When she bent down to pick up her jeans to fold them, too, Zach thought he’d whimper. His mind went blank and all there was, was the blood pounding inside him with need, need, need.

Walking back, she wore that half smile before sex that yanked at his heart as well as his balls. She touched him and that was it; he picked her up—hardly noticing the pang in his leg—and threw her to the middle of the queen-sized bed. White bedspread, golden Clare. Perfect.

“Zach,” she said, and he didn’t know if it was slurry because she said it that way or he heard it that way. She lifted her arms and his gaze went to her breasts and he had to taste them.

So he did. Touching her, he made sure she quivered, shuddered, slicked with sex, and yelled his name as she climaxed. She yanked at him, pulled him over her, not pleading, no, demanding he thrust into her. He did that, too, slid into wet heat that drove him mad and he pounded into her and the bite of her nails on his shoulders added to sweet, sweet desire, stoked him and he grabbed her hard and held her and their bodies arched and flexed in a hammering rhythm and he emptied into her, whispering her name as she yelled his.

Slowly the rushing of his heartbeat in his ears calmed. His chest didn’t rise and fall so raggedly and the noise of his harsh breathing diminished. His muscles should work now, and he rolled and slipped from her and grunted at the loss.

Turning his head, he saw that her brown hair had tumbled around her face, no smoothness here, and she looked great. “Give me a coupla minutes,” he said.

She laughed, teeth white in the fading light. Man, he wanted to study her, a golden goddess against the white, like he’d seen her moments before, like the image that would be burned in his memory forever. Her pupils had turned more golden-brown than green in the hazel of her eyes. Her lips were red, her cheeks pink under that tanned skin, peach.

Just absolutely beautiful.

Perfect.

As he was not. He’d never be whole again. No, he didn’t like that thought and pushed it away.

 • • •

They showered in an awesome glass deal that had six crossing streams. He got his hands all over her slippery, sexy body, and this time he didn’t disgrace himself in a small enclosure.

Clare changed back into one of the sundresses she preferred, this one with a built-in bra that he approved of, and, to his disappointment, she slipped on cotton panties. White, sort of innocent. The more he thought about that, it drove him a little crazy. But despite her wild Gypsy side that she let loose in bed, Clare was innocent in most of the ways he wasn’t. She believed the best of people, believed they’d try their hardest—with the exceptions of her parents. She lived by her rules, and as far as he could tell, she hadn’t broken any of the major ones that were important to her.

He’d broken quite a few rules . . . but none that were important to him.

They didn’t eat in the formal dining room, thank God. That would have reminded him of his childhood before he’d lost Jim. The room was pretty enough, with a polished and gleaming dark wood table and a set of eight chairs with nice tapestry cushions. Instead, with a wide wave of her arm, she indicated the patterned brick patio and a couple of fancy outdoor lounge deals. They didn’t look new, but they did appear originally expensive. Probably some of her great-aunt Sandra’s furniture.

Since he believed Clare wanted to putter by herself in her own new kitchen, Zach went out to one of the two loungers with a nicely sized rectangular table set between them. He cranked the chair to a notch he preferred, then settled in, gritting his jaw at the continuing ache of his leg. He wasn’t much use to carry stuff since he had only one free hand.

Clare walked out with a pizza box smelling of cheese and dough and pepperoni and his mouth watered. On top of it she balanced two plates, a couple of beers, and a bottle of lemonade. She arranged everything on the table, and when she lifted the lid of the box, he saw that she’d put at least three types of pizza inside to choose from. Very efficient, that was his lady.

He took a meat-lovers’ slice and bit into it, not quite searing his tongue or the roof of his mouth. Fabulous.

“What did you do today?” Clare asked, opening her lemonade.

He grimaced.

“Oh. Do you not want to talk about your work?”

What he was doing was hardly work. “I looked into those names you gave me. Three turned out to be dead ends. Only one old guy was still alive and living in a state-run nursing home. He said he didn’t recall anything about his father getting furniture from Mrs. Flinton’s childhood family. I got the impression his family probably sold the furniture as soon as they’d received it. He was all about needing cash.” Zach frowned, remembering the interview. “He pretended I was one of his nephews and tried to hit me up for money.”

“Pretended?” Clare asked.

Zach leaned back in the lounge. “Yeah. He was sly, yeah, sly. He might have known what happened to the stuff. If this was a violent case, I may have gone back and reinterviewed.” He shrugged. “Guy is soft, got the idea that he didn’t work much in his life, depended on others to take care of him.”

Clare’s mouth turned down before she said, “A sponger.”

“A moocher,” Zach said at the same time.

They smiled, but one of those shadows was in her eyes and she thought it applied to him in some way. “I am not a moocher.”

“Of course not,” she replied absently in a matter-of-fact tone. She glanced toward the house; the light was dying, the sunset gone fast behind those high redbrick walls. A small light in the kitchen beamed welcome and comfort. “I’m sorry the leads I gave you didn’t pan out.”

He shrugged. “Not surprising, after all these years.”

“Um, did you speak with Rickman about it?”

“Of course.” Not that their meeting had been long. Rickman seemed much less intense than usual, almost offhand. Zach thought it was a strategy of the man, whether to show him the guy was really hands-off and trusted him, or waiting for Zach to really commit to the company . . . or having decided to give him enough rope to hang himself and get him out of there with no hard feelings by Mrs. Flinton.

When they were done, Clare tidied up the meal, came back out, and, to his surprise, sat on his lap and leaned against him.

Tenderness surged and he let it wisp through him like a balm, soothing stuff he hadn’t known hurt.

Head tucked under his chin, she said, “My first night in my new home. I love it here.”

He stroked her hair, her back, soaking in the quiet. The heat didn’t seem as bad since he knew a few steps would take him into cool relief whenever he wanted. Studying the yard, he thought the mature trees and the tall brick walls kept it shady during the day. “Good choice and good job getting this place. It suits you.”

Her sigh was long. “Thanks. I’m glad you like it.”

A few breaths of quiet. “Would you like to stay with me here tonight?” she asked.

Always. The word came to his mind, shocked him silent. Nope, he didn’t fall that fast or easily. He didn’t fall at all, and he should pull back now. Instead he said, “Sure,” stuffing the notion of love in a back cupboard in his mind. Neither he nor Clare had mentioned love.

Both of them were enjoying the sex.

“I have a work bag in the car.” His mouth kicked up. “With clean clothes.” Women preferred that. He’d whistled when he’d thrown it in, like this time with Clare was sliding from a few nights’ sex into an affair or something. Studying her, he acknowledged she was still damn compelling. If he looked at her too long, too closely, his dick stood right up. And if he unexpectedly caught a whiff of her—Clare or that exotic perfume she wore that revealed that true wild self of hers—he wanted to start a-nibblin’ on her and get her under him, over him—get into her fast.