Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  She sure hoped it would work because the place was like a mausoleum, cavernous and drafty and creaky, and she was only thankful she didn’t actually have to live there.

  She glanced at the house again, and a chill inched up her spine. Something about the place…the stark emptiness…the browns and black of the clapboards and trim…the dark windows…

  For one, brief, insane moment, she got the distinct feeling the house was waiting for her.

  Nerves. That’s all it was. Nerves.

  Redirecting her stupid thoughts, she focused again on Sinclair.

  Okay, she’d snared his interest, had him on the hook, and now she needed to reel him in.

  Turning her head, she sent him a tepid smile. “I suppose I should invite you in, offer you a drink or…something. You know, to thank you for rescuing me.”

  The words seemed to hang in the air between them, drifting a little this way, a little that, uncertain which way the wind blew. When he finally spoke, his tone was cool, detached.

  “I cannot imagine another woman less in need of rescuing, Miss Andie…Devon.”

  Before she could form a cool reply, he reached across her lap, pulled the handle, and pushed her door open. As he settled back into his seat, his arm brushed against her breasts, but he seemed not to care.

  For a moment, confusion warred with surprise inside her head. He was dismissing her? Yeah, right!

  Instead of stepping out of the car, she raised her chin and looked over at him, arching her brow. Then, placing her hand on the door, she opened it wide.

  The interior light flashed to life, illuminating Sinclair’s dark sable hair and handsome face. Under straight brows, his aquamarine eyes squared with hers, then he smiled. He was going to accept her invitation after all.

  His lips curved, and his eyes held an ironic glint as he flatly spoke the last words she expected to hear.

  “Tempting as your offer is, Miss Devon,” he said, “I find I must decline. Good-bye.”

  Chapter 3

  Everybody, soon or late, sits down to a banquet of consequences.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  The lass covered her surprise well, Logan would grant her that. Twice, she had given him the boot, but him turning the tables so neatly now, the shock of it registered in her eyes for only a brief moment. Had he not known what to look for, he might have missed it.

  Having been raised in a world populated by a doting mother, several aunties, two younger sisters, and a grandmother—and no man about the place but his father—though he loved his ladies dearly, as a matter of survival, Logan learned early on to read women or risk being driven to the brink of lunacy—what with their giggling one moment, weeping hysterically the next.

  By the age of ten, he not only knew what PMS was, he could teach a comprehensive course on the subject.

  Over the years, he’d turned this intimate knowledge of the female of the species into an art form, for the most part, using it to charm his way into the most recalcitrant lass’s bed. And more recently, of course, conning them for all they were worth.

  But Andie Devon was a different kind of female than he’d encountered in times past. He sensed his usual tactics wouldn’t work with her, and suddenly, he considered it a personal challenge to find out just what would.

  As her fingers splayed on the open door, their gazes met, separated, then met again. A quick intelligence flashed in her eyes. She was clever, confident. He liked a woman who could meet and match his wits. And she had that bit of frost about her. He fancied that, too, inclining him toward devising interesting ways to warm her up.

  There was another quality about her, more elusive and not easily defined, that pulled hard at him. His gut told him he should resist, yet for some reason, he was intrigued, curious to see where such a strong and confusing attraction would take him.

  Besides, in their two brief encounters, he’d only peeled away a portion of her shield; given time, he might reveal all that lay beneath—especially the soft, lickable parts.

  For a heartbeat, she simply sat there, her hand on the open door. Given her snooty-assed manner so far, he half expected she’d turn up her nose at him, toss off an insulted harrumph, and stalk away, her bonny little ego bent into hairpin turns.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, her mouth kicked up at one end, drawing his attention there. On the steering wheel, his hands stilled.

  She grinned full out then, a beauty-queen smile. But behind her eyes, she held fast to her secrets. One blink, and as before, they were shut away.

