Olivia lunged at him, knocking him against the closet door.

Agent West cursed, rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms to the floor. She took the opportunity to knee him in the groin.

He doubled over, wincing in pain. “What is wrong with you?”

She frisked him, checked his pockets, then pulled open his shirt. Nothing. Nada. No witchcraft tools. “Your eyes were glowing earlier, and now here you are, in the room where my dad killed himself. That’s too damn weird for me.”

“My eyes? They’ve always been like that.”

“They’re your power.”

He made a face. “Well, thank you very much, but I’m not feeling particularly powerful right now.”

She thought about her premonition, the vision of them kissing in her loft. No damn way was she going to let that happen “Truce, then. But if you try anything funny, I’ll kill you.”

“Likewise.” He got to his feet, doing his best to maintain his machismo. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Olivia almost smiled. “See you around, Agent West.” With that, she left him alone, knowing this was the first time a woman had knocked him on his ass.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sheri WhiteFeather lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. She believes in the power of being a woman and thoroughly enjoys creating kick-ass heroines for the Bombshell line. But she also thrives on emotion-steeped romances, writing for Desire™ as well.

Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats – domestic and wild. Visit her website at: www. SheriWhiteFeather.com.

Always Look Twice

SHERI WHITEFEATHER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Tara Gavin, Melissa Jeglinski, Leslie

Wainger, Natashya Wilson and Lynda Curnyn

(the editorial Bombshells) for making this

project happen. To Irene Goodman (my agent)

for her enthusiasm and advice. To Judy Duarte

(my critique partner) for her unwavering

support while Crystal Green and I wrote our

first Bombshell novels. To Crystal (my other

critique partner) for being wonderfully neurotic

with me. To Katherine Garbera (fellow

Desirable and Bombshellite) for her expertise.

And to my readers for their interest in this story,

even while I was in the process of writing it.

For those of you curious about the supernatural

elements, I researched American Indian

witchcraft and added my own spin, blending

fact, fiction and imagination.

Chapter 1

The stainless steel table was cold. Olivia Whirlwind could almost feel the chilled metal beneath Denise Red Bow’s lifeless form. Her body had been gutted, from top to bottom, through a Y-shaped incision that crossed her chest then ran down to the top of her pubis. She looked waxy, inhuman, as surreal as a hollowed-out mannequin.

Death didn’t become her.

And neither did the autopsy room: a row of operating tables, water sloshing in sinks, surgical instruments clattering upon deaf ears.

Olivia wanted to rescue her, but it was too late. She wished she could go back in time, before the pathologist had wielded his precision blade. Before Denise Red Bow had been the third victim of the Indian Slasher.

“Special Agent West should be here any minute.”

Detective Steve Muncy’s voice interrupted the image, bringing Olivia back to the present, back to a conference room at the Los Angeles Street Police Station.

She rubbed her eyes, blinked, did her damnedest to clear her senses.

The autopsy was hours ago, but Olivia hadn’t been present. That privilege had been reserved for the Homicide Special Section detectives and the FBI profiler who’d been assigned to the case.

She sat back in her chair, knowing Agent West intended to give her a hard time. She’d yet to meet the elusive fed, but his reputation preceded him.

He didn’t like working with psychics.

So much so, he’d banned her from the autopsy room, convincing the pathologist that she didn’t belong there.

Although Olivia had been involved in the Indian Slasher investigation for months, this was West’s first day on the case. He’d arrived just in time for the autopsy, just in time to see Denise Red Bow flayed out on the table.

Well, bully for him, she thought.

Muncy bumped Olivia’s shoulder. “Riggs thinks the special agent’s a hunk.”

At the mention of her name, Detective Joyce Riggs turned, flashed a pretty smile, then told her partner to piss off.

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. Muncy and Riggs were an unlikely pair.

At forty-eight, he was short, rumpled and happily married. A dedicated detective, Muncy lived by his own set of rules, determined to solve every case the department dropped in his lap.

Riggs was just as tenacious. Only, she came in the form of a single, flirt-for-the-fun-of-it blonde. Olivia nicknamed them Columbo and Cagney, after the TV cops they reminded her of.

Suddenly the door to the conference room opened, and Olivia looked up. A striking man in his midthirties wearing a dark suit and slightly scuffed cowboy boots took center stage. He stood tall, with tanned skin, thick brown hair, chiseled features and disturbing eyes. An obscure shade of gray, they assessed her with cool reserve.

Special Agent Ian West.

There was no damn way she was going to let him intimidate her.

He greeted everyone with a nod, including Olivia. Then he slid some photographs on the table in front of her. “Ms. Whirlwind, I presume.”

“That’s right.” She didn’t bother to glance at the pictures. She knew they were from Denise Red Bow’s autopsy. “I’ve already seen them. In my mind,” she added, reminding him that she was an established psychic. That banning her from the medical examination hadn’t made a difference.

Detectives Muncy and Riggs remained silent, watching her and West.

He left the photographs in front of her. Finally she picked one up, studied it, saw that Denise’s scalp was pulled down over her face. The front quadrant of her skull had been cut away and removed. Standard autopsy stuff.

“Denise doesn’t like this,” she said, pretending the victim was making contact with her. “She preferred her brain the way it was.”

Agent West wasn’t amused, but she knew Detective Muncy appreciated her offbeat humor. They’d met ten years ago, on the night of her father’s suicide. He’d seen her at her worst.

“I heard you were a smart-ass,” West told her.

“And I heard you would try to discredit me.” Los Angeles was her turf, her city, the place where she’d been born and raised. She had every right to help the police apprehend the Indian Slasher. The faceless woman in the photograph deserved that much.

West didn’t respond. Tension buzzed between them, zapping the room like fireflies. The flag in the corner didn’t dare wave, in spite of a strong, hard blast from an air-conditioning vent.

“Olivia is FBI, too,” Muncy said, catching the profiler’s attention with a silly joke. “Full-blooded Indian.”

“I’m aware of that.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on the conference table, looking straight at her, his voice laced with a Southern-boy slant. “I assume you’re concerned about helping our people.”

“Our people?” She raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t claiming to be Indian, was he? Olivia hailed from an Oglala Lakota father and a Chiricahua Apache mother, both of whom were long gone from her life. A younger sister was her only family.

“Let me guess. Your great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess,” she said, poking fun at the oldest, most ridiculous wannabe claim that ever existed.

A cynical smile ghosted across his lips. Apparently he was familiar with the princess scenario. “I’m a card-carrying Muscogee Creek, Ms. Whirlwind.”

Who relied on his heritage when it suited him, she thought. A special agent, ready to save the day, with one-sixteenth or possibly one-eighth Native blood flowing through his veins.

But, hey, he was registered with his tribe.

“I’m impressed,” she told him.

“So I see,” he mocked. “And considering you have a lot in common with the victims in this case, you should be. A young, attractive Native American woman living and working in Los Angeles County. I’d be careful if I were you.”

“But you’re not me, are you?” Olivia knew damn well that she could shoot a flea off the back of a gnat’s ass faster than West could pull out his peter to pee. “I can take care of myself.”

He dropped his gaze to the base of her throat, where a noticeable scar made a mysterious statement. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.” Was the special agent wondering if someone had tried to slit her throat? Olivia knew how her scar affected most people and what their speculations were. Of course, he was different. He’d probably figured it out already. He’d probably seen enough wounds to know how they were inflicted. But even so, she lifted her chin, allowing him a good hard look.

