Ghost Killer (8 page)

Putting her hands inside his shirt, she slid them up his strong torso. His body was
hot, and hers was definitely getting there. The more she touched him, the more her
own sex dampened, clenched, demanded his shaft. Again she moved her hands to his chest,
trailed them upward to trace his collarbone, then removed his shirt. She folded it
and placed it atop his bag.

Zach made a choking noise.

She met his amused eyes.

“These things have a proper order,” she said in her most prissy tone.

“Baby, you
are
driving me crazy.”

“Hardly, yet.”

“Uh. Do you think you can take your sweater off, too?”

She wore a thin burgundy cashmere sweater, and had put on black, lacy,
and
comfortable underwear for him. Studying him from lowered lashes, especially the thick
length of his erection, she tilted her head. “I don’t think it’s time for me to disrobe.”

“Baby, lose the clothes.”

“No.” She took a step back.

“I LIKE LOOKING
at you,” she repeated.

He sighed and his chest went in and out and accented more muscles. He remained a little
thin from the shooting that had ruined his career and disabled him. He’d be even more
incredible when he regained that muscle. Oh, yes.

Stepping back to him, she put her thumbs on his nipples and scraped them.

“Good God, woman!” He jumped to his feet, six foot two to her five foot seven.

“You like that. Nice to know.” She reached for the zipper of his jeans and slowly
drew the tab down; she couldn’t bear to hurt him.

His breath was still rapid, but had gone unsteady.

Finally, his jeans were open all the way and his hard arousal in white boxers pushed
through pale denim.

If she dropped his pants, she’d have to mess with jeans around his shoes, so she knelt
at his feet.

“Oh, man.”

“Woman here.”

“Don’t I know it. Sexy woman.”

“Not tonight,” she said. “Later.”

He swayed, steadied himself, and removed his holstered gun and bent to put it on the
nightstand.

She waited, then went to work on his cross-trainers. She untied the laces, lifted
his feet out of them, one, then the other, stroking the soles of his feet. The right
one arched and flexed away from her touch; the other couldn’t. She placed each foot
on the floor, went to work on his left ankle and calf brace and took it off, then
his socks, folding them and putting them in his shoes. She rubbed his feet. He groaned
and looked like he might topple backward before she got his jeans and boxers off,
so she stood and stuck her thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and pulled them down,
lifting them away from each foot.

Then she rose slowly, and on the journey, rubbed her body against his, her cashmere
sweater teasing his abdomen and chest, and her hand went naturally to his erection,
curved around it, hard, hot, thick behind his boxers. She tested his length, watching
his straining expression and the barely controlled wild in his eyes, then she skimmed
her fingernails along his shaft.

He made an incoherent sound, dragged her close, one hand clamped on her butt, the
other curved around her neck, and he angled her head and ravaged her mouth with a
deeply surging tongue.

Her knees weakened, her mind spun, and, oh, God, she wanted him in her, thrusting
like that, sending her—them both—to ecstasy.

His hands swept under her sweater, flicked open the back of her bra and freed her
breasts. He palmed them, caressed them, stroked until the feel of the soft brush of
her sweater on her back and sides, his tougher skin on her nipples and breasts, made
her quiver with need and her panting matched his.

She had barely enough thought for her fingers to go to the top of his underwear and
yank them down. He moan-laughed in her mouth but didn’t stop her as he lifted his
knees, and one of them insinuated itself between her thighs and pressed on her needy,
melting sex and then he was naked. Her hand curved around him and she held tight,
pumped a couple of times until he broke her grip, spun her, and she fell on the bed.

“My. Turn.” She thought those were the words he said; her mind had fogged and his
voice rumbled.

Then his hot hands were at her jeans and they came off along with her panties and
socks and tangled around her shoes, trapping her feet—ah, how she ached for him, but
he slid away from her hands as he dealt with her shoes and socks. A few seconds later
he
pounced.
His hands opened her thighs, and he plunged into her and filled her. And completed
her.