  The urge came upon him to make her lose that control, abandon herself to pleasure, go wild in his arms. As though she knew what he was thinking, her smile twitched just then, and she burst into a hearty laugh. Sincere, it was, sweet, feminine, reckless…like a woman in the throes of passion.

  He swore under his breath. If she ended with a sigh, he wouldn’t be able to walk for an hour.

  When her laughter trickled off to a softly amused, “Hmm,” she just watched him, a wee cat smile curving her lips, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. Her hair shone like liquid gold and fluffed around her face as though a man’s fingers had mussed with it. Her beauty and energy stunned him, intrigued him, captivated him, and he felt his chest constrict.

  “Suit yourself, Mr. Sinclair,” she whispered as she thrust the door open and stepped out of the car. Turning, she leaned in and grabbed her purse, allowing him flash of cleavage. “Well, if you’re ever in the neighborhood…”

  She sent him a wink and a farewell salute, then slammed the door and sauntered up the flagstone walkway that led to the house.

  Well, fock it and dammit all to hell. If he followed her now, she’d have bested him, and she’d know he’d caved to her charms.

  If he did not pursue her, he’d be a bloody fool.

  Though he sat where he was, his eyes followed as she slowly walked up the steps to the door. The nip of her waist in that tight black dress, the curve of her bum, the bare backs of her knees had him pressing his lips together in quiet frustration.

  Furious at himself for letting her get to him, he jammed the car into gear. It’d be wise to let her walk away, to forget about her. After all, he hadn’t returned to the U.S. to become involved with a woman. There was work to be done and much at stake, and he’d best keep his mind on it.

  Her front door opened, and—as seemed her habit—without so much as a glance back over her shoulder, she went inside and shut the door.

  Fine then, and that was that.

  But as he began to pull away, a woman screamed. He slammed on the brakes, alarm bells clanging inside his head. As he flung the car door open, she screamed again.

  Logan took the porch steps three at a time. Without hesitating, he grabbed the knob and thrust open the front door.

  She stood next to a table in the center of the large circular foyer, her fingers to her mouth, staring into the shadows at the top of one of the twin, curved staircases. Her face had gone pale as milk, and genuine fright shone in her eyes.

  Glancing quickly about, he saw no intruder, nothing amiss, so he went to her, cupping his palms around her trembling shoulders, forcing her to look up at him.

  “Are you all right, lass?”

  For a moment, she stared into his eyes, then her mouth flattened and her face took on a sheepish expression. “I’m fine. Just my imagination working overtime, I guess. Sorry.”

  Maybe she was telling the truth; maybe not; maybe…

  Suspicion edged its way into his brain and began working at the controls. A moment later, he suppressed a satisfied grin. What better way for you to continue the game, lass, without admitting defeat than to scream like bloody murder?

  “If you hadn’t called out,” he said slowly, gauging her response, “I’d have been long gone by now, and who knows when our paths might have crossed again.”

  She shrugged, averted her eyes. “Lucky me.”

  “Tell me what frightened you.”

  Licking her lips
, she swallowed. “The, um, the stories about this place must have gotten to me, that’s all. I thought I saw something…”

  “A ghaist was it?”

  “Certainly not a ghost,” she snapped. “There are no such things. I’m simply tired, hungry, and I have an overactive imagination, especially since tonight I’m conducting a…” Halting her wee tirade, she cocked her head and sent him that snooty-assed look again. “Never mind. Thanks for checking on me, Mr. Sinclair, but since you declined my earlier invitation for a drink, I won’t insult you by extending the offer again.”

  He could go now, probably should, but with his hands around her shoulders, and her body so close…

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to check around upstairs, just in case what you think you saw was nae shadows and imagination.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she rushed. “If I feel I’m in any danger, I’ll call the police…” Her brow wrinkled. “What are you staring at?”

  “Yer ferntickles. Very appealing.”

  Her eyes flared, and her bottom lip jutted out. She looked for all the world like a warrior goddess ready to do battle. “Keep your damn eyes off my ferntickles, pal.”

