Always Look Twice

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t tell him that his heartbeat had vanished. That she’d experienced another psychic omen, another warning of his impending doom.

  “Don’t do this, Olivia. Don’t turn me away.”

  Something told her not to heed his plea, not to get too close, not to be with him tonight. Yet letting him go would only make her ache.

  She still craved his touch.

  “It’s been a while,” she said.

  “Since you’ve had sex?”

  She nodded. “I don’t usually wait this long. When I want a man, I take him.”

  “So what’s stopping you now?”

  “My emotions.”

  “Does that mean you want me to leave?”

  “No,” she decided, as she grabbed him. “It just means I need you.”

  Once again they kissed. Only, this time she refused to worry about a heartbeat she couldn’t feel.

  Ian West was her fantasy, and she wanted to climb in his lap and shudder in his arms. She wanted nasty sex. But she wanted romance, too.

  The bad girl who collected bondage belts and blindfolds.

  “What color are your panties?” he asked.

  “What panties?” she said, making his breath catch in his throat.

  Now it was her turn to smile. There he stood, armed with a federally issued firearm and a bulge beneath his zipper.

  Talk about a lethal combination.

  “Come with me,” she said, putting her hands all over him, dragging him to her lair.

  As they stumbled down the hall, rubbing and kissing, Samantha hissed like a green-eyed monster, then crossed their path, trying to curse them with bad luck.

  Refusing to be distracted, Olivia ignored her sister’s pesky pet. She wouldn’t let black-cat superstition ruin her fantasy.

  West linked his fingers through hers, and she led him to her room, eager to make love.

  Together they tumbled onto the bed. She disarmed him, removing his gun, placing it on the dresser. A second later they both went mad, feasting on pent-up passion.

  He tore open her pajama top, popping the buttons, baring her breasts. She removed his shirt, scratching his skin, teasing the ripple of muscle.

  After he yanked off her pajama bottoms, he shot her a curious look. She was wearing panties.

  “I lied,” she said.

  “So I see.” He toyed with the swatch of black lace, running his fingers along the elastic band. “Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what kind of foreplay you like best.”

  She gazed at his mouth, at those warm, wicked lips. “You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He discarded her panties, and she arched her hips, letting him know he was doing the right thing. When he pushed her legs apart and lowered his head, pleasure pulsed through her veins.

  “Say it, Olivia. Tell me what you want.”

  She moved closer, as close as she could get. “This,” she told him.

  “This?” he parroted, licking her sweet and slow.

  “Yes.” She tunneled her hands through his hair. He looked up at her, and she became fixated on his eyes.

  They were glowing. Like moonlight. Like madness. Like a spell she couldn’t break.

  Lost in the feeling, she rocked back and forth, then nudged him onto the bed and straddled his face, encouraging him to keep licking her, to keep making her moan.

  She liked this position. She liked taking control. “More,” she said.

  “Much more,” he whispered, his words tickling her flesh.

  He used his entire mouth, and she nearly melted on the spot. Even the sound turned her on. The saliva against skin. The deep, carnal suckling.

  He reached out to hold her, to grip her waist, to make the moment even more erotic. Olivia traced the shape of his lips, and he nibbled her finger, then used his teeth on her clitoris.

  Gently, ever so gently.

  She couldn’t have dreamed up a more perfect lover.

  Feeling naughty, she decided to shift their positions again. Only, this time she told him to kneel on the floor. After he did, she scooted to the edge of the bed and hiked her legs over his shoulders.

  More bad-girl fantasies.

  He indulged her every whim.

  Agent West, she thought. Boy toy extraordinaire.

  Steeped in sensation, she watched him. And when he looked up at her, his magnetic gaze snaring hers, she came all over his mouth, sweet and thick, warm and syrupy, like caramel dripping over wax.

  Olivia wasn’t sure how long it took her to recover. She blinked at West, realizing he stood beside the bed, staring at her. Suddenly he seemed like a stranger, a man hiding his soul.

  When he turned off the night-light burning in her room, a silvery sheen from the moon bathed his skin. For a moment, she hugged her knees to her chest, protecting her emotions. He looked ominous, deathly in the lunar glow.

  Was his heart beating?

  Of course it was, she told herself. He was alive. She wasn’t losing him.

  He unzipped his jeans and took them off. Next he removed his boxers, exposing his nakedness.

  Without thinking, Olivia opened her legs and offered herself to him. Like a sacrifice. A woman much too willing to be taken.

  He crawled onto the bed and kissed her, his mouth devouring hers. He tasted like her orgasm, like the hot wet flavor of oral sex.

  When they separated, she felt empty inside. She wanted him inside her, filling the void.

  “Did you bring any condoms?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, and she wondered if his mind had drifted, if he’d slipped into some sort of erotic trance. His gaze traveled over her body, lingering at the vee between her thighs.

  “Touch yourself,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m not into that.”

  A small smile ghosted across his lips. “Everyone is into that.”

  “Not in front of other people.”

  “Then pretend I’m not here.”

  Was he serious? There was no way she could forget that a big, tall, gorgeous FBI agent was staring at her, waiting for her to masturbate. “No.”

