Dangerously Attractive

Spotting a patrol car, she ran toward it. The Volvo had vanished. So had Rick.

“What happened?” the sergeant at the wheel called out.

“Shot fired into the store. Look for a Volvo, late eighties, large dent in the passenger door. Driver’s heading north on Grant. No plates. The side windows are painted flat black.”

“You okay?”

“No problem.” Only hampered by her shoes and tight skirt. Not to mention the store owner’s fingers that were once again grinding into her forearm.

Even a police siren couldn’t drown out the pandemonium around her. Resigned, Vanessa located her badge and endeavored to calm the situation down before anyone got seriously hurt.

Thirty minutes passed. Two backup patrols arrived and took over crowd control. Vanessa was talking to her desk sergeant when Rick returned, winded and alone.

“I lost him on Jackson.”

She flipped her phone closed. “New Porsche lost aging Volvo? That’s gotta be a first.”

“New Porsche almost got sideswiped by a hippie mobile with bad brakes. I cut over to Stockton on foot, but the Volvo disappeared in the confusion. Did you get the plates?”

“There weren’t any. A patrol car took up the pursuit. They might get lucky. Mr. Sing?” She gestured to the distraught store owner who was holding his head while he surveyed the ruin that had once been his display window.

“Bad, very bad,” he moaned as he emerged. “Guns are very dangerous.”

Vanessa eased him forward. “Mr. Sing, this is Rick Maguire. He’s with the FBI. Tell him what you told me.”

“It was a man.” Sing used his hands to illustrate. “He moved like a snake, in and out of the crowd. I saw him through the door of my shop.”

“Can you describe him?” Rick asked.

“He was like the Steve in an old movie.”

“McQueen,” Vanessa supplemented.

Mr. Sing nodded. “Yes, a very bad dude.”

“Who moved like a snake.” Rick glanced at the sidewalk across the street. A narrow alley ran between a pair of old brick buildings. “Did you see his gun?”

“At first, no gun, but something on his head, like wrinkled skin. He watched my store as he came toward the street.” Mr. Sing mimicked the man’s moves. “Before he got there, he pulled the skin over his face and took the gun from inside his jacket. He used both hands to hold it and shot, just like that.” The store owner snapped his fingers.

Vanessa kept a hand on his arm so he wouldn’t be diverted by the wreckage beside him. “Can you describe the skin he pulled over his face? Did it distort his features?”

“It made them flat.”

“Even more snakelike, then,” Rick noted. “Must have used a stocking.”

Mr. Sing became indignant. “When you catch this man, I will have much to say to him.”

Rick motioned to Vanessa who took over. “You’ll have to come down to police headquarters, Mr. Sing. We need a full description of the suspect and an account of his actions.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Officer.” Sing raised his palms. “Not always wise to get mixed up with police.”

“If we apprehend him, it might help with the insurance claim.”

The man’s face brightened. “Not always wise, but good for Sing and Sing. I can pull down the bars and lock the store. No one will get past the bars. One moment, please.”

Rick nudged at broken glass with the toe of his boot. People were curious, but the backup patrols had taped the scene, and no one was screaming anymore.

Vanessa wiped a spot of blood from his right cheek. “Sliver got you, Maguire.” Her gaze strayed to the alleyway. “That guy wasn’t shooting at a shop window.”

“No.”

“Or at you.”

“Not likely.”

Frustration warred with inevitability. In the end, she could only sigh. “Hell.”

“YOU LIVE IN A VICTORIAN HOUSE on Russian Hill?” Rick surveyed the tall, thin structure with its square bay windows and ornate trellises. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“Never judge a book, Maguire. I wouldn’t expect long hair from the FBI.”

“I was undercover until recently. I’m working this case at the request of a VIP from your home state.”

“That would be Senator Graham whose sister married Judge Howard Morton of Chicago. Together they produced a daughter named Deirdre. My friend—you met her, Geri Kruger—thinks Deirdre would have been annoyed by the funeral service she received. I think Senator Graham wanted to keep the memorial quiet and dignified because his niece tended not to be.” She searched for her key, a tricky feat with a gorgeous man standing directly behind her and only a single porch light to aid the search. “Setting aside Deirdre’s outrageous lifestyle, I can’t see anyone who knew her and also knew Sandy, Mara and me wanting all of us dead. We were very different people, with very different habits and hobbies.”