  Releasing her shoulders, he laughed. “’Tis no what you think. Ferntickles are…I believe you Yanks call them freckles. You’ve got a fair splash of them across your nose. Right bonny they are.”

  She lifted her hand and gingerly touched the bridge of her nose. “Ferntickles.” With a bit of a smile, she said, “That’s cute. I’ve always hated them, but if anybody’d ever called them ferntickles, I’d’ve been inclined to appreciate them more.”

  Smiling like that lit up her face, put a sparkle of devilment in her eyes, bowed her plush lips in a way that made him want to taste them.

  He took a step back, allowing himself some breathing room. “You mentioned tonight you were conducting something. A train, is it? You’re a wee overdressed for that.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and narrowed one eye in thought. “Of course, you could be conducting an orchestra, or an experiment, but you didn’t say an, you said a, which leads me to assume your next word would have begun with a consonant. Let’s see, now, what does one conduct? A survey? A trolley car? A tour—”

  “I’ll save you the trouble of listing every noun you know,” she huffed. “A séance. Okay? As if it’s any of your business. Some of my friends. For fun, you know? I’ve rented the place for a few weeks because I’d heard it was haunted. I thought it would be a kick to—”

  “A séance, is it? Well now, I know a bit about those.”

  Your name sounds familiar. Logan Sinclair…

  So that was it.

  Blinking up at him, her clever eyes wide with innocence, she said, “You do?”

  “I just happened to be a clairvoyant, a medium.”

  Her gaze flitted over him. “I would have thought an extra large.”

  “I stopped laughing at that one after the first ten thousand times I heard it,” he said lightly. “People put out an article on me a while back. You may have seen—”

  “I don’t read People.” She moved past him, her heels making a tap-click sound on the white-marble floor. “Unless you change your mind about staying, you’ll have to excuse me. I have stuff to do.”

  “Then I’ll just be…wait, what’s that?” He lifted his head as if to listen to voices from upstairs…or the spiritual ether.

  He watched as Andie crossed her arms over her waist, her brow arched in impatient expectation.

  With a theatrical flair, Logan put his fingertips to his temples. “Aye, I have it.” To her, he said, “I’m picking something up.”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Someone wishes to communicate with you. Someone…caught in the place that floats between the earthly plane and just beyond the veil…” He let his voice trail off dramatically.

  Her mouth flattened. “Mm-hmm. Well everyone I know is on this side of the veil.”

  Closing his eyes, he lowered his head. “What’s that, then? Danger? She’s in danger? Yes, thank you.”

  He opened his eyes to see her frowning. With her hands on her hips, she said dryly, “Just because I’m holding a séance doesn’t mean I believe in that crap. I don’t. It’s all just so much bullsh—uh, baloney.”

  Then why go to all this trouble to get me to stay? “Whether or not you believe, makes no difference. What is…is.” He gifted her with his most charming smile. If it was within his power to make his eyes twinkle, he would have.

  She tugged in a deep breath and shook her head. “Okay, I’ll bite. Exactly what kind of danger do the ooo-ahh spirits think I’m in?”

  The hook was dangling. She need only take a nibble for him to snare her. The question was, did he want to?

  “There is a man,” he said slowly, lacing his voice with worry. “A nefarious scoundrel…”

  “Shocking,” she murmured.

  “He’s very dangerous.”

  “The hallmark of nefarious scoundrels, I believe.”

  “He has you in his sights…a target. A mark, I think they call it.” He cocked his head as though listening to words only he could hear, nodding several times. “The man means to take you…” He stopped, then gazed meaningfully into her eyes. Leaning closer, he whispered, “For everything you’re worth.”

  A moment passed. Then, “I’m worth a lot.”

  “He’s happy to hear it.”

  “Mm-hmm. Tell me more about this…man.”

  “You have something he wants. Something…you aren’t aware you have, but won’t want to give him when the time comes.”

