Free Ghost Killer by Robin D. Owens Page B

like bone.” She’d hunched over, so now she straightened
     her spine, inhaled, and scowled. “I’ve learned the feel of bone in the last five days.”
    Zach’s brows went up and he nodded.
    Slowly she pulled out the knife, her palm sweating a little. Sure enough, the two
     knobs of a bone showed first . . . a large bone. A little squeeze of her stomach had
     her thinking this was a
human
bone. She’d handled those in the last week, too.
    The whole hilt was bone; the curved blade remained snug in the sheath.
    “Nice sheath,” Zach said.
    “Beautiful,” Clare breathed, recognizing cloisonné work, enamel over metal, and decorated
     in an intricate pattern that pleased her eye—a blue, green, gold, and black wavy Hungarian
     pattern. With her free forefinger, she traced a sinuous golden line from tip to hilt,
     received a little sizzle along her nerves. Obviously a magical sheath, wide enough
     to accommodate the curve of an equally magical blade. The whole thing no doubt one
     of those gifts of the universe Great-Aunt Sandra wrote about.
    A smile edged Zach’s mouth. “Intricate but not too girly.”
    She lifted her chin. “I will have you know that the two or three ghost seers in my
     family before Great-Aunt Sandra were men.”
    “Two or three? That’s not an exact figure, Clare,” he joked.
    Clearing her throat and not meeting his gaze, she said, “My great-great-uncle Orun
     didn’t make it. He didn’t accept the gift and died. Froze to death.”
    “Clare.” Zach sat next to her, took her hand. Her fingers were cold, not from ghosts,
     not from upcoming winter, but from simple fear.
    Her glance grazed across his face before she continued, “It was bad for me, but worse
     for him.”
    Now Zach moved his arm to around her shoulders, squeezed her, and warmth radiated
     to her from his lean and muscular body. “How could it be worse for him than for you?
     I saw what you went through.”
    Leaning her head against his shoulder she met his eyes. “Yes, I nearly died of cold
     in the hottest ever Denver summer. But Orun inherited the ghost seer power in one
     of the coldest Chicago winters.”
    “I see what you mean.” Zach squeezed her again and his arm dropped lower so his hand
     curved over her left breast.
    “Ah, Zach, do you recall I have a blade on my lap?”
    “I think I’m more interested in something soft than something sharp.”
    “You don’t want to see what will kill a ghost?”
    His lips came closer and closer, brushed the corner of her mouth. He took the sheathed
     knife and tossed it onto his horizontal bag, then lay down and carried her with him.
     They both rolled on their sides to face each other.
    So fascinating, this man, to her. Strong, fierce features, the touch of bronze in
     his skin, his black hair with tints of dark mink brown. She feathered her fingers
     across his brow, down to the edge of his cheekbones, smiled. “I like looking at you.”
    He chuckled. “No woman in my life has said that.”
    It was on the tip of her tongue to tease and mention his mother, but his mother was
     no teasing matter. Instead she laced a Hungarian-Slavic accent into her voice and
     said, “I am coming to appreciate the unusual.”
    He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close enough that she felt his arousal.
     “That’s my blooming Clare Cermak, leaving her tight, rational seed-shell.”
    She put her arms around his neck, pressed even closer so her breasts flattened against
     his chest. “Having to leave my shell, much to my dismay,” she admitted. “And pretty
     much kicking and screaming.” She moved her mouth closer and closer to his, until she
     could smell his minty breath and could warm his lips with her own exhalations. Desire
     twined and spiraled between them, her heart sped up, her sex clenched, mind and body
     recalling the pleasure that this man could give her, would give her, without even
     asking for it.
    With the tip of her tongue, she traced his lips, liked