Her fingers pressed into those fine, fine shoulders; his hands went under her butt
and tilted her up, and the sweet, sweet,
sweet
friction had her whimpering with yearning for the hovering orgasm. She circled her
hips, rocked with him, and her ears cleared when she heard him muttering her name.
“Clare, Clare, Clare.” He lunged into her again and again and then release hit her,
spun her through space and time and the universe and he was with her.

He groaned and shuddered and then lay atop her, breathing roughly next to her ear,
and she became aware of her cashmere sweater bunched between them, recalled the sensation
of it against her skin as they’d loved together, and trembled. She hoped that had
pleased him, too. “Cashmere,” she said, and her mind did a loop of
that-came-out-of-my-mouth
.

“Yeah, excellent.” Zach stroked her side and she felt his fingers through the thin
material.

“Ooooh,” she purred.

He lifted away from her, and she frowned at the loss of him. Then her sweater was
stripped off and she thought it went flying—no way to treat a—her bra, thankfully,
was untangled and dropped, the sheets were pulled down, and she was stuffed in between
them.

“I don’ haff to sleep. I’m not—”

“Shh. We had an active night and a stressful day. Just rest your eyes.”

“Rest my eyes. I’ll be up all night if I sl—”

“Rest,” he crooned.

Slipping into sleep should have been warm relief, but a black and roiling threat tinted
the soft clouds billowing around her.

Clare woke up when Zach turned the bedside light on. She propped herself on her forearm
and glanced at the curtains, but they were room darkening and she couldn’t tell the
time of day by the light. “I’m starving,” she said, then noticed Zach staring down
at his basic black piece of luggage and the bone-handled knife on it.

“Okay, you want to look at the knife now.”

He shook his head. “No, I want to shower.” His mouth turned down. “I’ve already checked
the shower out, it’s part of a tub, not a separate enclosure. Sex might be iffy.”

“Go ahead.”

“Fine. I shower and dress, you shower and dress, we find a place to eat, then return
and look at the knife.”

“Maybe you show me some fighting moves?”

He eyed the room. “Maybe. And maybe we should find someplace outside to practice.”

Enzo appeared sitting right on top of Zach’s bag.
The knife will draw the ghost.

“Crap,” Zach said.

Clare jackknifed to sit. “Uh-oh.”

Again Zach looked around, expression grim. “What must we do to confuse the ghost—”

If the knife is out of the silk bag, it will draw the specter.
Enzo curled over and licked the sheath.

Eww, frigid ghost drool on something she’d be handling. She thought she saw frost
form on the metal. Surely that couldn’t be good for it.

Zach picked up the hilt, grabbed the bag, and stuck the knife in it, though he didn’t
tie the tassels. Now that Clare squinted at the ivory material, she saw small round
circles containing different patterns of solid and broken lines, perhaps some kind
of protection? “Is there a particular knot that we must use, like the one I untied?”

Sandra knew three.
Enzo’s forehead furrowed.
But I think there are more.
His head drooped.
The Other will know and could teach you.

Clare looked at Zach. “You know any fancy knots?”

His face went stony. “No.”

She sensed he lied, and considered the circumstances of their relationship.

He wanted exclusivity and so did she. He wasn’t done with her and she still wanted
him, and more than his body, and they were getting pretty darn intimate. She remained
cautious about taking more than she gave, becoming dependent on him. She’d always
firmly believed in equality in relationships, and with her previous lovers, that hadn’t
been any problem.

But if she propped herself up on him because of his strength and courage in the face
of all this unusual
stuff
going on and he walked away, she could fall and fail and die. So she couldn’t do
that. She’d have to equal his strength and courage, and that felt like a huge challenge.

The issue right here and right now was whether she’d call him on his lie. “Okay, Zach,
hand me the sheath and I’ll tie it the best I can. And do me a favor, don’t lie to
me.”

His lowered lashes flicked up, surprise showing on his face.

“If you don’t want to talk about something, say so. Just don’t lie. And I will give
you the same courtesy.”

“Sorry,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. “My brother and I practiced some knots
together.”

“I understand.” She rose and walked to him, hand out for the bone knife.

“I’ll do it. You go take a shower.”

“All right.” She walked into the bathroom containing simple fixtures . . . and lush
towels.