  “But I like to watch.”

  “Too bad.”

  “You’re stubborn, Olivia.”

  She wasn’t giving in, not to something that didn’t appeal to her. “It’s too much like voyeurism. And that’s the last thing I want to think about tonight.”

  He shrugged, then pushed her down and kissed her. She wrapped her legs around him, and they rolled over the bed, tangling the sheets.

  Once again she had control of her fantasy, of the passion she craved. She slid her hand between his legs and stroked him. He cupped her breasts and tongued one of her nipples, bringing it to a hardened peak.

  His hair fell across his forehead, making him look rebellious, unlawful, an outlaw who owned a badge.

  He was an enigma, she thought. A chameleon. He kept changing the rules.

  He tried to thrust into her without protection, but she stopped him.

  “Sorry,” he said, even though he didn’t sound the least bit remorseful.

  “You did that on purpose. You’re messing with my mind.” And she wasn’t sure why.

  “This is my fantasy, too,” he said.

  “I’m not having unprotected sex.”

  “Then give me a minute.” He lifted his pants off the floor, dug around in each pocket, checking them over and over again. Finally he came up with a foil packet, almost as if he’d conjured it from thin air.

  At this point she didn’t care how he’d secured the damn thing. She just wanted him to make love to her, to treat her right.

  He rolled on the latex, and she climbed onto his lap and impaled herself, just as she’d imagined doing. He tipped back his head, and she rode him, gripping his shoulders.

  In the next instant he pushed her down, holding her arms above her head. He wouldn’t let her nuzzle his neck. He wouldn’t let her get too clo
se.

  He told her he wanted it fast and deep, to make it count. He’d gotten her off, and now it was his turn.

  His words stung. She’d expected more from West.

  But it was too late to shove him away. He came hard and quick.

  When it was over, he discarded the condom and moved to stand beside the window, to stare at the night, at the darkness enveloping the sky.

  She studied his naked body, wishing he’d held her. That he’d been just a little bit tender.

  But what did she expect? He didn’t have a heart.

  “I have to go,” he said.

  She gestured to the door. He wasn’t the lover of her sweet, naughty dreams.

  And she would never let him touch her again.

  Chapter 10

  By the following morning, Olivia was fuming. She’d barely slept a wink, and now the sun broke through the clouds and blasted her window.

  The same window West had posed in front of.

  Heartless jerk.

  Even Kyle had treated her with more respect. At least her former lover hadn’t played games. Desperate sex was one thing. But yanking her chain was another.

  West knew damn well that she’d been emotional last night. That she needed him to care. Or at least pretend that he did.

  But, no. He’d lured her right into his Federal Bureau of Insensitivity trap. He’d flayed her to madness, making sweet love with his mouth. Then he’d used his penis like a sword. A blade that had cut bone deep.

  Like the knife the Slasher had plunged into his victims.

  Olivia checked the clock on her nightstand. She had an appointment with one of her clients this morning. A wealthy widow who relied on her for weekly consultations. But she couldn’t handle a private reading today. She couldn’t behave like a wise, all-knowing, all-seeing psychic.

  How was she supposed to give someone else spiritual advice when her own life was a mess?

  Knowing she had to cancel, she called her client and told the gentle-natured lady the truth. Her energy was shot. Her brightly colored, keen-sighted aura had nose-dived, splattering right to the ground.

  After she hung up the phone, she showered, applied her makeup and got dressed. Rather than purify her surroundings with sage, she let the negativity consume her.

  She wanted West’s violation to linger on her skin, to fester into violence.

  She closed her eyes and focused on him, wishing she was a witch, wishing she could cast a spell that would shatter his nonbeating heart into a zillion bloody pieces.

  He’d raped her soul, ravaged the loneliness inside her, the void that losing both of her parents had caused. Olivia wasn’t invincible. Sometimes she needed someone to hold her.

  Once again, she picked up the phone. But this time she dialed the Los Angeles Street Station, asking if West was there. The desk sergeant confirmed that the FBI agent was holed up in his borrowed office.

  Good, she thought. Adjusting her holster, she decided to pay West a call, to tell him that he was, indeed, going to die.

  Maybe even by one of her bullets.

  She left Allie a note that read, “I’ll be back later.” She hadn’t told her sister about last night. But Allie had gotten home in the wee hours of the morning, humming like a songbird, and Olivia didn’t have the heart to destroy her chipper mood.

  After a short, bat-out-of-hell drive, she arrived at the cop shop. Pumped with anger, with male-bashing adrenaline, she swept through the building and barged into West’s domain.

  He sat at the cluttered desk, wearing a charcoal-colored suit and a narrow tie.

  She imagined strangling him with it.

  He glanced up. “You could have knocked.”

  And he could have knocked her up last night, trying to bone her without a condom. “This isn’t even your office.”

  “But I’m using it.” He angled his head, looked her up and down. “No leather today? No fishnet stockings? No cleavage?”

  “Just jeans and a T-shirt.” She thrust her hands on her hips. “And my Glock.”

  “Yep, your ever-faithful weapon.” He tapped his holster. “I’ve got mine, too.”

  So what? she thought. They’d faced off before.

