She smiled like she was glad to see him and all his irritation at the wearying day vanished.

“Hi, Clare.” Moving quickly, he took her hand, kissed her cheek. Oh, man, that perfume and her natural scent did a number on him. He didn’t want to be with her here, with two other guys in the room. He wanted to be in her bed, or have her in his.

She brushed a kiss on his lips and relief flooded him. They were still on the same page, goddam good.

“Hi, Zach.”

He didn’t put his arm around her as he turned to face the men, but kept his body intimately close. “Clare, the guy behind the desk is the head of Rickman Security and Investigations, Tony Rickman. Beside him is Harry Rossi, another of Rickman’s men.” Zach had no clue how much she observed. As far as he knew she wouldn’t recognize a military man by his stance, his movement, his attitude. Wouldn’t know when a guy was armed. She’d once said she didn’t watch crime shows, so she was learning about police officers from him.

“How do you do,” she said politely.

Rossi nodded and stood at ease. Rickman came from behind the desk and offered his hand. Clare donned her professional-woman manner, gripped it and shook.

“Please, have a seat,” Rickman said. “Would you like some tea?”

She gave him a cool stare. “You’ve been talking about me with Mrs. Flinton? She’s the one who offers me tea.”

Rickman’s gaze cut to Zach. The guy wanted back up. Zach decided to test his luck, put his hand around her upper arm and gave the lightest of tugs toward the chairs, stepped toward them himself. She slid her glance to him, and followed, answering Rickman’s question. “No tea, thank you. Coffee would be good.”

“Fine.” Rickman returned to his desk and pressed the intercom. “Coffee, cream and sugar for Ms. Cermak.”

Zach took the last chair left, after Clare sat down. He wished it were closer.

“You asked for this meeting?” Clare said.

Rickman lowered into his executive chair, but kept his manner casual. “Thank you for your work on the accounting ledgers in Mrs. Flinton’s case. She has spoken highly of you,” he said.

Clare inclined her head.

“We have a problem we’d like you to help us with,” Tony Rickman said.

Clare stilled beside Zach, wet her lips. “As a forensic accountant?”

A long, thumping pause.

“I’m afraid not. As a ghost layer,” Rickman said.

Clare flinched. Her fingers tightened on a small purse she’d moved from her shoulder to her lap. “I’m not in that business.”

“Can you please hear me out? We have a problem,” Rickman repeated. “Or rather, one of our clients has a problem.” He gestured to Rossi, who treated Clare to a smile that showed male appreciation and twinkling eyes. Zach revised his first good impression of the man.

“I’m the bodyguard to Dennis Laurentine,” he said.

“The billionaire,” Rickman said.

Clare blinked. “Dennis Laurentine? No. He’s not. As of last month Forbes’s website listed his net worth as being valued at approximately nine-hundred-sixteen million. That makes him a multimillionaire, but not quite a billionaire.”

Rickman looked disconcerted. Rossi’s smile widened.

“Never argue with an accountant about money,” Zach said, lounging even more in his seat.

Clare sighed. “Well, Mr. Laurentine is very wealthy, and a client my former firm would have loved to have—would love to have. What does that have to do with me?”

“Why don’t you, ah, tell the story, Rossi,” Rickman said.

“Sure.” He moved to the front of Rickman’s desk, leaned against it, his gaze focused on Clare. “Mr. Laurentine has a ghost problem on his ranch in South Park.” The ends of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Or, to be accurate, a bone problem. A dead guy is leaving his bones around.”