He took an unabashed gander, but he didn’t let his gaze slip lower, even though her curve-clinging jumpsuit attracted plenty of attention. Olivia enjoyed dressing like a designer-clad dominatrix. It fit her daring personality, the part of her that refused to be tamed.

“Why don’t you brief me on the case?” West said, his tone a tad too condescending.

She glared at him. “I’m sure the detectives already brought you up to speed.”

“I’d really like to hear it from a psychic’s perspective.”

“Fine.” She accepted his challenge and glanced at Muncy, who leaned back in his chair, keeping his emotions in check. Riggs, on the other hand, managed a small smile. But whom the smile was intended for wasn’t quite clear.

Olivia came to her feet, walking to the front of the room. At twenty-nine she worked hard to keep her body fit, taking pride in the beauty that came from being a woman. Bulletlike, her spiky-heeled boots sounded on the floor, as deadly as her aim. A ladylike bondage belt was slung low on her hips, resting to one side. And although the Glock she routinely carried was in plain sight, she’d snagged a permit to carry a concealed weapon, something next to impossible for a California civilian.

West didn’t take a chair. He parked his butt on the edge of the table, and when Riggs cleared her throat, a blast of sexual energy ripped through Olivia’s body.

Well what do you know? The lady cop really did think the profiler was a hunk. Olivia wondered if fraternization was allowed, or if FBI agents were banned from boffing pretty blond detectives.

She glanced at his left hand, then got a quick flash of the wedding band that used to be there. She shrugged away the energy connected to it, the hurt and anger, the nights he spent alone.

West crossed his arms. “Any time you’re ready.”

Needing a distraction, Olivia messed up her hair, scattering the short, choppy layers, blocking out the profiler’s private life. “There’s been three female victims in this case,” she began. “The first two were slashed inside their L.A. homes, stabbed repeatedly, with no forced entry and no sexual assault. The third, Denise Red Bow,” she added, indicating the autopsy pictures, “was killed in the same manner. But even though she lived and worked in Hollywood, she was stabbed while house-sitting for her parents on their reservation, about 120 miles south of L.A.” Olivia paused, cursing the law. “And that’s why you were brought in. Indian Country falls under federal jurisdiction.”

“That’s right.” He uncrossed his arms. “And now here we are, one big happy family, working on this investigation together.”

She looked at Muncy and noticed the strain around his mouth. The LAPD did its own profiling. They didn’t need the FBI’s assistance.

Olivia continued the briefing, reciting information West already knew. “The killer’s calling card is an arrowhead encased in a valentine-style heart. He draws this symbol on the victim’s abdomen, on the right side, using an average black marker.”

“Have you gotten a reading on the artwork?” he asked. “Any vibes that enhance the investigation?”

Was he testing her skill? Or just hell-bent on giving her a hard time? Either way, she was used to proving herself. Most law enforcement officials—skeptical by nature and suspicious by training—didn’t believe in her ability. And those who did, like Detective Muncy, didn’t admit, at least publicly, that he consulted a psychic. The press would have a field day if they knew how many investigations she’d been involved in.

She finally answered West’s question. “No, I haven’t gotten any vibes about the Slasher’s calling card.”

“So what’s your opinion? Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“Yes,” she responded, knowing full well she was talking to a highly educated man with several advanced degrees. But that didn’t make her opinion any less valuable. Olivia’s gift gave her an edge.

“Why?” he pressed. “Why a serial killer?”

“Because he perpetrated random murders, with an emotional cooling-off period in between. The victims were unrelated. They didn’t know each other,” she clarified. “And each had been slain in a different location.” She shuffled the autopsy pictures, stacking them like a deck of cards. “So far, the Slasher has gone after married women.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his MO, she thought. Single girls could be at risk, too.

“Two of our victims were cheating on their husbands,” West remarked.

“But Denise wasn’t. At least not that we know of.”

“So you think this is one killer? One man?”

Olivia nodded. “That’s the feeling I have. My intuition.”

“Why not multiple offenders? The forensic evidence is inconclusive.” A frown marred West’s forehead, carving a groove into his skin. “In fact, it’s downright weird. Footprints that appear then disappear, hair samples that test human one time and animal the next. Nothing makes any sense.” He shifted his weight. He was still perched on the edge of the table. “Do you have an answer for any of that?”

“Actually, she does.” This came from Muncy, who rose from his chair. “Olivia thinks the killer has supernatural powers.”

“Really?” West’s frown remained, deep and dark and troubled. “And do you agree with her analysis, Detective?”

“I’m inclined to.”

The profiler turned to Riggs. “And you?”

Her blue eyes locked onto his. “It’s a baffling case.”

The special agent nodded. “That it is.” He tunneled his hands through his hair, quietly perplexed. Then he addressed Olivia. “Do you think the killer is a skinwalker?”

She tilted her head. “It’s hard to say. There are other tribes besides the Navajo that have witches among them.” And his attitude confused her. Why would a man who believed in supernatural beings resent working with a psychic?

Because he envied her power, her mind answered. West wanted what she had. The ability she possessed.

“You better be careful,” he said, reminding her once again that the Slasher was attacking American Indian women.

Like her. And her sister.

She thought about Allie, about how gentle her younger sibling was. Then she glanced at West.

Suddenly his eyes, those odd gray eyes, were glowing.

Like a witch.

Twenty minutes later Olivia took the 101, engaging the gas petal, gaining speed, switching lanes, snarling at the late-day traffic.

She kept telling herself that West’s eyes were a trick of the light, an illusion. He wasn’t powerful enough to be a witch.

Darting past a poky compact, she accelerated again, her vintage Porsche purring with elation, the wind whipping through the convertible, stinging her face. And then she wondered what the hell she was doing.

Why was she on the freeway? She lived in a loft downtown, just minutes from the police station.

Suddenly her vehicle chose its own path, forcing her to fight the wheel.

Battling the entity inside her car, she screamed at it, warning it to leave her alone. Sounds from the road sliced past her ears, fast, furious, overwhelming.

Her tires hugged the lane, spinning like black holes in space. But when she saw the Highland exit, she knew.

She understood.

A ghost, a wanagi in her father’s language, was taking her to him. Not to his grave, but to the motel where he’d blown out his brains.

“All right,” she whispered. “I’ll go there.” The wheel on the Porsche was no longer locked, but her destination had been forged just the same.

She drove to the motel, a place she’d been avoiding for years. Aside from a fresh coat of paint, it looked the same, an attractive building on a side street off Sunset Boulevard, with yellow trim and a swimming pool surrounded by empty lounge chairs.

She parked in front of Room 112 and stared at the heavy beige drapes in the window.

Now what? she asked herself. What difference did this make? She’d been having visions about her dad since the night he’d killed himself.

She’d seen it happen before he’d pulled the trigger.

But her mad rush to save him had failed, even with Detective Muncy’s help. They’d called a list of motels in the Hollywood area, working in alphabetical order, checking registries, trying to pinpoint the location in her vision.

Olivia stared at the drapes again. The Z-Sleep Inn had been the last place on their list, a motel they’d never gotten the chance to call.

Instead, another guest had heard the shot and reported it to the front desk.

