Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  She licked her lips. “And the price for that information is?”

  He reached for her hand, bringing her slowly to him. She raised her face, and he lowered his mouth to hers. He kept the kiss gentle, letting her know without words how he felt, rather, how he wanted to feel if he let himself.

  She responded, kissing him back as though she felt it, too, felt their connection, their undeniable oneness.

  If it was an act, he didn’t want to know, so he closed his eyes, and let himself believe…

  A moment later, against her open mouth, he whispered, “The price is simply that you tell me about your dreams.”

  She pulled back, blinked hard, then blinked again. “You want to know about the dreams? That’s why I came to see you. I already told you that.”

  “Then the price will be an easy one to pay, will it nae?” He smiled and slid his arm around her waist. “Tell me, and leave nothing out.”

  Her head tilted a bit to one side as she gazed up at him. “All right.”

  “You look decidedly disappointed, lass. Were you expecting some…other price for my secrets?”

  “No. Um, no, I wasn’t.”

  “Fine then.”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Still holding her hand, he moved toward the bar, and she had no choice but to follow. “I’d wager a wee dram will help us both relax a bit, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” she said. “A wee dram. As long as it’s not a dram of haggis.”

  He snorted a laugh. “No, lass. You’ve done yer duty, so far as the haggis goes. Perhaps a glass of wine would suit ye better.”

  She nodded, and he let go of her hand to fill their goblets with rich burgundy. Handing her a glass, he picked up his own and walked to the window.

  The view from his hotel room faced west, and this time of day, the distant Golden Gate Bridge shone brilliant red as the sun dissolved into the sea on the other side of the world. Gigantic container vessels reduced to the size of toys skimmed across the bay, its puckered surface turned deep green with the coming of the evening.

  Without turning to her, he said, “How many dreams have there been?”

  For a moment, she said nothing, then, “Three.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  He heard her move toward the small table next to the bar, pull out a chair, and sit. As he poured the wine, she said, “Well, at first, they seemed almost like scenes from a movie that I was watching.”

  Her tone was quiet, uncertain.

  “But then I began to feel as though they were much more personal, and I was actually participating in them. They weren’t dreams anymore, more like…memories. I hear this Emma talking like she’s not only telling me what’s happening, but is living the events for the first time. Sometimes, I feel like I’m her, living her life, loving the people she loves.”

  She shook her head in a gesture of helplessness.

  “There’s nothing of the abstract, like in regular dreams. They’re too organized, too linear. And so…well, real.”

  “Linear?” He placed her wineglass on the table in front of her, then took the other chair at the small table.

  She nodded. “The first one showed me how Emma met Jacob. The next, their wedding night. The last one was a visit from Emma’s father. He didn’t like Jacob and was furious she married him. And…and each time I dream of Emma, I…I wake up crying.”

  “Why?”

  She licked her lips, ran a finger up the stem of her glass. “Because…well, there’s just something so sad about her. I feel it…here.” She placed her open palm over her heart. “I actually feel it, as though whatever’s happening to her is happening to me.”

  Her words reverberated inside his body. Letting his breath out, he relaxed into his thoughts, let them come, let them work—and then, he knew. Without question, he knew. He was also sure Andie wouldn’t like it; she would resist. Carefully, he said, “I believe you and Emma are related in some way.”

  “But I’m not,” she said quickly. “I asked my…I mean, I did some research. There are no Conners or Hartes in my family history.”

  Logan shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Yer a blood relative, lass. Somehow.”

  Her mouth turned down. “You’re way off, swami. It’s just not possible.”

  Okay, if she was convinced she and the ghostly Emma Harte weren’t connected, he’d let it go…for now.

  Outside the window, the San Francisco skyline had faded, kept alive only by the pinpricks of a million office lights. Behind the darkening silhouette of the buildings, the sky succumbed to the indigo night.

  Logan took a sip of wine and watched Andie watching him. “You ready to tell me what’s got you so upset, lass?”

