His lips flattened, and then he nodded and took a huge bite of his sandwich.

“Even if it isn’t the sort of job you want.”

Again he nodded, chewed, swallowed, then said, “Yeah, helping Mrs. Flinton last night felt good. How about you, Clare? We talked about contributing.”

For an instant a whooshing wind blocked out her hearing, and her vision dimmed. Her accounting career seemed like ages ago.

Maybe like more than a hundred and fifty years ago. She was going crazy, but she wasn’t going to tell Zach that, mention that she was holding on to the hope Dr. Barclay offered her or still waiting for her in-depth physical tests.

An image of Aunt Sandra rose before Clare’s mind, wearing one of those cut-velvet scarf jackets, coming toward Clare with a big smile on her carefully made-up face that looked years younger than her true age, wafting the scent of the perfume Clare hadn’t used that morning. That was a memory. Sandra had sent a limo to pick up Clare the summer she’d visited when she was sixteen because Sandra had had a client for her psychic medium business that she couldn’t refuse.

Clare shuddered. No. She would not be like that. No and no and no. She reached out for her water and it tipped.

Zach caught it and righted it.

He was staring at her. “Clare?”

Enzo was barking. He slipped through the rail and sat beside her with dark more-than-big doggie eyes.

Her mouth was dry. With focus, she got the water—why had they put ice in her drink?—and sipped. Then she summoned up enough calm to meet Zach’s gaze. “I still have work on my aunt’s estate.”

She held on to that thought, hard, and took one steadying breath. “I’m hoping I don’t have to go back to Chicago anymore, and I’ve been working nonstop on it for some time, but I think I only have a few last things to do.”

Even as she spoke, her smart phone played music. She dipped her head. “And that’s notification that a package has been delivered to my house, probably from Sandra’s lawyer.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He reached out and took her hand.

The simple touch and connection staggered her. A spurt of tears stung behind her eyes as her phone continued its mathematical progression through a Bach concerto that she’d once liked.

Clare shifted her shoulders. “I didn’t understand Aunt Sandra much, and she didn’t understand me . . . but there was love.” Once upon a time, before Clare had been embarrassed by her great-aunt. And Clare could admit to the love, now, aloud to a stranger who was getting under her skin.

“No one would expect you to be related to a psychic medium, Clare,” Zach said gently.

She got what he wasn’t saying. “You checked me out.” All right, she’d been going to Google him, but Zach obviously had a lot more resources than she.

“Mrs. Flinton gave your name to Rickman. He was . . . concerned . . .”

“Since she invited me to tea today after meeting me in public for an hour last night.” Clare nodded.

“Yeah. So Rickman checked you out and sent me his file.” Zach’s bluish gaze held hers. “And I was curious and didn’t resist temptation.” He squeezed her hand and his voice lowered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to resist much temptation when it comes to you, Clare Cermak of Gypsy extraction.”

A fluttering low in her abdomen, sexual tingles, rushed through her. She was alive and had a fascinating man interested in her. Enough, for now, to focus on.

The music from her phone cut off.

“Go ahead and check,” Zach said, releasing Clare’s hand far too soon, picking up the second half of his sandwich, and munching some more. Clare could only envy his appetite.

She looked at the tracking app and noted it was from Aunt Sandra’s attorney, then frowned at the note he’d attached, her stomach sloshing more with acid than the small amount of soup she’d had.

“What is it?”

For a moment she choked, glanced at him with a half smile. “We keep asking each other that.”

His cheek creased in a long dimple as he smiled, too. “We’re learning each other. What’s up?”

“Aunt Sandra’s attorney said that the package contained videos.”

Zach put down his sandwich. “Was she the type who’d leave a personal video for you?”

FOURTEEN

YES, YES, YES! shouted Enzo, up on his feet and running around, barking. Yes she made a talking picture for you, Clare. Yes she did! He came over and laid his head on her thigh.

Clare hadn’t needed his input to know. “Yes. And not only for me. He probably shipped one to my brother and his family, maybe individually for him, his wife, and my niece. I don’t know . . .” Another grimace. “I probably have my parents’. They keep on the move.” She looked at Zach. She’d like to stay with him, but . . .

Let’s go see! Enzo said, then more quietly, You need to watch yours.

“Go.” Zach echoed Enzo. “You and I will see each other in about three hours at tea, right?”

“Yes. Thank you for paying for my soup.”

He stared at her half-empty bowl. “Doesn’t look like you ate much of it.”

“I’ll do better at tea,” she replied lightly.

He nodded. “And I’ll tell Mrs. Magee to make something more substantial than cucumber sandwiches.”

Clare blinked. “You know about cucumber sandwiches?”

“Mrs. Flinton reminds me a little of my maternal grandmother.” His expression closed down.

“Ah.” Clare rose and lifted her bag to slide it over her shoulder. She’d already tucked her purse inside. The bag didn’t contain as many books as the last time she’d visited the library.

Zach thrummed his fingers on the table, still looking at her. “Did you do an online search for me, Clare?”

“No.”

His stare was sharp. “Do it.”

She lifted her chin, kept her eyes matched with his. “I’d rather hear your story from you.”

He scowled. “Not a story, facts.”

“Of course.” She softened her voice. “But I’d rather talk to you about whatever you went through. We’re learning each other.” She repeated his words.

Now his gaze pierced her. “Then you’re going to have to open up more, too, Clare.”

She pressed her lips together.

“Yeah, I thought so. See you later.” He picked up the sandwich.

“Later.” But she didn’t like ending on this note, so when she moved around the table, she came close to him and kissed him on his high cheekbone by his temple. “Thank you for the meal.” She followed a racing Enzo out of the restaurant and around the corner, keeping her back straight, her stride smooth. She didn’t look back at Zach, thinking he might have his cop-examination face on.

As she walked the few blocks to a hotel where she could catch a cab, she contemplated what she hadn’t told Zach. The lawyer was sending Aunt Sandra’s “journals.” He called them “journals,” but stated she’d called them “experiences and instructions for Clare.”

Like the video, “instructions for Clare on how to deal with her Gift.”

 • • •

She gave the cabbie a twenty percent tip, her pride stinging a bit from Zach’s “cheapskate” comment and the fact that the taxi sure wouldn’t pick up anyone in her neighborhood at this time of day when people were at work. Not like he would have if he’d driven someone to the airport.

The vehicle had been too cold, as usual.

On her stoop she found two stacked medium-sized boxes. Just how many journals did her aunt have? Blinking away tears, she recalled the loops of Aunt Sandra’s overly elaborate cursive writing that Clare had trouble reading.

Another wearying challenge.

Oh, oh, OH! It smells like Sandra! Enzo said, and his eyes looked watery, too. As far as Clare knew, dogs didn’t cry.