In the end Joseph Whirlwind had been found, alone on the bed, blood gushing out of his nose and mouth, the back of his head splattered on the wall behind him, chips of his skull imbedded in the plaster.

A biohazard removal company had cleaned up the mess, but no one could erase the recurring vision from her mind.

She looked up at the sky, knowing it was going to happen. Unable to stop it, she waited, her heart pounding with anxiety, with memories tangling like vines.

Then suddenly the familiar image sluiced through her brain, as vivid as a horror film bursting with surround sound.

She could hear her father’s erratic breathing. He paced the room, passing the unmade bed. The quilt was a pleasant shade of blue, mottled with a green-and-yellow design. Joseph wanted to shred it.

Edgy, he glanced at the.44 Magnum on the night-stand. It was an old gun, a weapon he’d had since the seventies. Dirty Harry style, he thought, wishing he’d had a career like Clint Eastwood.

But Joseph was Lakota, an actor who refused to play parts that stereotyped his people. His agent kept telling him to get over it, to take whatever work he could find.

Joseph shook his head. He had pride. And honor.

He picked up the note he’d written to his daughters, studying it one more time. He’d tried to word it simply, to refrain from the drama that had destroyed his life.

Steeped in emotion, he tucked it into an envelope, holding it, ever so briefly, against his heart. His girls were adults now, young women old enough to take care of themselves. He wasn’t abandoning them. He was freeing them from the depression that swallowed his soul. Besides, he told himself, he was already dead. He’d ceased to exist on the day his wife had left him for another man.

When he climbed onto the bed and reached for the pistol, Olivia’s heart went weak.

Don’t do it, Daddy.

She opened her eyes, but the image wouldn’t go away. She wanted to hate her mother. Except, it was her father placing the gun barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

The high-powered blast reverberated in her ears, killing Joseph Whirlwind instantly.

She waited for his spirit to leave his body, praying he would find peace. Yet there was nothing but the aftermath of his suicide haunting the room.

Olivia went straight home, anxious to see her sister. She found Allie in the kitchen, humming to a Beatles song on an oldies radio station. The kitchen, like the rest of the loft, was decorated in Allie’s eclectic style, with thrift-store treasures and shabby-chic collectables.

Allie was a full-time artist and a part-time art teacher at a senior citizen’s community center. She had a way with elders. With kids and animals, too. She spoiled a black cat, a stray she’d named Samantha that hissed at everyone but her.

Olivia stood back, watching her younger sibling. Although they were only a year apart, eighteen and nineteen when their dad had died, she’d always been protective of Allie.

And for good reason. Most of the time, Olivia’s sister floated through life, ignoring her surroundings. At the moment she wasn’t paying attention to anything except the health-food groceries she was arranging in a walk-in pantry.

“What if I was the Slasher?” Olivia said.

“What?” Allie spun around, her waist-length hair whipping across her body. She wore an ensemble of Southwestern-style clothes, gauzy fabrics decorated with turquoise jewelry she’d bought at a pawnshop.

“You didn’t even hear me come in,” Olivia told her. “I could have been the killer.”

“The door was locked. You have a key.” Allie stacked several cans of vegetarian chili on an already crowded shelf.

“That’s not the point. You’re oblivious.”

“I have street smarts.” The younger woman gestured to a nearby window, where designers, retailers, manufacturers and apparel marts converged in the Fashion District. “Look where we live.”

Olivia shook her head. Their loft was located above a trendy little shoe store and a gourmet coffee bar that baked fresh muffins throughout the day. Even now, the aroma of banana-nut bread wafted through the air, along with the scented candles Allie routinely burned. She existed in a dream world, right along with the fantasy creatures she painted.

“I’m going to teach you to shoot.”

Her sister’s dark skin paled. “No. Not after what Dad did.”

“You need to learn to protect yourself.”

“Not like that.” When Allie cocked her hip, the shiny belt cinched at her waist made her look leaner than she already was. She was tall and graceful, stunningly lithe. Their mother had been a dancer when she was young. Olivia and her sister had inherited Yvonne Whirlwind’s long shapely lines. Of course Olivia had inherited more than that.

Their mom was psychic, too.

The woman who’d walked out on them, she thought. The woman who’d purposely disappeared.

“It’s bad enough that I have to put up with your arsenal,” Allie said. “Most girls collect pretty trinkets. But no, not my sister. She collects weapons.”

Enough of this, Olivia thought. “A wanagi was in my car today.”

Allie’s skin went pale again. A sun catcher in the window bathed her clothes in a prism of dusk, giving her a gypsy-in-the-mist quality. “What did it want?”

“It led me to the motel.”

The younger woman hugged herself. Then she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the massive loft nearly swallowed her whole. The walls were covered with a mural she’d painted, with unicorns and fairies and an armor-clad knight slaying a winged dragon.

Olivia followed her. “Don’t shut me out, Allie.”

“I’m not.” She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. “Sometimes ghosts bring messages. Dad used to say that.”

“I know. But I’m not sure what this wanagi was trying to say.”

“Maybe we should leave some food out for it, the way our ancestors used to do. If we don’t, we might offend it.”

Olivia thought about the vegetarian chili Allie had packed in the pantry. “I don’t think it would like that healthy crap you eat.”

They looked at each other and laughed, breaking the tension. To the Lakota, ghosts were wakan, hard to understand. Sometimes they haunted people, twisting their mouths and eyes. And sometimes they whistled outside someone’s home. Olivia’s ghost had done neither.

“Maybe it just wanted me to confront the motel,” she said. “To quit avoiding it.”

Allie sank onto a velvet sofa laden with embroidered pillows, a fat white candle flickering on the wrought-iron table beside her. Shadows swirled on the walls, making her mural come to life. “Maybe the wanagi was Dad.”

The room nearly tilted. Olivia hadn’t considered that possibility. She glanced at the gun cabinet in the corner. She still had the.44 Magnum he’d used. “Why would he make me go there?”

“To stop those visions you keep having of him,” her sister said.

“If that was his intention, it didn’t work.”

They sat quietly for a moment, lost in thought. The banana bread aroma was gone, but vanilla-scented wax filled the air, like a milkshake melting over a flame.

“Who do you think is staying in that room?” Allie asked.

Olivia recalled the heavy beige drapes in the motel window. “I don’t know. Lots of people have stayed there.”

“But who’s there now? Who was the ghost trying to make you aware of?”

Olivia’s heartbeat blasted her chest. And suddenly she knew.

Ian West.

The special agent with the glowing eyes.

Chapter 2

Olivia parked her Porsche around the corner and entered the office of the Z-Sleep Inn, where the woman behind the counter gave her an empty smile.

Good, she thought, the clerk’s mind was on something else, and preoccupied people were easy to fool.

Olivia had covered her jumpsuit with a long black sweater, a bulky cardigan that toned down her look. But that was part of her ploy.

“May I help you?” the other woman asked.

“Yes. My husband is checked into Room 112. His name is Ian West.”

The clerk merely nodded. She was a color-treated blonde with wire-rimmed glasses, an averagely attractive girl in her midtwenties whose name tag identified her as Carla.

When Olivia’s sixth sense kicked into gear, she realized Carla was new to the area. That she was trying to sell a screenplay.

That was even better.