  “Hmm. I wonder what it is?” Her lashes fluttered. “Something a man wants from me, a woman. Hmm. No, wait. Give me minute. I’m sure I can get it.”

  “But if you give it up,” he said, his voice low, his tone coaxing, “you’ll be satisfied beyond measure. The both of you…I…I mean to say, well, he’s your…”

  Logan clamped his jaw shut. Where had those words come from? He hadn’t manufactured them, not this time, not for this woman…

  Yet as he stood looking down at her, he knew there was more than a wee bit of truth in what he’d said, and it disturbed him.

  Emotionally, he closed himself down.

  “He’s my what?” she drawled, obviously unaware of the battle roaring inside him. “My soul mate? The yang to my yin? Let’s see, what are some others? He who completes me? My cosmic snickerdoodle?”

  “A bit cynical, aren’t you, lass?”

  She shrugged. “Simply wise to the ways of the world.”

  “And so alliterative, too.”

  Crossing her arms over her waist, she took a few steps away from him. “I don’t think I need a clairvoyant to warn me about nefarious scoundrels, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “But you do need a clairvoyant, don’t you, Andie darling?”

  Her arms dropped to her sides, and she glared at him. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  He assessed her: defensive stance, accusing glare. Very interesting.

  Mildly, he said, “I’d have to wonder why it bothers you so.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  And that was a lie, judging by the quick blink of her eyes. People’s faces, their expressions, gave them away. In his line of work, reading faces might mean the difference between success and failure, life and death, so he’d become damn good at it. Andie Devon was hiding something from him, lying to him outright, and he had a good idea why.

  Leaning against the wall by the front window, he let his gaze flit up her body and down again. A pleasant trip, all things considered. “You haven’t been exactly on the up and up with me, have you, lass?”

  “Sure I have—”

  “Nae, ye have not. And now, see, I’m on to yer game.”

  Her chin came up, her eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you mean?”

  He considered his next words while he prepared to watch for her reaction to them. Dilated pupils, either avoidance of eye contact or unbroken e
ye contact, an inward roll of the lips—all were signs of someone holding back the truth. People lied for various reasons, sometimes to protect, sometimes to harm. And in Miss Devon’s case…

  “You can drop the pretense, darlin’ girl,” he said. “It’s like you Yanks are so fond of saying…the jig is up.”

  Chapter 4

  Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap, but by the seeds that you plant.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  At Sinclair’s ominous decree, Andie’s heart missed a beat. Then her brain kicked in and overrode her gut reaction. Before any more internal organs became involved, she decided Sinclair’s indictment did not mean he’d made her as a cop. Perhaps it was her own stubborn refusal to accept defeat, or maybe she was just being naïve, but too much was at stake to leap to conclusions.

  “We Yanks have lots of sayings.” She kept her voice soft, stopping short of an actual purr. With her hands at her hips, she stepped back, circled around, eyeing him as though he were a used car she was considering buying. “Sayings like, Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched. Or, If you can’t be good, be careful. Or…” She halted, meeting his searing gaze. “Guilty men see guilt on the faces of saints.”

  Silence stretched between them like a high-tension wire. The air in the foyer nearly crackled from the force of their unexpressed thoughts. She could almost see the gears inside his head whir and twist, turn and angle, as he considered her parry to his thrust.

  “So it’s a saint you are, eh?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then flicked again to her eyes. In a low and husky voice, he murmured, “I’d wager not.”

  Andie’s pulse quickened, but she kept her eyes locked with his. “So where does that leave us, Mr. Sinclair?”

  He took a step toward her. “I would first ask, what is it you believe me guilty of?”

  She took a step back. “Well, I would first wonder why you doubt my…virtue?”

  He advanced once more. “Let us cut to the chase, shall we? You recognized the name Logan Sinclair, knew I was a professional clairvoyant, and set about contriving to get me to participate in your séance this evening.”