“And tastes?”

“In most things, yes.” She located the key, then the lock and, once inside, the foyer light switch.

A low growl from the stairwell had Vanessa smiling and Rick narrowing his eyes.

She let the tease ride for a moment, before offering a firm, “Friend,” to the German shepherd who now stood at full attention on the bottom step.

“Robo, this is FBI Agent Rick Maguire. Rick, retired Canine Officer Robo.”

“As in Robocop?” He held out a hand to the dog.

Robo sniffed the newcomer carefully, wary as she was, Vanessa judged. When the dog transferred his attention to her, she took his head in her hands and gave him an affectionate rub.

“Robo’s better than a lot of cops I know. He nailed more perps in a week than many rookies do in a year.”

“Why is he living with you?”

“Because he injured his leg one night while pursuing a suspect to the docks. Doctors put a pin in his hip. He’s mobile, just not up to chasing down suspects.”

“Why didn’t his partner take him?”

“Because he has five kids, three dogs, two cats, a turtle and a parakeet. He figured Robo would get lost in the shuffle and that wouldn’t be fair to anyone. On the other hand, I’ve always wanted a dog. Also, Captain Palmer has very little faith in security systems. He brought Robo over one night last year, and that was it.”

“Love at first sight?”

She laughed, gave the dog’s fur one last ruffle. “Robo and I were already friends from the station. We worked together on several cases. And before you ask, we were in Bodega Bay when my house was broken into.”

“Six days ago.”

She tossed her bag and jacket onto a bloodred chair next to the door. “You can lose the tone, Maguire. I understand the time frame all too well. A week to ten days after they were burgled, my friends died. Believe me, it’s been on my mind for the better part of the evening.” Or it had been until she’d almost been shot.

“Sing described Steve McQueen to the police.”

“Yes, well, you know what they say about perception. Once he drew the comparison, his reality altered. Anyway, it was the best description we got. The only other people who noticed the guy said he was sort of average, from build to height to hair color. In other words, most people’s minds are too occupied to notice anything that appears ordinary. Our best bet is to look for someone who resembles Steve in his early-to midfifties and moves like a snake.”

She felt Rick watching her as she led the way down the hall to the kitchen. It didn’t bother her. She was used to men staring and couldn’t deny she liked it. But she also understood there was something different about this man, something that appealed just a little more than it should.

He was definitely a looker. Geri had been dead-on there. Long, dark-brown hair, lean rangy build, great mouth and large, oddly soulful brown eyes.

He’d get a lot of women with those eyes, she reflected. And the smile, when it came, wouldn’t hurt, either.

“Do I pass inspection?”

Vanessa checked the filter on her faucet before filling the kettle. She could have played the game, but a mounting sense of exhaustion had her going with the straight answer. “You have an aura, Agent Maguire. I could get distracted by you. That wouldn’t be good, all things considered.”

“Sounds like an interesting start.” He removed his jacket to reveal a black shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up and just enough open buttons that she could see the beginnings of dark chest hair.

Didn’t need to notice that. A sigh rose in Vanessa’s throat. He smelled good, too—clean, as if he’d just showered.

Setting the kettle on the stove, she wiped her hands. “There’s no start for us, okay? Someone shot at me tonight. I’m frazzled. You say things when you’re frazzled.”

“Like you do when you’re drunk?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t get drunk. When my fingers go tingly, I switch to juice or soda. Mind in harmony with body. My aunt’s been preaching the concept since the sixties.”

The gaze Rick ran over her body made not only her fingers, but every other part of her go tingly as well. “No comment,” he said, then offered her a slow smile that turned the tingle into a snap of electricity. “For now, anyway.”

Unfortunate, was all she could think. But, brakes on, she really didn’t need this or him disrupting her life.

Tipping her lips into a smile, she asked, “Do you want to see my bedroom before or after we eat?”

“Before, and you don’t have to feed me. Coffee’ll do. You look all in.”

“You’re not feeding my ego, Maguire. But you’re right. I worked three night shifts, grabbed two hours of sleep, then had to make a court appearance. If I’d been more alert, I might have seen tonight’s shooter’s reflection in the shop window.”

