The house stood two and a half stories, maybe three. More of a smallish mansion than a house.

She wanted it.

In this neighborhood, it wouldn’t come cheap. No little plastic box with the info hanging on the low brick wall in the front, a wall that towered to twelve feet along the sides. Nope, no tacky plastic box revealing stats on a place like this.

She snapped pic after pic with her phone, found the location and address on her maps app and took a shot of that, then e-mailed it to Arlene with the text, I want an appointment ASAP.

Breath coming quick in excitement, she slipped back down into her seat.

Enzo opened his eyes, and for an instant she saw depthless holes and shuddered. Then he perked up and hopped to his feet, front paws on the top of the passenger seat and head out the sunroof.

Is that our new home? Oh, it IS. It IS! You found it! I will go check for ghosts of your time period. He slanted her a quick reproachful look. I don’t know why you don’t want to live with ghosts.

She ruthlessly shut the sunroof. He leapt out of the top of her car.

Hadn’t she just decided not to purchase a new car? Foolish to consider a house now, with a new threat hanging over her head.

She didn’t drive away. Rubbing her chilly goose-bumped arms, she jerked the seat forward again. The house would be more than a million, wouldn’t it? Probably. More than two?

Her throat tightened at the thought of so much money being tied into real estate . . . even though something like this would hold its investment value.

She wouldn’t pay two million dollars for this. Outrageous.

She lied. She’d pay almost anything for that house. It was right.

And Aunt Sandra’s house, a few blocks from Lake Michigan, had sold for just under five million . . .

Enzo zoomed through the car door and hopped onto the seat, eyes gleaming. It does not have any ghosts from your time period. His tail wagged. It is BEAUTIFUL.

She wondered what the kitchen looked like.

Her phone alarm beeped, set for fifteen minutes until tea with Mrs. Flinton.

Settling back into her seat, she buckled up again and pulled out into the quiet street, pondering what the dog would think was beautiful.

Exactly on time, Clare parked her car in Mrs. Flinton’s circular drive and got out, feeling a little relieved. This place looked even more expensive than the one she was thinking of buying . . . all right, the house she’d fallen in love with. She pushed her seat against the wheel and bent over to pick up the bouquet she’d picked up at a flower shop for Mrs. Flinton. Figment of her imagination or not, Enzo killed flowers. Better they look a little wilted with heat now than black from frosty cold.

When she straightened, she saw Zach Slade. Though he wore dark glasses, a smile edged his mouth and she figured he’d been staring at her butt. She couldn’t stop returning that smile any more than she could quash the leap of her heart, the squeeze of it and the excitement that poured through her at the sight of him.

It’s ZACH! Enzo shouted mentally.

Zach flinched.

Enzo ran up to the man, raced around him, but Zach gave him no more notice. Something she should be able to do. The man must have a steely mind.

She shut and locked her door, and when they walked toward each other she impulsively held out her hand, felt a glow around her heart when he caught it and squeezed. Since she had the flowers and he a cane, they circled in a little playful dance until they walked hand-in-hand to the door, where a woman in a flowered apron awaited them.

Zach closed his fingers over Clare’s icy ones. Nearly flinched in shock at the cold. The temperature had to be in the midnineties! He slid his narrowed gaze toward her. She looked thinner, her cheeks holding a hollowness that hadn’t been there before, as well as dark smudges under her eyes. Whatever shadows had shown in her eyes when he’d met her before seemed to have gotten the better of her, eating at her.

All his senses prickled in a hunch that those shadows and the decline in her appearance weren’t from a physical sickness . . . and in their meetings before she’d been on the solid side of normal, emotionally. Not a physical problem. Not an emotional one.

A multitude of caws hit his ears, and he glanced to the telephone line to see a row of crows. He tried to ignore them. Tried not to count.

Seven. Seven for a secret, Not to be told.

Secrets. Usually he wanted to know secrets, especially ones that made a woman go from appealing to compelling.

Not now. No.

He heard the wings of birds as they flew away, but dread sifted through him.

Dropping her hand that he’d warmed with his own, he touched her lightly on her back—her cool back, not damp from sweat—as they took the few steps up the portico to the door.

He said, “Clare, this is Mrs. Magee. Mrs. Magee, this is Clare Cermak.”

The housekeeper nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

Clare handed the bouquet to her. “A pleasure to meet you, too.”

“Come in, come in!” called Mrs. Flinton from the dimness inside.

Mrs. Magee stepped back, and Zach and Clare walked into the wide entry hall.

Clare sighed. “You don’t have air-conditioning on.”

“No.” Mrs. Flinton held out her hands. “The house was built to be cool enough in the summer, though my husband had the place retrofitted for air-conditioning, of course.”

“Of course,” Clare said.

Zach had discovered that both of the ladies he lived with, like most elderly, weren’t fazed by the heat, so the house remained in the low eighties except for his apartment.

“I’ll put these in water.” Mrs. Magee bustled away with the flowers.

Clare was hesitating in taking Mrs. Flinton’s hands, and Zach knew why. Finally courtesy demanded it, and Clare put her fingers in Mrs. Flinton’s, squeezed briefly, and showed her a fake smile.

Mrs. Flinton’s brows winged up. “My dear, you do need tea. Come along.” She turned and whisked down the hallway into a parlor that was more feminine than the one she’d led Zach to the day before.

A sofa, a love seat, and two chairs upholstered in a pastel floral pattern formed the main sitting area, but a café table of iron curlicues in green with a glass top was set for three. Steam furled upward from the spout of a large teapot, in nearly the same pattern as the furniture.

Zach hesitated.

A dog barked and he frowned. Neither of the old ladies had pets.

“What was that?” he asked.

Clare looked over toward the table. “Enzo!”

“Enzo?”

Clare flushed. Her gaze flittered to his, then back. She bit her lips, now the plumpest thing on her face. Moist, pretty lips. She gave a crack of laughter, her shoulders slumped. “It’s Enzo,” she repeated.

“The ghost dog,” Mrs. Flinton said firmly as she glided to the table. She sure handled the walker a lot more gracefully than he did his cane.

Now Zach repeated flatly, “The ghost dog.” The one Mrs. Flinton believed followed Clare and she’d denied before.

She swallowed, then rubbed her hands. “Yes. The ghost dog.” She sighed. “Oh, Zach.”

He braced himself. He knew that tone. She was gonna unload on him.

SIXTEEN

HE SAID, “I don’t believe in ghosts, Clare.”

She stared him in the eyes, her own hazel eyes showing more brown than green. “Zach, neither do I. That’s the big problem here.”

And thunk, the atmosphere eased as the “secret not to be told” was revealed.