Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather

      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.