Free Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) by Robin D. Owens

was gone. A California king. Yeah, the woman was special.
    •   •   •
    Clashing swords yanked Clare from the top of the battlements in her dream to groggily hear a husky man’s voice say, “Slade.”
    Just the one word cleared her mind, made her nerves thrill. Zach was back! And in her bed, and the sex had remained incredible: in her entryway, in the shower, and in the bed.
    It still looked like night. She blinked, accepted the fact she was in her new bedroom and her new bed—with Zach!—and this house, like her last, faced west and the sun was nowhere around. Slowly she sat up. The medieval times dream had been a relief; she’d been living so much lately in the Old West.
    “It’s for you,” Zach said, handing her a cell phone that sort of looked like her smart phone but wasn’t. She fumbled for it, dropped it. Zach caught it and curved her fingers around it.
    “It isn’t even dawn!” she protested.
    Zach grunted. “We’re lucky Rickman waited until six a.m.”
    “Rickman!”
    “Here,” said the voice from the phone. He sounded wide awake, just like Zach . . . well, she supposed she could understand that. They’d both been in dangerous professions.
    “What do you want?” she asked.
    “A few million bucks would do,” Rickman said, “but at the moment I’m calling to tell you that an angry Dennis Laurentine contacted me a few minutes ago and wants you, Clare, up at his spread today. Apparently J. Dawson Hidgepath struck again, leaving bones in a bed.”
    “And they discovered that this morning?”
    A pause. “I didn’t ask.”
    Zach laughed. “Some lady was on her way
back
to her bed?”
    “Go to the DL Ranch today?” Clare asked.
    “That’s right,” Rickman said.
    “And stay until J. Dawson Hidgepath moves on.”
    “Yes.”
    She put her hand on Zach’s thigh, tried not to notice the hard and interesting shape of him under the sheet. Steadying her voice, she said coolly, “I wanted to spend a little more time with Zach.” There, she’d admitted that aloud during a business discussion. If either man thought it was inappropriate, too darn bad. This was her new life, her new “business,” and she’d make her own rules.
    “I’m sorry that isn’t an option for you now,” Rickman said neutrally.
    Clare sighed, hopped from bed, and drew on her plush robe, that hung from a coat stand.
    So far she wasn’t working for the man, but she was accustomed to having a superior to answer to. And she’d told J. Dawson that she’d help him. She might as well get paid for it.
    Holding the phone, she went to the windows to stare out at the street. “How much time do I have to decide?”
    “I told Laurentine I’d call back by six thirty.”
    “Doable,” said Zach.
    “Zach will be investigating J. Dawson’s death,” Rickman said.
    “I definitely need to start out with the resources here in Denver. I’d imagine many materials made it here after Curly Wolf dried up,” Zach said.
    “Or are in the Park County Archives,” Clare said. She wanted to delay, but there was no reason to, and Enzo appeared on her chaise lounge near the balcony doors as if to remind her of that.
    “I’ll take the job and be up there before noon,” she said to Rickman. “I’ll sign the contract, scan it, and e-mail a copy. Zach can bring you the original.”
    “Right,” Rickman said. “Later, Clare.” He sounded as if he moved on to the next item on his list . . . his next case.
    “C’mere,” Zach said, patting the bed beside him.
    Just his glance made her hot, hot, hot, and giddiness swept through her.
    She studied him, let her appreciation of him show in the dawning light. He stacked his hands behind his head and let a smile linger on his lips as she strolled toward him. The ruby-colored sheet over his lower body rose a trifle and heat slipped hotter through her veins.
    She ran her hands down her sides, letting the plush of her expensive robe tingle her palms, ratchet up her sensuality