Olivia opened her sweater, exposing the skintight jumpsuit. “I flew in to surprise Ian. He’s here on a business trip.” Next she adjusted the bondage belt around her hips, flashing an I’m-going-to-handcuff-my-husband-to-the-headboard smile.

Carla’s eyes grew wide, but she didn’t overreact. This was Hollywood, after all. And she was trying to fit in.

“I need the key to his room,” Olivia said.

“Oh, oh…of course.” The clerk took a moment to do her job, fiddling with her computer, making sure Ian West was registered to Room 112.

Bingo. Olivia saw the recognition on the other woman’s face. She secured the key and thanked Carla, leaving the blonde staring after her.

Agent West was still at the police station, where he intended to remain for a while. That much Olivia could feel.

With a deep breath, she entered the room, closing the door behind her. When it clicked into place, her pulse jumped to her throat.

The decor had changed. The Z-Sleep Inn had updated their color scheme, using light woods and maroon accents. It didn’t look like the place where her dad had taken his life.

But it was.

Olivia went to work, trying to get a reading on West, hoping to uncover something that revealed more about him. He was annoyingly tidy, making her job more difficult. He would notice if she left something out of place. His belongings were carefully unpacked, his underwear and T-shirts tucked neatly into a dresser that doubled as an entertainment center.

She went through the drawers, searching for witchcraft tools, possibly a vile of blood, a black candle or a bundle of dried herbs.

Nothing, she thought, as she restacked a handful of printed boxers. Strange, but she’d pegged him for a white-briefs kind of guy. Yet there wasn’t a pair of bunhuggers in sight.

She paused, glanced around, then poked through West’s toiletries on the vanity counter outside the bathroom. He used disposable razors and a generic brand of shaving cream. His designer cologne was a bit more costly. She removed the cap and sniffed. Nothing suspicious there. It actually smelled pretty good.

So what was the deal? Olivia frowned, wondering why West was staying in her father’s old room. There had to be a mystical reason, something the special agent was hiding.

Finally she opened the closet. He favored dark suits, pale shirts and narrow ties. Apparently, the only shoes he’d brought were Western boots.

Stupid urban cowboy.

She checked the pockets of his suits, digging around for magic stones. Onyx, jet or a sturdy hunk of geode. Geode, a mysterious rock formation with a hollow cavity, promoted psychic ability, something West coveted.

His pockets were empty, not even a piece of lint. Maybe he wasn’t so stupid after all. He hadn’t left behind one shred of witchlike evidence.

Olivia closed the closet door and turned to look at the bed. Should she try to invoke the wanagi to help her? She knew that calling upon a ghost was a dangerous game.

Was the entity her dad? Was he trying to warn her about West? Or had West conjured the ghost? Was it part of his magic?

Suddenly she heard a vehicle.

Damn it.

She knew it was West’s rental car. She could feel his energy connected to it. The son of a bitch had tricked her. He’d left the station earlier than he’d originally planned.

There was no escape. Motel rooms weren’t equipped with back doors. Olivia darted into the bathroom, which wasn’t much bigger than a photo booth. She glanced at the commode. The seat was up.

Because flushing herself down the toilet wasn’t an option, she drew her gun and hid behind the door, leaving it slightly ajar, the way it had been before.

She sure as hell hoped that West didn’t need to use the bathroom. Or he wasn’t hankering for a shower.

With any luck, the special agent would dump his briefcase, change into some casual clothes and head back out to grab a cheap meal. She doubted the FBI had given him a luxurious per diem.

Olivia heard him enter the motel room: the click of the door, the dead bolt sliding into place. She waited, listening to his footsteps.

Then she cursed. Something was wrong.

There was no time to ground out another expletive. He’d stopped breathing, stopped moving. She could feel his pulse, feel him reaching for his gun. Damn him all to hell.

He knew someone was in his room.

Olivia didn’t have a choice. At this point, catching him off guard was her best defense. She waited, listening to him scan the room. And just when he focused on the closet, she swung open the bathroom door, taking aim.

He was just as fast. Within a heartbeat, his gun was pointed at her, too.

They faced off, an even match.

“I smelled your perfume the minute I came in,” he said. “I suspected it was you.”

What was he? A wolf? Her fragrance wasn’t that strong. “Holster that thing, West.”

“You first.”

She didn’t budge. “What compelled you to stay here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This motel. This room. One-twelve.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.” And his gun was still pointed at her chest.

She blinked, but she didn’t stumble. A vision flashed across her mind. West was in her loft, kissing her, pushing his tongue into her mouth. And she was kissing him back, putting her hands all over him, dragging him to her bedroom.

No, she thought. No.

Olivia steeled her emotions, tempted to aim the Glock at his fly. “I asked you about this room.”

“Humor me.” He watched her. Aware, it seemed, that she’d nearly lost her composure. “Give me a clue. Tell me why this motel matters.”

“My father committed suicide here.”

“Christ.” His gaze shifted, but only for a moment. “In this room? I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He seemed sincere, but she wasn’t going to back off. Not until she found a way to frisk him, to check his pockets for magic stones, to search for an amulet around his neck, something, anything that could be used against her.

“When?” he asked. “When did it happen?”

“Ten years ago.”

“How he’d do it?”

“A.44 Magnum.”

“Christ,” he said again, only this time he sounded as if he were praying. “Can we put these away now? Or are we going to keep this up all night?”

“Fine.” She agreed to holster her weapon at the same time as him, waiting for another chance to strike.

She stepped out of the bathroom, inching closer to him. He remained where he was, studying her through those bone-chilling eyes. They weren’t glowing, but they looked right through her, nearly penetrating her soul.

“Who told you I was staying here?” he asked. “Muncy? Riggs?”

A blast of betrayal gripped her hard and quick. “They knew?”

“They could have found out, I guess. I gave the lieutenant the name and number of this place. Right before I left the station tonight.”

Which meant Muncy and Riggs didn’t know. “Casper warned me that you were here.”

“Who?”

“The friendly ghost.”

West frowned. His tie was loose, and a strand of his hair fell across his forehead. His features were taut, strong and serious. She wondered if his wife had left him for another man.

He blew out a rough breath. “My grandfather says that when you pass a graveyard, you should chew a little ginseng, then spit it out on each side of your mouth, four times each way.”

“That drives away the ghosts?”

“He thinks so. He never said anything about motel rooms, though.”

“Your grandfather is a superstitious man.”

“A lot of Indians are.”

Olivia could see West’s profile in the vanity mirror. For all she knew, his grandfather was a witch. “I heard about an ancient Creek belief. Supposedly they wouldn’t allow their children to congregate where old people were conversing because the elders might bewitch them. Is that true?”

“Yes, but that’s because some of the old men had been through so many fastings in their lifetimes, people thought they might be wizards.”

Exactly, she thought, as she lunged at him, knocking him against the closet door.

He cursed, rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms to the floor. She took the opportunity to knee him in the groin. Hard. As hard as she possibly could.

“Shit!” He doubled over, wincing in pain.

She frisked him, checked his pockets, then pulled open his shirt.

Nothing. Nada. No witchcraft tools.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He found the strength to shove her away.

“Your eyes were glowing earlier, and now here you are, in the room where my dad killed himself. That’s too damn weird for me.”

“My eyes?” He braced his back against the closet. He was still wincing, still feeling the brunt of her attack. “They’ve always been like that.”

“They’re your power.”