A few minutes later she’d dressed in jeans, shirt, and thermal vest and Zach was taking
his shower. She stared at the red tassels that were knotted even fancier than before.
She stroked the multilayer Chinese-looking knot and thought of Zach, and his grief
for a lost big brother hero that never went away, and was awed at such love.

Her family seemed to love more lightly.

Walking to the window, she peeked out between the curtains. Clouds had rolled in again
and the sky sleeted small bits of white. Seemed like late afternoon to her, and her
stomach rumbled. She definitely needed to eat.

Zach came out of the bathroom, wet hair sleeked against his head, and giddiness flushed
through her that this virile man desired
her
.

She said, “I think after we eat, instead of returning here, we should drive up and
down all the town streets, those on the hillside, too. Like you said, get a feel for
it.” Her lips thinned. “Not only the old and historic portion but what’s here now.
What the evil apparition threatens.”

Zach nodded. “Good idea.”

*   *   *

The hamburger at Pico’s Patio was one of the most delicious Clare had ever eaten,
probably because she was so hungry. As she ate, Zach studied the diners. He was better
at judging who was a tourist and who was a local than she.

Back in the car, they drove through the gray evening, up and down the three long streets
in town and those on the ridges, and found the road to the airport and the medical
center in the south of town. They admired some incredibly beautiful and unique homes
that often occurred in small mountain towns, and came across the turn to the cemetery.

Zach took it, and a simple white church came into view, as well as the road up a gentle
slope. The hillside cemetery was easy to spot with the two wooden poles and a top
plank announcing it, old and new gravestones, and a miniature white church. The prairie
grass, still summer yellow, hid the muddy ground.

He stopped. “Shall we walk?”

“Seeing if there are no ghosts or apparitions or specters or shades here, too?” she
grumbled.

But he’d gotten out of the car and circled to open her door, held out a hand. “It’s
peaceful and pretty and I haven’t been in an old cemetery for a long time.”

“Day before yesterday?” she reminded.

“I didn’t walk around that one, and it was for a reburial, not the same,” he said
firmly, taking her hand with the one that didn’t hold his cane. Since Clare didn’t
see another person, Zach might also figure they were safe. Well, at least safe because
they’d just hit town and people hadn’t heard of her or what she could do. In this
particular case, unlike the last one, he wouldn’t be on the lookout for a hunting
accident. Yet.

“Enzo,” she called. She could use some cheering up.

I am here!
He gazed around, tail wagging.
It’s pretty. Though the hills are not too steep so I can run through them and sniff
bones.

Clare gasped and coughed. She
was
getting better about the collateral
stuff
she dealt with in her new . . . vocation.

Oooh, look! A dog house just for me in the cemetery!
He headed straight for the small white church with a red roof.

Zach chuckled. “What a dog.”

She angled a glance at her lover. “You can see and hear him well, even without contact
with me.”

“Yeah.”

They walked and looked at new and old tombstones, some of wood that wouldn’t last,
some overgrown slabs, some graves in little fenced in areas.

“Nothing?” Zach asked.

“No.”

*   *   *

Enzo zoomed up to them, his expression sad.
No. No lingering tiny bits of personalities at ALL. They have been EATEN. I
will be eaten.

“No, you won’t,” she and Zach said together. Enzo moved close to Clare. So close he
was inside her right leg, chilling it.

“Nothing of Robert Ford?” Zach asked.

Clare blinked. “You were looking for him?”

“Sort of.”

“He’s not here.”

“His remains were exhumed?”

“Yes, and taken somewhere else. I remember that, though I don’t recall where. Missouri?”
She reached in her jacket pocket for her phone and Zach squeezed her hand. “No need.”

“And they didn’t bury him here either.”

“What? No?”

“No. The rumor on the Internet is,” and until she looked at original sources like
the contemporary newspaper, the
Creede Candle
, whatever was on the Internet would be suspect, “that the good town people didn’t
want him buried with them in the cemetery, so his gravesite was somewhere else. It
seems he shot up the town and the new streetlights and was run out of town. He came
back a couple of months later and was killed soon afterward.”