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“Cats never lie,” Austin told him, leaping from the counter to the desk to the chair to the floor. “There’s not much point is there, not when the truth can be so much more irritating. If you two will excuse me, I have things to do.”

“What sorts of things?” Claire asked suspiciously as he started down the hall.

The black tail flicked sideways twice.“Cat things.”

Elbows still propped on the counter, Claire let her head drop forward into her hands. Cat things could cover everything from a nap on top of the fridge to the continuing attempt to twist Baby’s already precarious psyche into still tighter knots. If it was the former, she didn’t need to know. If the latter, she didn’t want to.

“I thought,” Jacques said softly, “that there were no more secrets between us.”

Without lifting her head, Claire sighed.“No more secrets that concern you. This doesn’t.”

“You think it does not concern us that Sasha Moore is Nosferatu?”

“No.” She wondered when Jacques and Dean had become anus and whether it would last longer than this conversation.“You’re dead. Dean is off limits.”

“But you get hurt defending her and, if we knew, we could be there.”

“You were there.”

“Ah. Oui.” His face fell. “And I could do nothing to save you. But I am dead.” The realization perked him up. “What can a dead man do? And besides, my failure does, not change your silence. You do not tell me. You do not tell Dean—which is, of course, of not so great a consequence.”

“It wasn’t my secret. If she wanted you to know, she’d have told you herself.”

“And yet, now I know.”

Claire straightened, both hands gripping the edge of the counter.“Now you know,” she agreed. “Now what?”

He grinned.“Well, I am thinking; you do not want Dean to know so, if I do not tell Dean,tu me does un recompense.”

“I owe you for not telling Dean?”

“Oui.”

“And what do I owe you?”

His grin warmed and his eyes grew heated under half-lowered lids as he leaned so close his breath, had he been breathing, would have stroked her cheek.“Flesh, for one night.”

“Justone night?”

“One night,” he told her, his voice low and promising, “is all I ask for. After that one night, I no longer need to ask.”

She turned so she was facing him. He was a comfortable amount taller than she was, unlike Dean who loomed over her, and it would only take a tilt of her head to bring their mouths together. She wanted to push his hair back off his face, run her thumbs down the stubble-rough sides of his jaw, watch everything he felt dance across his expression as she slid her arms up under his sweater. She didn’t understand the attraction, but she couldn’t deny it. “Think highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“Not without reason.”

Someone, or something giggled. She frowned, stepped back, and almost saw a flash of purple disappear beneath the shelf.

“Claire?”

“Forget it, Jacques.” Squatting down, she peered at the imp trap. It had been moved from across the mouse hole leaving a tiny opening clear on the left side.

“Then not a night” He dropped down beside her, his knees making no impact with the floor. “An hour. An hour only and I can convince you.”

“No, not a night not an hour.” The miniature marshmallows were missing. “Not ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes would not be worth the effort. I have no interest in a quick and frenzied pawing.”

That drew Claire’s attention away from the imp trap. She turned to face the ghost, both brows lifted almost to her hairline.

“D’accord. I will take a quick and frenzied pawing if it is all I can get. But to be truly intimate with a woman requires a little more time. Give me that time,cherie, and you will be like plaster in my hands.”

“Putty.”

“Pardon?”

Even though she knew he’d take it the wrong way, Claire couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “Like putty in your hands.”

“Oui. Putty.” His accent softened the word, made it malleable. He leaned close again. “Are you afraid that if we become lovers, it will hold you here?”

“What will hold me here?”

“Passion. Pleasure. Complete…” The pause lingered on the edge of being too long, preparing the way for the presentation of each separate syllable. “…satisfaction.”

Claire blinked.

“Just give me a chance,cherie.”

“A chance to do what?”

Feeling as though she’d been caught by her father in a clinch on the rec-room couch, hoping her ears weren’t as red as they felt, Claire straightened and noticed for the first time that Jacques floated high enough off the floor so that he looked Dean—who was a good four inches taller—directly in the eye. “He wants me to give him flesh.”

Dean shrugged.“If it’ll help, there’s a leftover pork chop in the fridge.”

“Not that kind of flesh!” The ghost looked appalled.

“Beef? Chicken? Fish?”

The suggestions emerged too close together for Jacques to reply, but with each he grew more and more indignant.

“Sausage?”

His image began to flicker.“Mon Dieu! Are you so irritating on purpose?”