He made a face. “Well, thank you very much, but I’m not feeling particularly powerful right now.”

“What about this room?”

“Maybe Casper drew me here.”

“Why would he do that?”

“To tie us together. To help you trust me.”

She thought about her premonition, the vision of them kissing in her loft. No damn way was she going to let that happen. “Fine, we’ll call a truce. But if you try anything funny, I’ll kill you.”

“Likewise.” He got to his feet. He was doing his damnedest to maintain his machismo, to pretend that his balls weren’t still throbbing in his brain. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Olivia almost smiled. “See you around, Agent West.”

With that, she left him alone, knowing this was the first time a woman had knocked him on his ass.

Later that night Olivia couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, gazing at the window, where moonlight glinted through lace sheers, sending a filigree pattern across the floor.

After she climbed out of bed, she slipped on a pair of sheepskin slippers, warming her feet from the linoleum. The loft was a little chilly at two in the morning. But just a little.

She smiled to herself. That was the beauty of living in Southern California. While other parts of the country were banked in snow, L.A. offered mild temperatures, even in February.

Olivia went into the kitchen, where a twenty-watt bulb above the stove served as a nightlight. She fixed herself a cup of mint tea and noticed conversation-heart candies dotting the counter.

Allie had left them for the ghost.

She picked one up, read the Be Mine inscription, almost ate it, then set it back down. Allie used to leave cookies and milk for Santa Claus, too.

Olivia tasted her tea. She’d never believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or any of those childhood myths.

Allie had believed in everything.

Taking her cup, she walked to her sister’s room and peeked in. A low-burning lamp bathed a collection of fancy dance shawls with an amber glow, making the retired powwow regalia look like oversize butterflies with fringed wings.

Olivia expected to find Allie in bed, sleeping like a castle-bound princess, but the pink-and-gold chamber was empty.

She closed the bedroom door and headed to Allie’s studio, knowing that was where she would be. Sure enough, her sister was working. The smooth side of a buffalo hide was stretched across a table, with Allie leaning over it, drawing a design she intended to paint.

“Couldn’t that wait until morning?” Olivia asked.

Allie looked up. She wore white pajamas and pair of cat-shaped slippers. Samantha, the real cat, slept on a nearby shelf cluttered with art supplies. “No. I have to do this now.”

“Why? What’s the hurry?”

“It’s going to be a portrait of Dad, so he can travel the Ghost Road. If I paint a tattoo on his wrist, the old woman will have to let him pass.”

Olivia moved farther into the studio, still clutching her tea. In the early Lakota days, the Ghost Road was a path taken by spirits. To the south the road branched, where an old woman inspected the tattoo of each spirit. Those without tattoos would be pushed over the side of a cloud or a cliff, condemned to roam the earth as ghosts.

“Spirits don’t get a second chance on the Ghost Road, Allie.”

The younger woman continued sketching. “Dad might.”

Olivia wished her sister’s artwork had the power to free their father. He’d taught them about the old ways, but he’d lived a modern life. A tattoo for the Ghost Road wasn’t something he’d considered. “Do you really think it’s him?”

Allie glanced up. “Who else could it be?”

“I don’t know.” Olivia laughed a little. “I’ve been calling it Casper.”

Her sister laughed, too. “At least Casper was on TV and in the movies.” Her mood turned solemn. “Do you think Mom knows that he’s dead? That he killed himself?”

“I have no idea.” Joseph Whirlwind wasn’t a well-known actor. His suicide hadn’t made the papers. He’d disappeared into the bowels of Hollywood, like so many others before him.

Allie smoothed the hide. “I wonder where she is.”

Olivia didn’t want to think about their mother, about the betrayal that still left her empty inside. What kind of woman walked away from her family? Discarded them like trash?

She changed the subject, focusing on Allie’s project instead. “Are you going to paint some weapons for him? A lance? A shield?”

Her sister nodded. “I’m going dress him in the traditional way, too. Eagle feathers in his hair and beaded moccasins with fully quilled soles.”

“That’s a good idea.” There were only two times when moccasins with quilled or beaded soles were made. When a baby was born and when a loved one died.

“So did you find out who was staying at the motel?” Allie asked.

Olivia sighed. She couldn’t seem to shake West from her mind. “It was the special agent assigned to the Slasher case.”

“An FBI guy?” Her sister stopped drawing. Her hair was loose, falling in a thick black curtain, glimmering under the studio lights. “Wow. That’s wild.”

Yeah, wild. “He confuses me.”

“Why? Because Dad drew him to that room?”

Olivia frowned. West had implied the same thing. “We don’t even know if the wanagi is Dad.”

“It is. It has to be. And after the Slasher case is solved, he’s going to travel the Ghost Road.”

After it’s solved? Olivia glanced at the buffalo hide, at the rough image that had begun to appear. She sipped her tea, needing warmth, needing reassurance.

Then without the slightest warning, Samantha opened her eyes, arched her sleek black body and hissed at a shadow on the wall.

Leaving Olivia chilled once again.

At daybreak Olivia drove to an area in the high desert where the Manson gang once dwelled, an area where methamphetamine labs brewed illicit drugs, and relocated sex offenders pretended to be part of society.

She parked beside a house encompassed by a chain-link fence. The front yard was littered with old car parts, broken-down swing sets, wagon wheels, goofy-looking lawn jockeys and bearded gnomes. Several outbuildings stored even more salable junk, things exposure to the elements could damage. A metal aircraft hangar sat behind everything else, taking up a noticeable portion of the seven-acre property.

Olivia approached the perimeter of the front yard and waited for the rottweiler on duty to snarl and bark his fool head off.

He did just that, baring his teeth until he realized who she was. Then he wagged his docked tail and whined for attention.

“Clyde, you big baby.” She unlocked the gate with her key, entered the property and knelt to pet him. “Where’s Bonnie?”

Just then, a miniature dachshund came around the corner, her long, low-slung body wiggling. She looked like what she was—a wiener dog Clyde could consume for breakfast. But he wouldn’t dream of it. Bonnie and Clyde adored each other.

Olivia tapped the dachshund’s pointed nose and received a sappy grin in return. “Okay, you guys, I’m going to wake up your master.”

She walked passed the junk, where a sixty-year-old house with a sagging porch made a run-down statement.

Once again, she used her key, hoping Kyle wasn’t in bed with his latest lover, whoever the unfortunate girl might be.

His house was a mess, almost as cluttered as his yard. She passed the kitchen and winced. Food-encrusted dishes were piled in the sink and stacked on the counter, leaving little space for much else.

Kyle Prescott was a decorated Desert Storm soldier, a half-blood Apache who looked like an indigenous god, but he was also the biggest slob on the planet.

She tore open his bedroom door, and he awakened with a start. He was alone, as big and broad and surly as a brown bear.

“Olivia.” He cursed her name. “Do you know what time it is?”

“I need to blow off some steam.”

“Oh.” His demeanor changed. He smiled and patted the empty space next to him. “In that case, I’m all yours.”

“Not that kind of steam.”

“Figures.” He climbed out of bed, unabashed and completely naked.

Olivia had seen his bare butt before. She had been his on-and-off lover for nearly three years, a mistake she didn’t intend to repeat. He was a bit too bizarre to make a woman feel secure.

“Go make some coffee and I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” he said. “Then we can get started.”

