All the changes in her life had such sharp edges right now that she didn’t want to hurt herself more than necessary . . . perhaps become more attached and dependent on Zach just because he’d come into her life at this time. All that could wait for later.

Not to mention the fact that he’d made his discontent with her current house evident with a couple of grunts. Neither of them believed this house would sell soon in the sluggish market, nor would it sell until the weather cooled down. The lack of air-conditioning this year was a real liability.

Clare would focus on her new house and her new gift, have this house professionally cleaned and take Arlene’s advice about when to list the place with an eye to selling. In any event, she should get enough to pay the mortgage off and maybe a little more, which just plain satisfied her. She’d done fairly well.

But at the door, when Zach pulled her against him and despite all the sex they’d had, her nerves picked up an anticipatory buzz.

He kissed her. “I like you a lot, Clare.”

“Ditto.”

“Not over?”

Her heart gave a hard thump at the question. “No.”

“Good.” A short kiss. “Later.”

“Later.”

The cane added to his swagger.

 • • •

Her energy seemed to drain out as she turned out the porch light after Zach drove off, then reluctantly stopped the fan and moved it away, closing and locking the door. Such a small starter house, but she’d been happy here. Her parents had been appalled. They’d come once, dismissed her house and Clare herself.

Two more days and she’d be gone.

Turning off all the lights, she shuffled through the heat and fell onto the clean sheets on the bed that she and Zach had made together. Her insistence on that and his male teasing made her smile. She knew Enzo had joined her since he radiated cool.

“Good night, Enzo.” She reached out and petted his back, her fingers turning icy in an instant.

Good night, Clare. You are doing good. Mostly, he said.

She sniffed, but no ghosts, no nightmares, and no chills racked her body while she slept. Though she wasn’t nearly as comfortable as when she’d been crowded on the couch with Zach the night before.

 • • •

In the morning, Clare had a list and a tight schedule and concentrated on packing, ignoring the lure of research on the computer. The more she worked, the more she thought of questions about Jack Slade, Cold Springs Station, ghosts, mediums, and the rules of her gift.

She thought of Zach . . . tried to set aside the remembrance of his hands on her body, her hands running over his muscles, but the sex had been so incredible, and the man himself was enthralling. She should, of course, do that web search on him, but it really didn’t matter who he was . . . before.

He was an intense man, and she believed that was nothing new to him. And that he’d told her about his brother, opened up a hurt that was so devastating she could still hear it in his voice, touched her. His story made her more protective of him and his feelings, though she wouldn’t tell him that.

He had issues, but didn’t everyone? And sharing emotions, intimacy, was almost as good as the sex. She felt he was negotiating rough waters like her.

Clare wasn’t the person she’d been before, just a little over a week ago. She wasn’t an accountant, had no job, had no intention of being a professional . . . medium? . . . she hated that word. She had no intention of becoming a professional Ghost Seer, or Apparition Mover, or Phantom Vanquisher, or whatever. She didn’t need to work. All she needed to do was practice her gift enough to keep the madness and chill away.

That didn’t sit well, to do the minimum and not her best. But she’d been pulled into these new circumstances kicking and screaming, against her will, and didn’t want to do more than the minimum to get by right now. Later . . . when she’d become accustomed to her new situation, after she’d learned all she could, she’d probably feel different.

Her tablet alarm rang like tolling bells. Time to buy Dr. Barclay lunch and show him the improved Clare and get him out of her life.

 • • •

Rickman had spoken with Mrs. Flinton about her case the day before and had finessed from the older lady that her father’s family, who’d taken her in when she was a child, had also kept good records, ledger books that she’d stored in the attic. Zach’s boss had approved using Clare as a financial consultant, and that morning Mrs. Flinton had handed Zach the three ledgers from the year in question; they smelled of dust and mothballs.

Ready to see Clare again, get her focused on something other than her new strange gift and the death of her aunt and everything else surrounding that, Zach texted her to meet near noon. She said she’d be having lunch at an uptown restaurant. Zach smiled. He’d figured Clare for being careful with her money, but now that she had a whole lot more to be careful with, she seemed to be eating out more often. He hoped she continued to eat, but she’d looked good the day before, had been energetic with sex, and sharing the Chinese food had been fun.

Zach had considered a messenger bag or a briefcase and gone with the case. Odds were he wouldn’t be carrying anything of extreme importance and all he had to do with a briefcase was drop it if he got in danger, unlike a bag that could hamper him.

So he strode into the restaurant, waved off the hostess, and scanned the first room. Whomp! Emotional fist in the gut. Clare sat at a table with a professional, distinguished type of guy in a thousand-dollar suit. Wavy gray and white hair, well-kept hands, smooth hands, and a face women would like. Gym-muscular, trim, but he still had years and pounds and polish on Zach.

Didn’t look like an accountant, possibly a lawyer, could be a medical doctor, definitely not a broken-down ex–deputy sheriff.

No dirty dishes showed, but a half glass of white wine stood before Clare and a tall tumbler of water with lemon before the guy.

The dude was flirting extremely discreetly, and the helluvit was that Zach couldn’t read Clare well enough to know how she was taking that flirt. She wasn’t flirting back, like she had with Zach when they’d met, but from the tilt of her head and her listening expression, she could be interested.

Possessiveness surged through him, along with a wave of protectiveness. Clare had been through a lot lately. He didn’t want some guy twisting her around more than she was.

Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane as the man brushed Clare’s fingers when he reached for his water glass.

TWENTY-FIVE

SHIFTING A SHOULDER to release tension, the one without his holster, Zach began to move toward them . . . slower than he wanted because he had to proceed cautiously to take care with his foot drop. Since he was considering the bartitsu lessons, he might let the thought of a brace worm into his head.

Halfway across the room Clare glanced up and saw him. Her eyes seemed to light and Zach wanted, badly, to lengthen his stride but cursed instead within his head.

By the time he reached the table, the guy had become aware of him; his smile for Clare faded and he slanted his body to see Zach.

The man scanned Zach from top to toe, then met his eyes with a penetrating gaze and Zach’s stomach clenched. He knew that look and now he knew that professional. Shrink. Psychiatrist, psychologist, life coach, counselor—though the guy must have an MD or a lot of other letters after his name to be able to afford the shirt, suit, tie, cuff links, watch, and shoes he wore.