• • •

Clare had worked on the kitchen, emptying drawers, pretty much just moving into boxes the plastic containers in which she kept everything. The remembrance of the lonely melancholy of the Native American pulled at her, along with Enzo’s big dog eyes and huge expectations. So she nerved herself and returned to the ghost.

His passing took a very short time and was unnerving. He’d spoken oddly in her head with more images than language; she’d had to assure him that no one of his tribe remained for him to protect, that his horse was gone, too. Then he’d walked down the rise, sending a cold wind her way, and vanished.

Enzo had congratulated her, but with less enthusiasm than when she’d helped the little girl. By the time Clare got home, she’d recovered her warmth and eyed her house. Even with all the fans and cross-ventilation she could manage, it would remain hot. Not conducive to research.

Now that she knew she was home for the rest of the day, she changed into an old and shapeless faded blue cotton sundress—the coolest thing she had in her closet. She opened the place up and continued with the kitchen; most of that would have to move with her. Naturally her new kitchen was a gourmet one with about three times the amount of cabinet space Clare had here. Her low-cost dishes would fit in one of them. Though she’d been bequeathed one of Great-Aunt Sandra’s sets, that fine china wasn’t for every day. Not that she cared. Clare’s mother got a set and so did Clare’s sister-in-law.

The kitchen was done quickly. Clare left out only those dishes she might need over the next couple of nights—a single setting.

A couple of hours of work and Clare was wringing wet. Enzo kept her amused with comments, still strictly in his doggie state, running back and forth and through the box fans she’d set in the back and front doors. Apparently dodging the blades was great fun. The thought made Clare’s head hurt.

She had canceled her appointments with Dr. Barclay. Unfortunately, he kept Saturday hours and his receptionist had put on the man himself, who expressed extreme concern, but Clare had been so relieved she’d acted like her pre-curse-gift self and had laughed, saying she’d come to terms with herself. On impulse, she’d offered to take him out for lunch. To her surprise, he’d accepted, and for the next day. They made a date downtown at one of the fancier restaurants. She could afford it now, and the meal might be less than he charged for a session, and worth it to get rid of him. Could she ever forget the misery she’d felt in his office enough to enjoy the attractive man’s company?

No.

And with all his smoothly groomed, expensive looks, Barclay wasn’t nearly as sexy as Zach Slade. The doctor’s whole person didn’t affect her as much as one intense look from Zach. How great that Zach believed in her . . . or was willing, at least, to listen. Just thinking of him made her hotter than ever.

She moved on to her next task, discarding the shelf paper and cleaning the cupboards, and forgot about Barclay.

Soon she’d have to take a break and a shower. She glanced at the desk holding her powerful laptop and a stack of books. The genealogy program whispered to her; so much more fun than packing and cleaning. Ignoring it, she grabbed a portable music player, set the playlist for rock, and stuck in the earbuds, determined to finish the living room. Already she had a stack of stuff that wouldn’t be moving with her lined up against the far wall. The television monitor was only three years old, so she’d take it.

Zach’s here! Enzo zoomed from the backyard through the kitchen, probably through the fan in the front door and Zach, too.

“Clare!”

The second time a man had shouted at her that day, though with all the fans and her earbuds in, she didn’t blame him. She hurried to the living room and saw him on the other side of the screen door, staring down at Enzo, who hopped around and rubbed against him.

She’d gotten the idea that he could hear the dog, even without being in contact with her. But then Enzo wasn’t just a ghost dog. He was also some sort of spirit that Clare didn’t think too hard about. Especially when a handsome and sexy guy scowled at her under shaggy hair. She pulled out her earbuds and plucked her music player from her dress pocket, setting it on the coffee table. Then she moved the box fan from the door and turned it off, and unlocked the screen door.

“Clare,” he said.

“Yes?” She backed up as he came in, darkly intense.

Two good paces in and he yanked her to him.

Wow, he was a solid wall of muscle and his strong arm went behind her back.

“Clare.” His other hand went to her chin and she let him tip it back for a kiss.

His eyes held stormy secrets.

She rubbed her hands up and down the sleeves of his fine white linen dress shirt. He’d left whatever jacket he might have been wearing in his car. “Zach.”

His mouth came down on hers and pressed once, his tongue probing along her lips for her to open to him.

She did. And closed her eyes, willowed against him—such a solid man. Tasted him as he rubbed his tongue against hers. Felt the tightening of her nipples in desire, and more, she felt his erection, as solid as the man. She’d been sweating while working, and now she dampened, all over and under and in between with the flush of arousal. She ached for him, for intimacy, for completion.

For release.

He’d been sweating, too, doing more than working inside and walking around outside. That should have turned her off. It didn’t. His smell went straight through her and had her sex clenching with need.

Yes, he smelled right.

She pulled away, still leaning against him. “Zach. I’m all sweaty. I mean, I’ve been packing.”

His gaze swept the room: the organized empty boxes against the wall, the half-filled ones just beyond the kitchen threshold. The arm around her back fell and his fingers touched her bare leg below the hem of her short dress, feathered along her skin. He grinned. “Nice.” Leaning close again, he dipped his head near her shoulder, kissed her neck up to her ear with a touch of tongue, tasting her.

When he raised his head his cheeks had flushed, giving him a ruddier look, accenting that hint of Native American blood. Oh, yes, sexy!

He smoldered. She’d never had a look like that aimed at her. Her knees weakened; her whole body loosened. “You taste like woman. You smell like Clare.”

She had to inhale deeply just to have enough control to take a tiny step away from him, blushing herself. His hand curved around her cheek, thumb caressing her. “Peachy, the pink under your golden skin.” He bent and kissed her quickly. “Redder, fuller lips, just for me.”

He shifted; his arm came around her again and he lifted her from her feet, took the couple of steps to the couch, and sank down with her, her on bottom, him on top. Though he’d done all the work, her heart thundered at being in a sexual position.

“Clare.” He swept kisses along her neck and her mind began buzzing, doing a slow swoop of rationality sinking and rising in a sea of red desire.

Pushing the straps of her dress down and the bodice to her midriff, he flicked the front clasp of her bra open.

His hands on her bare breasts felt wonderful, so fabulous that she moved under him, aligning her body so she could rub against him in just the right spot, just the right way. Was that whimpering and panting hers? Oh . . . yes!

She slid her hands inside his pants. Smooth linen shirt under her palms, heavier trousers against the backs of her hands, then cotton boxers . . . male skin, lightly haired along his thighs, smoother on his butt . . . she began to slide her hands toward his front when he groaned, stopped her, rolled them over on the couch with her on top.

Good, she could breathe. She found the clasp of his waistband. His shaft was so hard and strong and long and thick and she needed that in her now.