“If you hadn’t bent down, you’d be on a slab in the morgue as we speak.” He began to close in. His eyes were steady on her face, and she was too fascinated by her own reaction to evade him. “Sometimes luck happens, Vanessa. Be grateful for it.”

“I am.” She cocked her head at his continued approach. “Do you have your mother’s eyes or your father’s?”

“Father’s.”

“Must be one sexy man.”

Rick’s lips curved. “Strange as that sounds, I’ll take it as a compliment. Could it be you’re warming to me?”

Her blood certainly was. “Frazzled,” she repeated as he drew to within a foot of her. “Closet’s upstairs.”

With the ghost of his smile lingering, he reached out a hand to capture her chin. His thumb stroked the smooth skin of her jaw.

Vanessa made no attempt to pull free. Which both amused and intrigued her, because with any other man she didn’t know, by now her palm would be planted on his chest. In Rick’s case, she merely raised a brow. “You realize you’re pushing the boundaries, don’t you, Maguire? Duty-wise as well as in other ways.”

“Story of my life, Detective Connor.”

His lips were an inch from hers when he spoke. Damn, she thought, as little zaps of lightning began to shoot through her system. She actually wanted him to bridge that last bit of space and kiss her. On the other hand…“Gonna drive me crazy,” she predicted and, tangling her fingers in his hair, dragged his mouth onto hers.

IT WASN’T WHAT HE EXPECTED. Not the woman, not the kiss and definitely not his reaction to it. Vanessa had temptress qualities, no doubt about it, but the heat that flared both above and below his belt, now that was bad.

He knew where it came from, though, and why. She had a curious blend of softness and strength about her. Maybe she’d channeled the fear she’d refused to show him into the kiss. Whatever the case, his brain had quite simply melted down on contact.

Forty minutes later, he could still feel her pressed against him, that exquisitely toned body touching his in all the right—or wrong—places. And he swore the taste of her would haunt him all night, maybe longer.

Angry with himself, he slammed the door of his car and took the porch steps outside his friend’s house two at a time. He walked in without knocking, but closed the door quietly. Didn’t matter. Billy had ears like a damned elephant.

“S’at you, Rick? I got coffee back here that’s strong enough to strip paint.”

The old man’s voice had a wobble to it these days. It was a worry, but with his head swimming and the taste of a beautiful woman still on his lips, that worry had pretty much worked its way to the back of Rick’s mind.

Tossing his jacket aside, he navigated the obstacle course that was the first floor hallway. He hit his head twice on protruding cabinets before squeezing through the kitchen door. “You’ve got to stop taking in every piece of broken furniture you see, Billy.”

“They’re antiques, and keep your voice down. You’ll wake the new kid.”

“What new kid?” Rick squinted into the poorly lit room. He could hear the old man but couldn’t see him past two bookshelves, a tall boy and some kind of rickety bureau.

“Found him this morning at a bus stop.” The words came from somewhere near the pantry door. “Kid didn’t get on when the bus came. Didn’t have any money. He tried to sell me a watch. I offered him a hot meal instead. Figured a good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt, either.” A smile entered his tone. “I smell real pretty perfume out there. Would it come from that detective you saw tonight?”

His vocal cords might wobble, but nothing else about Billy Ruby had changed in the nearly twenty years Rick had known him. He took in strays—people, animals and objects. He cleaned them up, gave them a sense of worth and sent them back out into the world. He trusted easily, missed little and took it in stride if one of his tougher human challenges failed.

A Saint Bernard with a kinked tail wandered over to drool on Rick’s boot. He gave a deep bark and wove a path to the far corner.

“It’s after midnight, Rick. I don’t take that as a good sign.”

Hunched over his computer, Billy didn’t look up. At ninety-six, he was the oldest person Rick knew. He wore his store-bought teeth with pride and had more hair than most men half his age, long hair that fell halfway down his back in a thin white braid. He was part African American, part Native American, part French Creole and part Swiss. It never failed to make Rick smile when Billy threw that last thing in. A neutral country, Billy Joe Ruby was not.

Rick thought back briefly to his youth. He’d fallen in and out of trouble—mostly in—before meeting the old man. With patience, luck and a whole lot of late night talks, Billy had helped a tall, skinny, scared kid from Bakersfield finally get his head screwed on halfway straight.