  “I’m not upset.”

  He challenged the lie with a steady on gaze. She didn’t so much as bat an eye.

  “Liar. I saw it in yer eyes when first you arrived. Besides, your aura’s not its usual color.”

  “And just what color is my aura, usually?”

  “Oh, it’s run the gamut since the day we met, darlin’ Andie. But up until today, it’s been predominantly a deep red.”

  “Which means…”

  “Which means you are grounded, realistic, active, strong of will. A survivor.”

  “Damn. I hate it when my aura gives away all my secrets. Guess I’m going to have to wear a coat all the time.”

  He smiled across the table at her. “It wouldna matter if you did.”

  She diverted her gaze past his shoulder to the window. “You said up until today. What changed?”

  “When you first arrived,” he said, when he was sure he had her undivided attention, “it was a very clear red indicating power, energy, competitiveness, sexuality, and passion. Then it changed to yellow, almost the color of a lemon.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I look like hell in yellow. Turns my complexion sallow.”

  He took a lock of her hair between his fingers. It was silky. He slipped it over her ear. “Nothing could make your complexion look sallow, lass. A yellow aura often manifests when someone is struggling to maintain power and control over some situation. They fear losing that control, the prestige, respect…and power that goes with it.”

  Before he could move his hand, she reached up and curled her fingers around his. When she spoke, her voice was pitched low, husky, sexy.

  “I don’t believe a word of it,” she murmured. “You make this stuff up, and gullible women buy it. Well I’m not gullible, and I think you’re despicable for cheating people, defrauding them, lying, taking advantage.” The words sounded sultry, more like an invitation than a condemnation.

  He leaned across the table and kissed her lightly. Then, looking deeply into her eyes, he said solemnly, “I’ve been as honest with you today as I’ve ever been with anyone, lass. Every word of it true.”

  “But there’s more, isn’t there.”

  “Aye, but that’s a tale for another day. You still have nae told me what’s bothering you.”

  Pulling away from him, she said, “You’re right. Something happened. I was…I am, very upset. When I was getting coffee at Starbucks this morning, I bumped into the maid of an acquaintance of mine. Apparently, my friend died recently, unexpectedly.” She lifted her lashes to stare into his eyes.

  Inside his chest, his heart tightened and missed a beat. Suspicion crawled up his spine. “You have my condolences. You and this friend were close?”

  “I suppose. In the way that wealthy women often are. She and I played tennis together, did lunch, that kind of thing. And now she’s gone. Poof. Just like that. Life takes such odd turns, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sorry you’re suffering so. Perhaps I can help.”

  “Perhaps you can. The maid told me the most shocking thing.”

  “It’s my belief that maids know all the best gossip.”

  “Oh, this isn’t gossip,” she said, her eyes wide in astonished inno
cence. “The maid said the police think she was murdered for her necklace. Isn’t that awful?”

  Logan sat very still, his gaze locked on Andie’s. “What else did this loquacious maid have to say?”

  “Actually, she mentioned you. Said you’d been to see Drew a couple of times.”

  “You knew Drew Mochrie?”

  “Small world, huh.”

  “And getting smaller.”

  She tossed her head. “Well, when I told the maid I knew you, she warned me to be careful. That you could have killed Drew and stolen the necklace.”

  “Anything’s possible now, isn’t it?”

  Sitting back in her chair, she clasped her fingers on the table in front of her. With a small shrug, she said, “I told her it was ridiculous. I mean, you’re charming, and you certainly con women out of their money and possibly their virtue, but really, you’re not a jewel thief and a murderer…are you, Logan?”

  Chapter 14

  The devil…can sometimes do a very gentlemanly thing.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Andie all but held her breath. She knew she was riding a fine line with Sinclair, giving him partial truths, not pulling any punches she didn’t have to pull. The mantra of undercover ops was Stay close to the truth, vary only when you can’t avoid it. Keep it as real as you can for as long as you can, and when that doesn’t work, lie like hell and pray the bad guys buy it.

