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.