At the moment, Billy was regarding a group photo, taken on what appeared to be a college campus. Rick set one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the makeshift desk and bent to study the shot. “Let me guess. You’re helping me with this case.”

“I was a Fed myself once, don’t forget.”

“You sorted files, Billy.”

“Before, during and after the war. Read a lot of them while I was at it.”

“Pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“Only if you get caught.” He tapped a weathered finger on the screen. “I’d guess that’s Vanessa Connor.”

Out of a group of twenty girls, he’d nailed her straight off.

At Rick’s doubtful sound, the old man laughed. “What? It’s not so tough to figure. I know what her three dead friends look like, so I eliminated them. Got rid of the cute ones and the four or five who’re hunkered down into their sweaters. No confidence. Left me with about six choices. She’s the prettiest, and she has the best eyes. Smart eyes. Like yours.”

“Uh-huh.” Rick sent him a slow grin. “There’s a list of names, isn’t there? You read it and counted, left to right, bottom row.”

“If I did, she’s still got smart eyes, and since you smell like a summer garden, I’m thinking she wears nice perfume. She gonna let you help keep her alive?”

“Probably, but only because her captain wants it, and they’re tight.”

Billy peered at him through a pair of thick spectacles. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Thought not. Do you good, though, if you did. Bottling doesn’t work.”

“I’m not bottling.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“My business, Billy.”

“You’ve never kissed any other woman you’ve worked with. And you just met this one.”

Suspicion moved in. “Why don’t you sound surprised?”

“Because I figured it would happen. Been waiting for the day to come. You saw her and thought, ‘Oh, man, I’m in trouble.’ You’re pushing at the feeling because it’s wrong right now. Could mess you up. Could land her in a grave. Still, that old feeling just won’t budge. You kissed her, figured that’d get it out of your system. Doubt if it worked, but you’ll tell yourself it did—or will soon enough.” He smiled. “I like smart eyes.”

So did Rick, which, as Billy had pointed out, was a very big problem and one he’d have to deal with fast. For the moment, he simply changed the subject. “Someone took a shot at her tonight.”

Billy’s breath whistled out. “Looks like you’ve got a job ahead of you, boy.”

Rick nodded. “Graham’s squeezing me for answers. So’s my boss.”

“The buck stops at you. It’s what you get for being the best.” But there was understanding in Billy’s tone. “A lot of serial killings go on for years. They shouldn’t expect a solution overnight.”

“It’s been three months.” Three long, stress-filled months of increasingly impatient phone calls, e-mails and ass-kicking lectures from his superiors. Senator Graham had clout, and he was using all of it in the case of his niece’s highly publicized death.

The irony was, Graham hadn’t liked her. Deirdre Morton had had a penchant for the outrageous and a rather pathetic need to grab headlines. Why Vanessa had hung out with her in college was almost as big a mystery to Rick as the identity of her killer.

“You’ll nail him.” Billy gave a decisive nod. “And I’ll say that to Senator Graham myself if he keeps pestering you.”

“It doesn’t fit.” In as much as the space allowed, Rick pushed off to pace. “The guy tried to kill her in a crowd of people in Chinatown.”

“One shot?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A .32. I know—same caliber as the second victim. I’m betting on a different weapon, though.”

“Second victim was murdered in Arizona, late last month, right? It’s August now. Time frame and all, chances are good your guy flew to Houston after that. Metal detectors, physical searches—you can’t smuggle weapons onto planes these days. Guy burgles the third victim, stabs her with a knife, also not easily transportable, then hightails it on up to San Francisco. He does his burglary thing there and buys another gun. Reasons it worked once, it’ll work again.”

“He’s never gone with a crowd scene before. It’s been one-on-one in the three previous cases. The MO works. Why change it up now?”

“Why hit the first victim over the head in a sleazy alley stairwell? Why leave the second floating in a hotel bathtub, fully clothed? Why slash the third victim’s throat and let her drain out facedown on her office desk?”

That last scenario had been hard even for Rick to stomach. “The victims were alone in every case. Vanessa wasn’t.”

“But she’d have been dead just the same if the shooter’d hit his mark. Maybe results matter more to your murderer than MO.”

“That’s what Palmer thinks.”

“What does Detective Connor think?”

