“It isn’t a solid block of wood, is it?” he asked.

“It’s a puzzle box,” she said in a stilted tone. “I haven’t figured out how to open it.”

“Will your friend know?” Zach kept his voice even. He didn’t believe in her friend, and he thought she understood that.

She flushed, then went pale.

“What’s in the box?” he demanded, a cop’s tell-me order.

“I don’t know.” She looked up at him, angry.

He softened his tone. “Any idea?”

Slowly she shook her head, and it came to him that the contents were a mystery to her. “May I see it?”

“Sure.” She handed it over to him quickly, another clue that it might not be something she’d wanted. Fascinating. She herself was a puzzle box a whole lot more appealing than the piece of wood he turned over in his hands. The box was smooth, but with an occasional sticky sort of residue like old grease covered with dirt and dust. He felt no moving pieces, either.

The bright outside lights had come on since the light blue-purple evening had become blue-black night.

“I guess I’ll have to check the Net to open it up.” Clare sighed.

“Why not let your friend do that?”

Again her flush seemed to warm away the slight tinge of gray under her skin. What was with this lady? She didn’t strike him as overly emotional, and not nearly as out there as Mrs. Flinton, but Clare certainly reacted as if something were going on. Could she have been in on the scam with Whistler? But Zach had met her completely coincidentally. On the other hand, coincidences did happen. A bird called and he flinched. No, not a crow. Not.

And Clare frowned up at him, reminding him all too well that he had his own secrets and twitches.

She grimaced. “Yes, I can let my friend do that. He should know how.”

“He?” Dammit, should Zach be interested in a woman this . . . with problems like he had? Maybe with demons like his?

Her lips moved into a half smile as she slid her glance toward him. “An acquaintance.” He saw her stop another sigh; her shoulders straightened. The guy was a burden, then, not a lover—at least not a current one, maybe a past mistake.

“May I have the box?” she asked.

Zach hefted it in his hand. “I don’t think the cubbyhole inside could be very big; doesn’t feel at all heavy.”

Mouth twisting, she said, “I don’t think it’s ounces of gold.”

A dog barked in the distance and Zach got a buzzing in his ears. He shook his head to make it go away and handed the light box back to her. When she reached out, her fingers trembled.

“Maybe I’d better drive.” His voice was hoarser than he wanted because, damn, this quiet and tidy woman with the haunted eyes was appealing. But he didn’t want to get mired in any of her problems.

Her full breasts rose under the top of her sundress as she breathed in. “All right.”

“You’ve got an automatic transmission?” he asked, able to keep up with her slow pace across the parking lot. With concentration, he kept his left knee as low as possible and still kept his foot from dragging across the pavement. Grudgingly he understood that he needed to move on more than he had—he thought he’d been pushing himself physically, and he had, to get back into shape.

Now he needed to learn how to live as a cripple. Walk with stealthiness, use his cane as a weapon . . . maybe get the damn brace he’d been resisting.

When he saw Clare’s car, he smiled at her very sensible choice, an older model that held its value. She handed him the key before he asked, and when he inserted it and turned, she went around to her side, a lady unused to having a gentleman open the door for her. If he’d been whole, he could have lengthened his stride, caught up, and surpassed her to open the door. His fist clenched around the cane. No more hitting things. Once had been enough.

He opened his door, stowed his cane in the backseat, sat in the driver’s seat, leaned over and opened her door. Then he adjusted the seat and mirrors. The car was warm, but Clare looked like she shivered. “Are you all right?”

Another grimace. “Well enough. I’m waiting for some tests to come back.”

“Doesn’t sound good.” Checking around them, he reversed and drove to the cut to the street.

Her chin lifted, her lower lip sticking out a little. For some reason he found that cute. “I’m fine. I will be fine.”

Since he didn’t care for comments on his own health, he said nothing more, but a chill tingle touched the back of his neck and sank into his shoulders—no sort of hunch or anything. If he’d been in a room, he’d have thought of drafts, but the summer night was warm. Too warm for the jacket he’d forgotten to take off before getting into the car. Clare had wrapped her arms around herself, so turning on the air-conditioning was out. He hit the switch to roll down the windows.

She tapped the detachable GPS and set it to “Go Home.”

“I don’t need voice directions; the map is good enough,” Zach said. He hated the mechanical voices. He turned west.

They drove for a few minutes in comfortable silence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt easy being silent with someone close. Nice. “Clare,” he said, liking her name on his tongue, a short and sturdy name. Another glance at her showed her pretty profile and the roundness of her breasts, the slight curve of her stomach. This woman wasn’t a toned cop or athlete.

Her head turned and her hair swung, thick and shiny, smelling of some light citrus scent, clean and fresh. He recognized it . . . lemon and ginger, little bottles handed out by an upscale hotel. He drew in the scent of her, wanting that exotic note that had teased him earlier that day, even opened his mouth as if his tongue could taste her. Yeah, he caught that fragrance that tantalized—woodsy, spicy, some perfume mixed with her own Clare scent that indicated she was different than her appearance. Lust speared straight to his groin.

“Clare,” he said, his voice thicker with desire. He made himself concentrate on the road, on driving, though his peripheral vision showed her breasts rising faster.

“Yes?” she asked, quiet, more vulnerable. That vulnerability called out to him now more than ever before . . . because he knew he was flawed so badly.

“I like you.” Hell, that sounded dumb.

ELEVEN

BUT SHE CHUCKLED; more, she smiled so her cheeks turned full, and he wanted to kiss them, though not as much as he wanted to taste the nape of her neck, discover her flavor there. His dick thickened and he welcomed the sweet torment.

“I like you, too,” she said.

“You’re special,” he said, and her expression closed down again.

“I don’t want to be special. I want to be normal.” Her voice turned crisp.

“Okay,” he said mildly. “But you’re rich.”

Her body relaxed into the seat, and the curve to her lips returned, her arms uncrossed. “Yes, that I am.”

“Feels good?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“But?” He took the last turn down her street, a dimly lit residential neighborhood. Now he was glad Mrs. Flinton had insisted he see Clare to her door. It looked safe, but a little shabby.

Nearby a dog growled.

“I want to be useful.” Her jawline showed strong as he pulled up to a small rectangular house with white siding. The porch light lit a tiny concrete stoop.

“I’m not the type to like just sitting on my rear,” she said. “I want to do something.”

He turned off the ignition, unbuckled the seat belt, and angled himself toward her. “I know what you mean.” His own mouth flattened. “I’ve got enough disability and money to live on okay for the rest of my life.” That came out bitter. He didn’t care. If she hadn’t researched him earlier, she’d do that soon, and better she see the whole shitty story online than his having to tell her. “I want to do something with my life, too.”