Zoe & The Big O

Zoë Hunter was never one to waste time looking before she made a leap, usually into a whole heap o' trouble. So when a wealthy buyer came into the family antique store offering a load o' money for a lost heirloom, who was she to turn down the challenge of tracking it down? Even when it turned out that the most likely place to start her search was the dilapidated old house on the edge of town that had been recently bought by a mysterious loner.

Oh boy.

Odil Couchet is a cop on extended mental health leave from work. Some would say he had ghosts to deal with. See, ol' Odil had a special touch-each time he held the object of a murder victim, their ghost appeared to him. It was a handy skill to have in his field of work, but now Odil was avoiding ghosts at all costs. People too. Then some crazy woman named Zoë Hunter showed up on his doorstep.

Oh sh*t.

Before long, all their Oh noes! turn into Oh yes!yes!yes! (With a few ghosts and a dead body or two thrown into the mix).

As she climbed the porch steps, she noted they could use a good sweep. And some planters would really cheer things up around here. She also took in the lack of window coverings, not that any were needed, the darn place was so isolated, you'd need the Hubble telescope to play peeping tom. But the naked panes reminded her of the old ghost stories.

Shaking off her foolishness with a shiver, she came to a stop in front of the ornate, lead-glass outer door, took another quick deep breath, wiped her hand on her thigh and rang the bell.

Zoë thought she saw movement in the front room's bow window, and plastered smile on her face while peering in that direction. But several minutes later, still no answer. She rang the bell again, and as the last musical 'dong' faded swore she felt a whispered caress at her nape. Gasping, she swung around. Nothing. Just the breeze, probably.

Except there wasn't a breeze. Not a leaf stirred in the trees surrounding the house and now she sense unseen eyes watching her. She hugged the paper bag tighter, wondering how much damage a squirt of tile cleaner could provide as protection.

"What the 'ell do you want?" A rough voice demanded behind her.

Zoë shrieked, one of those stupid girlie shrieks, and whipped around. "Don't to that!" she yelled, heart in her throat. Then said heart lodged. Stuck there, as her gaze came up against big, menacing and... there was one thing Zane and all the others had left out of the descriptions of Odil Cochet: He was hot.

Pale-water colored eyes pinned her to the spot and he raised a dark eyebrow. Zoë's throat clenched up tighter than a nun's thighs at a frosh party. She tried to clear it, her gaze skidding away from his, falling to sensual firmness of his mouth, the solid column of his throat, then to the naked café au lait expanse of his bare chest. Zoë swallowed.

As if hypnotized, her scrutiny swirled around the intricate tattoo that covered one bulging shoulder down over the biceps, then committed to memory each ridge of his stomach, before following the trail of downy hair that began at his navel and disappeared behind the waistband of his low-riding, cut-off sweats.

She studied each knot of carved muscle in his powerful calves, and then the scruffy oversized construction boots. His feet were huge. Her gaze darted back to the long-fingered, calloused, large hand that gripped the door's edge. She made a strange "hrrungh" sound, gaze dropping again. The soft drape of material at his groin was baggy, but not baggy enough to hide-

She was looking at wood.

Hard wood.

He'd shut the door in her face.