  She’d sensed early on that if she tried to cozy up to Logan, ply him with flattery, try to seduce her way into his confidence, he’d close ranks, keep his secrets under tighter wraps, and she’d end up getting nothing at all from him, let alone an arrest and conviction. Even though deceit might be his stock-in-trade, he valued honesty when it came to his private life.

  Sure, he might never come to trust her enough to give her the whole story, so she had to take whatever she could get—a candid comment, a slip of the tongue—something, anything that would give her an inkling where to dig deeper, maybe even deep enough to build a case.

  Not for her—for Bostwick. She was fast coming to the conclusion that the commander was out to get Logan for reasons having nothing at all to do with the obvious, but something more subtle. With Bostwick, it was personal, and it ate at her that he was using her to do his dirty work.

  Especially if Logan was guiltless of any wrongdoing. Hell, for all she knew, maybe he was everything Bostwick claimed him to be, and maybe he was the world’s best con man, but damn, she didn’t see it. The way Logan spoke to her, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, he’d been telling her the truth.

  Sure, there was more, something under the surface that might prove damning, and she wished to hell she knew what it was, but Logan Sinclair had an honor about him, a code, for want of a better word. He wasn’t slimy, and he wasn’t a jerk, and—God help her in case she was wrong—he was not a killer.

  But for the moment, at least, she was stuck going about business as usual. Until she came up with a way out of this mess, she was going to have to play along with the commander and just keep her fingers crossed and her wits about her. If she were smart, she’d find a way to roll over on the bastard, and the sooner the better.

  The clock was ticking and she had yet to figure a solution to outing Bostwick. There was no way she was going to let the little shit manipulate her, or hurt anybody she cared about—including Logan.

  But first she had to get the real goods on Logan, if there were any to get. She had to know what she was dealing with. Once she proved him innocent, she’d have some ammunition, some leverage. She could go to Internal Affairs and lay it all on the table, bring charges against the commander.

  But if Logan had a skeleton in his closet, she needed to know about it in advance, or risk having everything blow up in her face.

  It was the only thing keeping her from asking him outright and from telling him the truth. On the outside chance he really was guilty of something, she had to be cautious and keep her mouth shut, for the time being. If the moment ever arrived for her to lay it all out for him, she’d know it. Until then, she had to suck it up and do her job.

  The dilemma was like a snakebite—painful, frightening, and maybe even fatal.

  She and Logan sat across from each other as the tense silence started to feel like a physical object between them, a weight one or the other of them would have to move.

  Finally, he eased away from the table and stood. Looking down at her, he said, “If you think me a thief and a murderer and have the bollocks to ask me about it to my face, you’re either a very brave woman or a very foolish one.”

  She stood and faced him squarely. “Just tell me you didn’t do it. That’s all I need to hear.”

  He assessed her for a moment. “I did not do it. I first heard of it when the police questioned me. A detective by the ridiculous name of Darling.” He laughed. “I’ll just bet the bad guys go knocking in their knickers when Detective Darlin’ comes callin’.”

  A glint of…something…lit his eyes, bringing to mind a calculating cat just before it pounced on some hapless rodent.

  A good guy would declare his innocence and level with her; a bad guy would keep the game going.

  Her stomach went queasy, and she suddenly felt more miserable than she ever had in her entire life.

  She watched in silence as Logan moved across the room to stand at the window, his back to her. Over his shoulder, the city on the other side of the glass was nothing more than shadows and pinpricks of light. In the distance, sirens blared and blended into a weird kind of harmony.

  “The necklace that was stolen,” she ventured. “I heard it was fabulous. Worth millions. Did she ever show it to you?”

  He turned, crossing his arms over his chest. And for one brief, insane moment, she saw him as a Scottish warrior, big, brawny, bold. She felt drawn to his warrior’s heart, seduced by his warrior’s courage, and she figured that in a past life—if there really was such a thing—he had to have been the leader. The image suited him perfectly.