  He reached for his coffee and took a sip. The fresh-brewed aroma wafted through the air. “As long as you’re here, why don’t you quit acting so pissy and settle in for a while?” He indicated an empty chair. “I’ve been going through my notes. Comparing male and female narcissists.”

  Olivia didn’t take a seat. She didn’t do anything but stare at him. Did he honestly think she wanted to discuss the case? “Cut the crap.”

  He squinted at her. “What crap? You don’t believe in narcissism?”

  “Yes, I believe in it. I think you have it, you self-centered son of a bitch.”

  “What’s with the name calling? I’ve been working my ass off all night.” He squinted again. “I don’t need you ragging on me.”

  “That’s why you were in such a hurry to leave my bedroom? To put on your suit and play FBI?” Olivia moved forward and leaned against his desk. “You screwed me. Literally and figuratively. And I’ll never forgive you for that.”

  “What are you talking about?” He motioned to the stack of files in front of him, to his rumpled clothes, to his disheveled hair. “I’ve been here all night. Do you understand? All night.”

  “No.” She shook her head, fear rising like bile. “You came to my loft. You kissed me, like in my vision. And then I—”

  “You what?”

  She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t repeat all those humiliating details. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” He grabbed her wrists, held her within his grasp, locking her in place. “Did you have sex with someone who looked like me? Did you fuck a goddamn witch?” He was nearly shouting now. “We just talked about shape-shifters, Olivia. We talked about them yesterday. Couldn’t you tell the difference? Couldn’t you—”

  She jerked free, pulling away from him, wanting to call him a liar. A cheat. A man who wouldn’t admit when he’d treated a woman like a whore. But she couldn’t. “It wasn’t you?”

  “No, it wasn’t. You can talk to Muncy. He’ll verify that I was here all night. He was here, too. He still is.”

  She clutched her stomach. “It wasn’t a shape-shifter.”

  “It had to be.” He came around the desk and nudged her onto a chair. Then he knelt in front of her, his voice gentle, his tone filled with concern. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not physically.” She reached out to touch his face, to tell herself he was real. That this was the man she longed to make love with. “At first he did everything right. He was my fantasy. My boy toy.”

  West raised his eyebrows, and she realized how ridiculous that sounded.

  “Then what happened?” he asked.

  “He changed. He stopped being my fantasy.”

  “He looked exactly like me?”

  “Yes, but—” She paused, dropped her hand to his chest, to the organ pumping blood through his body. “He didn’t have a heartbeat.”

  He searched her gaze. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I thought it was an omen. A psychic illusion, another premonition that you were going to die.” She kept her palm against his heart, absorbing the warmth, the human contact, the strong, steady pulsation. “Don’t you see? It wasn’t a shape-shifter. He wasn’t even alive.”

  West raised his eyebrows again. “You banged a dead guy?”

  “No.” She racked her brain for an explanation, for something that would make the pieces fit, the warning signs she’d ignored last night. “I think he was conceived from an image spell. From a doll.”

  “Like voodoo?”

  “Image dolls are used in all sorts of witchcraft.” She blew out the breath she’d been holding. “They’re even common among the Southwest tribes.” She scanned her mind for bits of information, things she learned as a child, things meant to scare little Indian boys and girls. “Some of the early Native w
itches used to make clay figures, then pierce them with prickly pear spines.”

  “So it is like voodoo?”

  “Yes. But in the Southwest, the most potent dolls were made from a portion of the earth the victim had urinated on.”

  He made a disgusted face. “I didn’t pee on anything.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t take a leak in the bushes somewhere?”

  “I don’t do that.” His expression turned sheepish. “Unless I’m drunk. And you were with me the last time I got wasted.”

  “So maybe this spell didn’t require urine.”

  He came to his feet, then leaned against the desk. “Someone made an itty-bitty doll of me, but instead of sticking pine needles or pins into it, they used it to create a six-foot clone?”

  “Except they couldn’t get its heart to beat.”

  “Who did this to us, Olivia? Who was it?”

  She crossed her arms, rubbing the goose bumps that appeared. “Derek Moon.” Who else would cast a sexual spell? Who else would prod the clone to say voyeuristic things? “He must have been watching. Viewing the whole damn thing in his mind.” She kicked away her chair. “I’m going to kill that pervert. I’m going to rip him in two.”

  “Not without me, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. He won’t admit what he did if you’re there. He won’t talk to the FBI.” She held up her hand, stopping West from protesting. “I need to get a confession from him. I need to learn more about his magic.”

  Because it was time to fight fire with fire. To strengthen her powers.

  The malevolence coursing through her veins.

  Olivia arrived at Derek Moon’s mansion, and the gate was open, the guard tower empty. The Tudor-style house with its charming windows and lush green lawn greeted her with a maniacal leer.

  She parked in the circular driveway and told herself the distorted building was an illusion, a trick Derek had conjured.

  Things weren’t always what they seemed.

  She knocked on the door, and when the wood rippled, like water in a blood-dappled stream, she cursed beneath her breath.

  Then rubbed the chills that raced up her arm.

  No one answered. No one appeared. The house was vacant. She could feel the hollow energy.