He stumbled down the hall to take a shower, and she battled the dishes in his sink, searching for cups that were worthy of washing. He had three coffeepots, and all of them were thick with caffeine-laced drudge. Finally she found a fourth unit. A reconditioned model, it was clean and shiny and stored in a generic box. But what did she expect? Kyle was a junk dealer.

By the time he finished his morning routine, Olivia handed him a cup of his favorite brew. His blunt-cut, shoulder-length hair was held in place with a cloth headband, styled after the Mexican Period in Apache history.

Bare-chested with jeans and knee-high moccasins, he was an Indian groupie’s dream, a gorgeous sight to behold. But in spite of his mixed-blood roots, Kyle didn’t sleep with white women.

Olivia had met him through AIM, but somewhere along the line, he’d outgrown the American Indian Movement. These days he belonged to an underground warrior society, a militant group the government wouldn’t approve of.

Not that the feds approved of AIM, she thought.

Kyle called the FBI the Federal Bureau of Ineptitude, and men like Special Agent West, fibbies.

“I shouldn’t let you use me like this,” he said, taking his coffee to a Formica-topped dinette set near the window. “I should make you return my keys.”

She plopped down in the chair across from him. “We can’t be friends if we’re not sleeping together?”

He shrugged, feigning indifference. Olivia wanted to kick him. She knew he enjoyed being her instructor. The power-blasting rush probably gave him a hard-on.

“What’s got you so wound up?” he asked.

“Everything.” She blew a weary breath. “The Slasher, my sister’s passive nature, the FBI.”

That caught his attention. “What FBI?”

“The agent assigned to the Slasher investigation. I had a premonition about him. We were kissing, pawing each other, getting all hot and nasty.”

“That’s sick.”

“He’s registered with the Muscogee Nation.”

“A Creek?” Kyle sipped lazily from his cup. “I knew those civilized tribes couldn’t be trusted.”

And she knew he was being smart. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I didn’t say it was. An Indian fibbie is some serious shit.” He frowned at her, and the sharp, rugged expression made him look even more handsome. “Why’d you kiss him?”

“I just told you, it was a vision. A premonition. It hasn’t happened yet. And it’s not going to,” she added, even though the idea had begun to arouse her.

“Maybe it wasn’t a premonition.” He leaned back in his chair, scraping the metal legs against the floor. “Maybe it was somebody’s fantasy.”

“Somebody’s? You mean his?”

“Or yours.”

Trust him to bait her, to accuse her of being the guilty party, to figure out that she was attracted to West.

Olivia yanked away his cup, nearly spilling the rest of the hot brew. “I’m tired of shooting the breeze.”

He came to his feet, six foot four of raw, rugged muscle. “Then what do you want to shoot, Liv?”

She gave him an exasperated look. No one but Kyle called her Liv. And no one but Kyle offered her the tools, techniques and tactical training she craved.

She needed him.

And he damn well knew it.

Chapter 3

Olivia followed Kyle outside, where they took his Jeep to the aircraft hangar, a ten-thousand-square-foot structure designed to his specification.

They reached the metal building, and once they were inside, he smiled at her, looking a tad wicked in the compound he’d created.

Kyle claimed it was nothing more than a sophisticated, indoor, laser-tag course, equipped with a montage of movie props and set changes, including lifelike audio tracks and things that varied the weather, creating heat, rain, ice or wind.

But to Olivia it was more than that. The other people who came here—mercenaries and militants—played war games. But she was a psychic honing her skills, using her mind, instead of her eyes, to locate a target.

Kyle, of course, was the great and powerful Oz. He controlled the environment, modifying the course when necessary, putting new obstacles in each participant’s path.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded, handing him her pistol. He placed the Glock in a gun case and fitted her with a laser pack, then a laser gun. Next, he readied himself, using the same type of gear.

At the moment, the course was prepared for low-light combat. The hangar was dark, not pitch-black, but dim and shadowy. Only that wasn’t Olivia’s agenda.

Kyle came up behind her, placing a blindfold around her eyes.

“How long will I have this time?” she asked.

“Thirty minutes.”

She nodded. Soon Kyle would become her target. The man she had to locate, the human predator she had to kill. They’d been working on this exercise for months, but she’d yet to catch him.

“On the thirty-first minute, you’re fair game,” he said.

“I know.” He would be able to see her, she thought. He would have the advantage. But that was her choice, her challenge, the reason this drill mattered so much.

He leaned into her again, adjusting the blindfold, making sure it was secure. “Is that good?”

“Yes.”

“How good?” he asked.

Confused, she frowned. “What?”

“Is it as good as when he touches you?”

She shook her head. She didn’t need this testosterone crap. She knew Kyle was talking about West. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’ll bet you can see him in your mind right now, Liv. I’ll bet you can feel him rubbing against you.”

“Not a chance,” she said, but her denial came too soon.

There was no time to think, to stop it from happening. Within a heartbeat, within one breathless moment, an erotic image flowed through her blood, sending chills along her spine.

The vision seemed so real, so lifelike, forcing her to react. She moistened her lips. Warm, wet, much too eager.

West was going to kiss her.

She could see him, tall and tan, his obscure eyes a silvery shade of gray. She reached out to touch him, to feel the texture of his clothes. He moved closer, and her knees went weak. She could smell his cologne.

Beneath the blindfold, she rebelled, battling her desire, trying to will it away. But she couldn’t. The enchantment was there, deep inside her, like a—

“Now!” A pair of strong hands shoved her, and she went sprawling, falling to the ground, losing her weapon in the process.

She snapped out of the vision, cursing herself for falling for Kyle’s scheme, for letting him trick her. She could hear him running through the building, his footsteps echoing, then disappearing into a maze of silence.

Her thirty minutes had begun.

She took a deep breath and focused on her missing gun, on the laser pistol that had skidded across the concrete floor.

There, she thought, using her ability to retrieve lost objects. To the right.

Olivia stretched her arm, found it, smiled like a siren. She was going to blow Kyle Prescott to smithereens.

She moved forward, zeroing in on the energy around her. Pickle barrels, shelves with canned goods, a pallet of paper products.

Confident, she continued on the same path, then nearly lost her footing on a rock that got caught under her shoe. The terrain had changed.

Dirt, boulders, instant sounds from the night. Crickets chirping, owls hooting. Her nostrils flared. Trees. Tall, realistic props, scented with evergreen.

Olivia put her hand out, making sure there was nothing in front of her, nothing blocking her way.

Then something growled, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned, took aim, fired the laser gun.

An alarm sounded her victory. She’d hit one of the booby traps.

Elation streamed through her body like mist from a waterfall. She felt giddy, warm.

Sexual.

No, she told herself, as the forest turned quiet. She needed to stay on guard. No more hot-blooded visions, no more wax-melting moments.

She kept walking, sensing the terrain, the vines clinging to breakaway walls. She needed to zero in on Kyle’s pulse. She needed to find him.

But she didn’t. She tripped, nearly fell, realized she’d almost stumbled into a pond. Frustrated, she cursed beneath her breath. She should have been aware of the water.

Time passed. Too much time. She could feel it ticking, leaving her vulnerable to an attack.

She stopped, knowing she had to take to the shadows, to keep Kyle from seeing her. But where were the shadows, damn it? Where was the darkest point, the area that would shield her?

Something flew over her head. A booby-trapped bird, an electronic device tracking her location. She turned, fired, missed it.

