Zach came up and put his briefcase down, lifting his hand to Clare’s shoulder. “Hey, Clare. Good to see you. I have something you might be interested in,” he said easily, smiling at the guy in the suit. “Zach Slade.”

“Dr. Madison Barclay.” The man inclined his head at Zach. Didn’t offer his hand, so he wasn’t so interested in Clare that he wanted Zach’s free hand off Clare, and he didn’t want to shake hands with Zach. Zach had dealt with all sorts of therapists and psychiatrists, both after his brother’s murder and with regard to his mother’s mental illness, as well as more recently after the shooting and his crippling. Some were worth the pain of sessions, some just wrongheaded, and some were scammers about as good as any other con men in the business.

“I was seeing Dr. Barclay recently,” Clare said a little stiffly.

Barclay’s eyes tightened when he heard her call him by his title.

“Isn’t that unethical, hitting on a client?” Zach said.

“He’s not my psychologist anymore,” Clare said. She wiggled her shoulder and Zach reluctantly dropped his hand.

“Not so very long with me.” The man smiled again at Clare. His teeth were too even and white. “But I know Clare well,” he said with a pompous note in his voice. Since he hadn’t reacted to Zach’s surname, Clare must not have spilled about the ghost of Jack Slade.

Zach smiled slowly and just had to put his hand back on Clare’s shoulder and squeeze. “There’s knowing and knowing.”

Barclay’s jaw set.

“And speaking of that.” Zach set the briefcase on the table, flicked the lock open, took out a ledger book and placed it near Clare, flipped it open. As he’d expected, her gaze became glued to the columns of figures.

“What’s that?” asked the shrink.

“Antique financials in a case I’m working on. Expenses, I believe. I think Clare can track them for me, give me some insights.”

She was running her fingers down the columns, reading the handwritten pages.

“Give her a project outside settling her great-aunt’s estate and moving into her new house. Good for her, don’t you think?”

This time Barclay’s smile was chill and aimed at Zach. The shrink folded his pristine napkin and rose slowly, moving his chair back, and inclined his head to Zach. In a rich, mellow tone, he said, “You are obviously a very angry man.” His gaze flicked to the cane, to Zach’s orthopedic shoes, back up to his left knee. Okay, the man was sharp enough to spot the weakest point of Zach’s body. Kudos.

Barclay continued, “If you wish to see me on a professional level, we can work through your issues with your disability.”

Zach showed his own teeth. “Sure. Until then, you might want to consider that I’m armed and dangerous.” He shifted and leaned on a chair enough that his jacket would gape to show his shoulder holster.

The psychologist retreated a step as surprise came to his eyes, and then his cheeks took on color.

“Clare.” Barclay raised his voice. “Thank you for the lunch.”

Clare jolted and looked up, her gaze sliding back and forth between them, her expression wary that she’d missed something—like a clash of males. She bit her lower lip and Zach wasn’t the only one who focused on her mouth.

Standing, she offered her hand to the shrink. “And thank you for agreeing to have lunch with me, Madison. I enjoyed it.” Her smile was simple and sincere and Zach saw the guy softening. Too damn bad.

“I’ll see you later,” he said, pressing her fingers.

“Outside your office, sure,” she said, rushing her words slightly so that Zach hoped she didn’t mean them. The doctor preened. Then, without another glance at Zach, the psychologist walked away with a smooth stride Zach watched and envied.

When he returned his attention to Clare, she’d sat again, was sipping her wine and reading the ledger entries as if they were riveting. Zach took Barclay’s seat and scrutinized her. Why was he so very attracted to her? Yeah, she was sexy as damn all, lovely, repeatedly presented riddles, and had haunting eyes that continued to suck him in.

He leaned back, lifting his right heel in a move he’d practiced to look casual, and contemplated his feet in good cotton socks and ugly leather shoes, not cop shoes. His left foot, ankle, and tibia didn’t look damaged.

And then he understood why Clare had slipped under his defenses and into his heart more than anyone else in a long, long time. It wasn’t that Clare didn’t know he was “disabled.” It was that she made absolutely no fuss over the fact. Just a minor part of him being Zach Slade.

Even though he knew his injury wasn’t minor. It had damn well ruined his life . . . all right, ruined his career. And, yeah, he sure as hell remained furious about that.

She’d accepted him just the way he was now. Didn’t think about how he might have been then, when he was whole.

As far as he knew, she hadn’t done a simple Internet search on him . . . and he did know enough that if he asked her now not to, it would pique her curiosity enough that she’d head straight for her computer.

She didn’t have the driving curiosity that he did.

Eventually she’d see him as he had been; the pics were up there. Hell, pics of his shattered tibia and droopy foot were up there. Until he and she were more involved than a few nights of awesome sex, he’d like her not to be able to judge him against the man he once was. Right now he was too thin, his muscles shrunken, and he’d had little aerobic exercise.

For that he’d need even better shoes and a brace.

Finally, after she’d turned to the next page, he said, “So, you had lunch with the doctor. Is he any good as a psychologist?”

She looked up and grimaced. “He is supposed to be the best, but he wanted to discuss my childhood and I wanted to know if I was going crazy by seeing ghosts. He is expensive. I wished to end our association on a good note, so I took him to lunch.” She pouted. “On Sunday. He ordered the most expensive item on the menu, too.”

Zach chuckled. “And you, what, had soup?”

She shrugged. “I had a good meal.” She waved a hand. “Something or other.” She matched his gaze and repeated. “He always expected me to talk about my childhood. Not my favorite subject.”

He got what she was saying. He never liked talking about his childhood, not even the better times before Jim was killed. Two of a kind, there.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“I’ll look at this while you eat, but I’ve already paid my bill.”

Zach laughed, shook his head. “Clare, you’re a treasure.”

She grinned. “I know.”

But as he signaled the waitress and gave her his food and drink selection, he didn’t like the shadow in the back of his mind that whispered that it mattered, a lot, that Clare had had lunch with some other guy. And to remember that she broke up with men at restaurants.

 • • •

Clare took the ledger home and for once the sky had clouded over so she could sit in her dry backyard without experiencing ferocious heat. Along with the ledger, Zach had provided a list of the eleven items Mrs. Flinton recalled from her childhood home and wanted back. Attached to the list were drawings or photos of similar items, and Clare’s eyebrows rose at the general six-figure amount that the furnishings would be worth now.

Rubbing her hands, then setting a notepad and pencil next to the book, she began studying the ledger.

She soon became accustomed to the overly fancy cursive writing and the standard expenditures . . . and began to see that some items were “sold” to a friend or relative of the guardians’ family, unrelated to Mrs. Flinton by blood, only by marriage, for a nominal amount. Clare’s mouth tightened. This had been just plain stealing.

With all her accountant senses alert, she scrutinized each entry.

Now and again, when her eyes hurt or she ran out of iced tea or lemonade, she went back in, eyed the packing that needed to be done, and did some physical work on her move. It was unlike her not to stick with a task until it got done, no matter the hours needed, but today she found that changing up the work was more efficient and helped her focus her attention on different items than Zach Slade. Honestly, the man and her budding relationship with him tended to dominate her thoughts more like she was a teenager than a mature, professional woman. She almost felt giddy when he was near. The surge of welcome, inner sexy heat helped her pack up her bedroom faster.