  With an unsettling gleam in his eyes, he raised his chin. “Aye.”

  “She did?” Her surprise wasn’t feigned. “You saw the Star of Avril? When?”

  He was watching her, watching for her reaction. Why should he examine her so closely? she wondered. What was he up to?

  “As a matter of fact,” he drawled, those eyes of his locked on her face. “I saw it the morning of the day she died. Why, I was probably the last person on earth to see that necklace before it…disappeared.”

  Logan watched as the interest in Andie’s eyes flared.

  He waited for her to say something, but for the longest time, she didn’t. When it finally looked as though she were about to speak, he said, “Ah, but we’ve run off the track a bit, now haven’t we? You wanted my help with yer ghaists.”

  She looked like she wanted to grab him by the throat and shake him, but all she said was, “Since you didn’t take the necklace, I’m curious to know what happened to it. Can your spirit guide find it, or would it be better just to resort to MapQuest?”

  “Allister and I can give it a try.”

  “Then let’s get to it, shall we?”

  Lowering his head, Logan closed his eyes and placed his knuckles on his temples.

  “Are you all right?” she asked in a dry, sarcastic tone. “Are you going to faint…I mean, black out again?”

  “Allister?” he said, as though he hadn’t heard her. “Are you there? Aye, I can hear you now.”

  Even with his eyes closed, he knew Andie was glaring at him. He could feel the waves of heat coming off her body, sense the tension thrumming along her nerves.

  In a flat tone, Andie drawled, “Tell us, oh swami of the magic lamp, where is the necklace? Hold on now, let me guess. It’s in a dark place, safe, secret. It waits to be discovered by the true king—”

  “Ah, lass,” Logan interrupted, opening his eyes. “You wound me deeply, making light of my gifts—”

  “Cut the crap, Logan. I’ve had
enough. There is no Allister,” she accused. “It’s you, so give my intelligence a break here and bypass the double talk, okay?”

  He lowered his hands, let the smile fade from his lips. In a dead serious voice, he said softly, “All right.”

  “Can you help me locate the necklace?”

  “It’s a police matter, I should think. Why would you look for it?”

  She shrugged. “Just doing my civic duty. Besides, maybe there’s a reward.”

  For the second time that day, Logan came that close to telling her the truth, but if he confided in her now—and she went straight to his enemy with the information—all would be lost. No, for the sake of the friend he’d once loved like a brother, he fought past his need to confess. The game would have to go on a little longer, but the time might come, and soon…

  “I cannot help you with the necklace, lass,” he said. “But I believe I can make some headway with your dreams.”

  Irritation flashed across her face, and she scowled up at him, then smiled. “Well, okay, sure. Why not.”

  She sat once more at the table and clasped her hands in front of her. “I’ve told you about the dreams, so if you have comments, let’s hear ’em.”

  He dropped into the seat across from her and let his tense body relax. As he did, the humming inside his head began, the voices urging him to let them out, let them speak. Blinking, he clenched his jaw and fought them off, but the effort cost him. The dizziness began again, and he had to close his eyes.

  “Logan?” Andie said. “You’ve gone a little pale. Are you okay?”

  He nodded, unable to speak.

  Tell her for me…

  How could he let in only a little and keep the rest out? Reaching for the table, he grabbed the edge and held on.

  Yer the only one can do it. Tell her, tell her, speak fer me, would you now…

  “J-Jacob Harte,” he muttered. “Lived. He was a real man. He…He, um, died in the line of duty. Shot straight through the heart at the age of thirty…”

  The images and words began to bombard him now. Damn, he’d been strong for so long, what had changed? Had he simply grown tired of fighting it, or was it more than that? Was it that something about this woman made him want to lower his defenses, maybe even need to? Or maybe the story Emma Harte had to tell was so powerful, it had crept into his brain like a mind-altering drug, setting everything in motion, forcing him to deal with what he’d fought long and hard to keep his heart and mind closed to.