And then she sensed him. Her enemy. The man she was supposed to shoot. He was watching her.

The way the killer had watched Denise Red Bow.

In the next instant an alarm sounded, shrieking in her ears. Too late. He’d shot her instead.

Just like that. Olivia was dead.

The police station was in its usual glory. Or gory, Olivia thought. She’d stayed away for a week. She had another life, after all. A day job, so to speak. She had a list of prominent clients who consulted her for private readings.

She glanced at the desk sergeant. He was ogling her, checking out her leather skirt and thigh-high hose. Her legs were a mile long, a fact that made the micromini look even shorter.

The station was bustling with activity, with sights and sounds and smells that made her wrinkle her nose. A prostitute pushed past her, a big-busted woman drenched in cheap perfume and carting around a rear end the size of Texas.

The desk sergeant had been ogling her, too.

Cops were a strange breed. Almost as strange as FBI, she decided. Special Agent West had requested her presence today. And not only that, but he’d wangled an office, taking over the digs of a vacationing lieutenant.

She proceeded to the designated location and found the door open. West sat behind the pressed-wood desk, poring over a stack of paperwork, the monitor on his laptop casting a bright glow. She suspected he had accommodations available at the FBI field office, too.

He looked up. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Olivia stalled. What had gotten into him?

“Don’t panic. He’s talking to me.” Detective Riggs approached the doorway. “Aren’t you, West?”

“Yep.” He smiled at the blonde, then scratched his head, giving Olivia’s outfit a curious study. Riggs scooted by, carrying another mound of paperwork.

Olivia entered the room, her stiletto heels sounding on the linoleum. “You two got awfully chummy.”

The female detective shrugged. “I’m chummy with everybody.”

“Maybe you ought to try it,” West told Olivia, looking like the lord of the lieutenant’s manor.

And maybe he should go jump in the lake, she thought. “Why did you ask me to come here?”

He ran his gaze up and down, cruising the length of her body, settling on her itty-bitty skirt. “For a ménage,” he said, without the slightest bit of humor.

She raised her eyebrows. She knew he was trying to get her goat. “With who? Me and you and Muncy?”

Riggs laughed at that. She was in her Cagney mode, behaving like the TV character. Tough yet feminine, with chin-length hair and strong-boned features. “Muncy’s wife might have something to say about that.”

Olivia wasn’t in the mood to laugh. She was still smarting over getting annihilated by Kyle last week. She didn’t need to get taken down by West, too.

He came around the front of his borrowed desk and sat on the edge of it. Then he gestured to a chair, indicating for her to sit. She did, but not without crossing her legs and flashing the hooks on her garter belt, giving him a screw-you peep show.

He didn’t miss a beat. He saw it all, even angling his head to get a better look.

Riggs took the other chair. She wore a simple blouse, pleated slacks and sensible shoes. “Just for the record,” she said, scolding West in a malice-free voice, “I’m not the threesome type.”

Olivia’s tone wasn’t nearly as forgiving. “Me, neither.”

“Really?” He gave her a pointed look. “And here I thought you liked all that kinky stuff.”

“Excuse me?”

“I found out how you conned your way into my motel room, Ms. Whirlwind.”

She uncrossed her legs, let him take a second look, then recrossed them, thinking how predictable men were. He couldn’t seem to get enough. “I did what I had to do. And cut the Ms. Whirlwind crap.”

Riggs scooted to the end of her chair. Intrigued, it seemed, by their conversation. Then she leaned into Olivia and whispered in her ear. “He’s kind of sexy, don’t you think?”

Olivia almost laughed. West was frowning now. Apparently he didn’t appreciate being the object of feminine scrutiny. “I haven’t decided,” she whispered back.

Riggs cupped her hand like a first-grader, making their secret even more obvious. “You should give him a chance. He’s a pretty good flirt, once he takes that stick out of his ass.”

“Would you sleep with him?” Olivia asked, still whispering.

Riggs turned, looked at West and sized him up. “Probably not,” she said, loud enough for him to hear. “Would you?”

Yes, Olivia thought, as the memory of her vision washed over her. “No.” Her voice was just as loud. “Not a chance.”

“Okay, ladies,” West interrupted with a scowl. He resumed the seat behind his desk, putting a barrier between them. “That’s enough. You got me back.”

“For what?” Olivia asked innocently.

“Yes, for what?” Riggs parroted, mimicking his accent, the Southern drawl that slowed down his words. “That little ol’ ménage thing?”

His face nearly flushed. Olivia wanted to shoot Riggs a high-five. The lady cop certainly knew how to put a man in his place.

“What’d I miss?” Detective Muncy shuffled through the door, with a cup of burnt-smelling coffee and bed-head hair, even in the middle of the afternoon. His clothes, as usual, were wrinkled.

“Nothing,” West said. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

Olivia and Riggs exchanged a glance, then remained, quite demure, in their chairs, waiting for the meeting to begin.

West took charge, removing a small stack of pictures from an envelope on his desk. “These were provided by Denise Red Bow’s husband. I want Ms. Whirlwind—” he paused to correct her name “—Olivia, to look at them and tell me what she sees.”

She accepted the photographs. She wasn’t sure where West was going with this, so she studied them carefully. Denise in a long, silky wedding gown, Denise making a funny face at the camera, Denise at an Indian gathering, eating fry bread. “I see a beautiful young woman who shouldn’t have died.”

“Me, too. But there’s more to it than that. Something I can’t put my finger on.” He reached for the wedding photo. “She looks truly happy here. The others almost seem like a forgery.”

Olivia glanced up at him. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s a gut a feeling, I guess. My ESP, if you will.”

She merely nodded. Most investigators had strong instincts. But that didn’t mean he was right. Or that he had powers beyond the norm.

Except for those eyes, she thought, as she searched his gaze. They were almost devoid of color today. Like clear quartz crystals from the earth.

“Does Denise remind you of someone in those pictures?” Muncy asked West.

The special agent shrugged. “Lots of people smile when they’re troubled. Lots of people fake it.”

Olivia glanced at the remaining photographs in her lap. She could feel West’s energy, his displacement, the electrical charge swirling around him. “She reminds you of your ex-wife,” she said. “That’s the forgery you were talking about.”

He gave her an annoyed look. “This isn’t about me.”

Olivia didn’t back down. “Your ex was unhappy. Discontent. You spent more time on the job than you did at home, and she couldn’t handle that.”

West didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. The scene was already set.

Muncy tapped the fry-bread picture of Denise. “She was married to a surgeon.”

“And she probably felt neglected,” Riggs put in. “Her hubby worked some rigorous hours.”

“She didn’t cheat,” Olivia said, studying the dead woman’s image. “She didn’t have a lover.”

“You sure about that?” West asked.

“Yes. But…” A sudden sadness ripped through her body. Denise’s loneliness. The nights she dreamed about romance and flowers and a man whose touch would make her feel special. “She wanted to. She fantasized about having an affair.”

West sat back in his chair, grabbed his bottled water and took a swig. Apparently Denise’s fantasies had left a bad taste in his mouth. “The killer knew that. The son of a bitch knew.”

Olivia agreed. “I think so, too.” But she wasn’t surprised. The Slasher’s supernatural abilities were part of his MO, part of what drove him.

