,” Zach said. He hated the mechanical voices. He turned west.

They drove for a few minutes in comfortable silence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt easy being silent with someone close. Nice. “Clare,” he said, liking her name on his tongue, a short and sturdy name. Another glance at her showed her pretty profile and the roundness of her breasts, the slight curve of her stomach. This woman wasn’t a toned cop or athlete.

Her head turned and her hair swung, thick and shiny, smelling of some light citrus scent, clean and fresh. He recognized it . . . lemon and ginger, little bottles handed out by an upscale hotel. He drew in the scent of her, wanting that exotic note that had teased him earlier that day, even opened his mouth as if his tongue could taste her. Yeah, he caught that fragrance that tantalized—woodsy, spicy, some perfume mixed with her own Clare scent that indicated she was different than her appearance. Lust speared straight to his groin.

“Clare,” he said, his voice thicker with desire. He made himself concentrate on the road, on driving, though his peripheral vision showed her breasts rising faster.

“Yes?” she asked, quiet, more vulnerable. That vulnerability called out to him now more than ever before . . . because he knew he was flawed so badly.

“I like you.” Hell, that sounded dumb.