Rick picked up the coffeepot at Billy’s elbow, swirled the murky contents. “We didn’t get into it.”

“Too busy kissing her, huh?”

Although he didn’t answer, Billy’s remark cemented the point that what had happened between them tonight couldn’t be repeated. “I checked out her closet and her armoire.” He blew dust from a bright-green mug. “She claims nothing’s missing. I convinced her to go through them again.”

“That’ll take time.” Billy chuckled. “C’mon Rick. You’re a female, you look like Vanessa, you shop.” He paused before returning his attention to the computer. “Why’d you kiss her?”

He wasn’t going to let this go. “She grabbed my hair, okay?” At the old man’s sideways look, Rick shrugged and poured. “I was thinking about kissing her. Wanted to, was fighting it. I got close, knowing I shouldn’t. She did the rest.”

“Knew I liked her.” Beaming now, Billy sat back. His gaze lingered on the monitor. “Smart eyes, smart woman. You’re gonna have your hands full with this one, Rick.”

“Yeah.” Rick drank, managed not to wince. “I just hope the same can be said for the killer.”

HE SAT ACROSS FROM A CHURCH, alone and shaking. He couldn’t work up the courage to move closer. Maybe he could kneel on the steps outside. God would understand. He’d been through the same thing Himself, hadn’t He?

An eye for an eye, that was the deal.

The rage flared in an instant, so intense it made him tremble. It bubbled in his veins. He would shoot her in the eye if he could. Half blind her before she died. God would guide him as always.

“Thou shalt not kill…” a small voice whispered in his head.

“No!” He put his palms to his ears and pressed them tight. “An eye for an eye,” he repeated. And said it and said it until all he could see were Vanessa Connor’s gold-colored eyes.

Chapter Three

Wheeling and dealing. That’s what it came down to in the end. She could be part of the investigation—officially Federal Agent Rick Maguire’s investigation—so long as she gave him her full cooperation.

Vanessa had been a cop long enough to know how the city wheels turned, how deals were struck. How Terence Palmer’s mind worked.

So she propped her eyes open, drank four cups of coffee, shoved all thoughts of hot kisses and Rick Maguire’s sexy mouth from her head and went through both her closet and her armoire again. Twice. The surprise came near the end of her second search.

“One little black dress missing,” she informed Rick the next day. They’d hooked up in Captain Palmer’s office. The unfortunate captain was at a meeting with the mayor. “It’s an older dress, that’s why I didn’t miss it at first.”

Rick made a note on his handheld PC. “Can you describe it?”

“Black jersey, clingy, with a deep V-neck. It’s a mini.” At his slanted look, a smile blossomed. “They’re fair to wear until you’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-nine.”

He glanced at her legs, clad in stonewashed denim today, but said nothing.

He continued to enter far more information than she’d offered. Patient by nature, she perched a hip on the captain’s desk. She wore a sleeveless white T with a black vest to cover her shoulder holster. Swinging a booted foot, she waited, stopped herself from fantasizing twice and finally nudged his leg. “I don’t know what you’re putting in there, but I haven’t said half that much since I got here.”

“I’m running a comparison.”

“Which suggests that my friends had stuff stolen from their closets, too. Same sort of thing?”

He finished his input and closed the file. “I only have one comp so far. Deirdre Morton itemized her clothes and supplemented the list with photos.”

“You’re joking.”

“She even had a catalog system for socks and underwear.”

“Lingerie.” When his brows came together, she grinned. “Women wear lingerie, Rick. Men and children have underwear. What was missing?”

“A red spandex dress—also a mini—with about fifty zippers on it.”

“Sounds appropriately slutty.” But she had to wonder why the killer had taken that particular item. “What was Deirdre wearing when they found her?”

Rick hit more keys and handed her the PC.

He hadn’t spared her. The photo of Deirdre in death had been taken at the scene. There was blood pooled on the ground and pieces of trash scattered around her head. She lay facedown, her white-blond hair askew and a long purple dress twisted around her body.

Blanking her reaction, Vanessa returned the computer. “She liked long flowy things in college. I think she pictured herself as a sophisticated Parisian model.”

“From sophisticated model to zippered spandex.”

“We all have our moods, but thankfully most of us change with the times. I’m told people walked around San Francisco wearing bathrobes and sandals in the late sixties.”