“I could use a drink,” West said suddenly, discarding his water. “Something stronger than this.”

Because he was still dwelling on his ex, Olivia thought.

“Sounds good to me.” Muncy frowned at his over-brewed coffee. “Why don’t we all meet at the Mockingbird later? After this long-ass day ends.”

“I’m game.” Riggs looked at Olivia. “How about you?”

She knew the Mockingbird was a cop-patronized bar downtown. And she knew Special Agent West was going to get tanked. Damn-the-consequences drunk. “Sure,” she said, glancing in his direction. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

* * *

At 6:00 p. m., Olivia had dinner. Nothing fancy, just a routine meal with her sister and Glenn Sabolich, a family friend who’d been part of their lives since they were children.

The trio met regularly at Mel’s Diner, a legendary restaurant brimming with fifties nostalgia. This evening they ate on the patio, where a view of the Sunset Strip presented the glitz and glamour associated with West Hollywood.

Glenn munched casually on a Famous Melburger, his grayish blond hair blowing lightly in the breeze. He was more than a family friend, Olivia thought. He was also their landlord, the real estate mogul who owned the loft in which she and Allie lived. But Glenn had owned the rental house where they’d grown up, too.

At fifty-four, he was the same age as their dad. Or the same age Joseph would have been if he hadn’t pulled the trigger.

Glenn and their father had been close, and when Joseph committed suicide, he’d helped Olivia and Allie pick up the chipped pieces of their lives. She was never sure what Glenn had thought of their mother, although he’d never said anything unkind about her.

He looked up and caught Olivia watching him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she responded, wondering why he’d never remarried. Glenn’s socialite wife had filed for a divorce ages ago, about six months before Olivia’s mom had ditched her dad.

Allie finally decided to join the conversation. Until now she’d been people watching, gazing at the trendy pedestrians walking by. “We should tell Glenn about the wanagi.”

“A ghost?” He recognized the Lakota word.

Olivia sighed. Allie was obsessed with the wanagi. “It made contact with me, but Allie thinks it’s Dad.”

Glenn’s voice cracked. “That’s not good. Your father deserves to have some peace. He…”

As his words faded into the atmosphere, his emotions knifed Olivia’s heart. Shame. Remorse. A horrible secret. Stunned, she shifted in her chair, studying the man she’d always trusted.

Glenn was hiding something. Something he’d been hiding for years.

Allie reached for her tea, adding honey to the warm brew. “I’ve been leaving those little candy hearts out for Dad. Just in case he wants to communicate with us.”

Olivia tilted her head. Suddenly everyone seemed mad. Not only did Allie expect the wanagi to eat the candy, she expected it to make sentences out of things like, Hey Babe, Get Real, Go Girl and Don’t Tell.

Don’t tell.

Olivia looked at Glenn, saw him struggle to finish his burger.

Dinner went downhill from there. Glenn remained uncomfortable, barely speaking. Allie resumed people watching, her mind probably drifting on a cloud.

And Olivia? She checked her watch, anxious to leave, to have a drink with the detectives and the FBI agent investigating a trio of grisly murders.

Thirty minutes later she arrived at the Mockingbird, still wearing her minuscule skirt and the lacy garter belt she’d flashed at West. She’d added a biker jacket to the ensemble, warding off a self-induced chill.

What if Glenn had done something to intensify her father’s pain? What if he had been part of her dad’s despair? A link in his suicide?

It was a cruel thought, but it kept running through her brain, slinking and sliding like a poisonous snake.

Clearing her mind, she entered the bar. The Mockingbird was a down-to-earth watering hole, with a jukebox in front and a billiard table in back. The owner, a no-nonsense Irishman, didn’t take any guff from his law-enforcement patrons.

Olivia found Muncy and Riggs seated at a scratched and scuffed table, drinking beer and eating peanuts. They looked up, greeting her in unison.

“Where’s West?” she asked.

Muncy gestured with his thumb. “In the head.”

She glanced in the direction of the men’s room and took the chair across from Riggs.

“That’s where West is sitting,” the female detective said. “That’s his drink in front of you.”

“Oh.” Olivia smiled at the other woman, picked up the glass and tasted the contents. “Strong stuff.”

Riggs laughed. “You left a lipstick mark.”

Olivia ran her tongue across her teeth. She wasn’t used to bourbon. “It’ll probably turn him on.”

“Who? West?” Muncy made a curious expression. “I knew something was going on earlier. I knew I missed something.”

Olivia took another sip of the special agent’s drink, and he came out of the bathroom, catching sight of her hording his spot and his alcohol.

He approached the table. “What are you doing? Warming my seat?”

“Nope, it’s my seat now. And your fly is open.”

He bent his head to check his zipper, and Olivia winked at Riggs. His fly wasn’t open, but she’d made him look.

“Funny girl.” He snatched away his drink, studied the lipstick mark, then put his mouth directly over it and downed the rest of his bourbon.

Olivia felt as if she’d just been kissed. Or kicked. Or both. West never failed to leave her sexed up and irritated.

He grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and placed it next to her, too close for comfort.

Muncy ate another handful of peanuts, but he was watching her and West, analyzing their body language.

“I picked this song,” the special agent said.

Olivia listened to the lyrics playing on the jukebox. “You shot the sheriff?”

“No. The guy singing did.” He rubbed the lipstick mark with his thumb, smearing it. “Eric Clapton. Am I still on your shit list, Ms. Whirlwind? Olivia?”

“Yep.”

“Mine, too,” Riggs put in.

“You hit on both of them?” Muncy shook his head, chuckling beneath his breath. “Federal Bureau of Insanity.”

West defended himself. “It was a joke.” He signaled the cocktail waitress for another drink, and she arrived instantly. “Give us both one of these.” He held up his empty glass and gestured to Olivia. “But make hers a double.”

“I’ll take a cola,” she said, declining the bourbon. Alcohol diminished her ability, and now she wanted to remain on guard. West’s eyes were on the verge of glowing, catching a flicker of candlelight.

Riggs scooted closer to the table. She still wore her sensible outfit, and her hair was still neatly styled. “I lost interest in him.”

“I was never interested,” Olivia said.

The lady cop merely smiled. She knew Olivia was lying. Everyone probably knew. Including West.

“I wanted him right away.” Muncy joined in, making the girls laugh.

West rolled his candlelit eyes, then shot the jovial detective the bird.

Olivia decided they were an interesting group. A foursome. Not a threesome, she thought. No ménage.

Her soda arrived, along with West’s hard liquor. She sipped. He guzzled.

“Still thinking about your ex?” she asked.

“Don’t start. I’m sick of women.”

“He’s drunk.” Riggs clucked her tongue. “Someone is going to have to pour him into bed tonight.”

Olivia turned to look at the intoxicated agent. “I knew he was going to get wasted.”

He made a disgusted sound. “’Cause you know everything.”

She didn’t respond. His psychic envy was showing. But he probably thought she had penis envy. Most macho men did. “I’ll drive him back to his motel.”

“Lucky me. What if I puke all over your Porsche?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He lowered his gaze to her throat, and she sensed that he wanted to touch her scar.

And then she got another eerie feeling.

Someone was watching them. Not someone in the bar. But someone with powers that rivaled Olivia’s. Someone who could see them in his mind.

The Slasher, she thought, as her veins turned to ice.

The man prowling the city for another victim.

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