Tall, Dark And Deadly. Suzanne Brockmann

at a red light. He’d once dated a woman who’d never smiled. Jacqui Fontaine. She’d been a beautiful young woman who was so terrified of getting wrinkles she kept her face carefully devoid of all expression. In fact, she’d gotten angry with him for making her laugh. At first he’d thought she was joking, but she’d been serious. She’d asked him back to her apartment after they’d seen a movie, but he’d declined. Sex would have been positively bizarre. It would have been like making love to a mannequin. The thought still made him shudder.

      This woman, however, had laugh lines around her eyes. Proof that she did smile. Probably frequently, in fact.

      She just had no intention of smi ling at him.

      Her hair was thick and dark, curling around her face, unstyled and casual—cut short enough so that she probably could get away with little more than raking her fingers through it after climbing out of bed.

      Her eyes were dark brown and impossibly large in a face that could only be called pixielike.

      Provided, of course, that pixies had a solid dose of unresolved resentment. She didn’t like him. She hadn’t liked him from the moment he’d walked into the San Felipe police-station conference room.

      “Cindy, wasn’t it?” He knew damn well that her name was Sydney. But what kind of woman was named Sydney? If he was going to have to baby-sit the woman who could potentially ID the San Felipe Rapist, why couldn’t she be named Crystal or Mellisande—and dress accordingly?

      “No,” she said tightly, in a voice that was deceptively low and husky, unfairly sexy considering she clearly didn’t want anyone looking at her to think even remotely about sex, “it wasn’t. And no, I’ve never been hypnotized.”

      “Great,” he said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible as he parked in the lot near Frisco’s office. His office now, too, at least temporarily. “Then we’re going to have some fun. A real adventure. Uncharted territory. Boldly going, etcetera.”

      Now Sydney was looking at him with something akin to horror in her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

      Lucky took the keys out of the ignition and opened the truck’s door. “Of course not. Not completely. Who’d ever want to be completely serious about anything?” He climbed out and looked back inside at her. “But the part I’m not completely serious about is whether it’s going to be fun. In fact, I suspect it’s going to be pretty low key. Probably dull. Unless while you’re under, I can convince the hypnotist to make you quack like a duck.”

      If she were a Crystal or a Mellisande, Lucky would’ve winked at her, but he knew, without a doubt, that winking at Sydney would result in her trying to melt him into unidentifiable goo with her death-ray glare.

      Most women liked to be winked at. Most women could be softened up with an appreciative look and a compliment. Most women responded to his “hey, baby” body language and subtle flirting with a little “hey, baby” body language and subtle flirting in return. With most women, he didn’t have to wait long for an invitation to move from subtle flirting to flat-out seduction.

      Sydney, however, was not most women.

      “Thanks, but I don’t want to be hypnotized,” she told him as she climbed awkwardly down from the cab of his truck. “I’ve read that some people are less susceptible to hypnotism—that they just can’t be hypnotized. I’m pretty sure I’m one of them.”

      “How do you know,” Lucky reasoned, “if you’ve never tried?”

      His best smile bounced right off her. “It’s a waste of time,” she said sternly.

      “Well, I’m afraid I don’t think so.” Lucky tried his apologetic smile as he led the way into the building, but that one didn’t work either. “I guess you’ll have an opportunity to prove me wrong.”

      Sydney stood still. “Do you ever not get your way?”

      Lucky pretended to think about that for a moment. “No,” he finally said. He smiled. “I always get my way, and I’m never completely serious. You keep that in mind, and we’ll get along just fine.”

      SYDNEY STOOD IN THE building’s lobby watching as Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon greeted a lovely, dark-haired, very pregnant woman with a stunner from his vast repertoire of smiles.

      “Hey, gorgeous—what are you doing here?” He wrapped his arms around her and planted a kiss full on her lips.

      His wife. Had to be.

      It was funny, Syd wouldn’t have believed this man capable of marriage. And it still didn’t make sense. He didn’t walk like a married man. He certainly didn’t talk like a married man. Everything about him, from the way he sat as he drove his truck to the way he smiled at anything and everything even remotely female, screamed bachelor. Terminal bachelor.

      Yet as Syd watched, he crouched down and pressed his face against the woman’s burgeoning belly. “Hello in there!”

      Whoever she was, she was gorgeous. Long, straight, dark hair cascaded down her back. Her delicately featured face held a hint of the Far East. She rolled her beautiful, exotic eyes as she laughed.

      “This is why I don’t come out here that often,” she said to Syd over the top of O’Donlon’s head as he pressed his ear to her stomach, listening now. “I’m Mia Francisco, by the way.”

      Francisco. The Lieutenant Commander’s wife.

      “He’s singing that Shania Twain song,” O’Donlon reported, looking past Syd and grinning. “The one Frisco says never leaves your CD player?”

      Syd turned to see a teenaged girl standing behind her—all long legs and skinny arms, surrounded by an amazing cloud of curly red hair.

      The girl smiled, but it was decidedly half-hearted. “Ha, ha, Lucky,” she said. “Very funny.”

      “We heard about the diving accident,” Mia explained as O’Donlon straightened up. “They weren’t releasing any names, and we couldn’t reach Alan, so Tasha talked me into driving out to make sure Thomas was okay.”

      “Thomas?”

      “King,” Mia said. “Former student of mine? You remember him, don’t you? He’s going through BUD/S training with this class.”

      “Yeah.” O’Donlon snapped his fingers. “Right. Black kid, serious attitude.”

      “It wasn’t Thomas,” the red-haired girl—Tasha—informed him. “It was someone else who got hurt.”

      “An ensign named Marc Riley. They’ve got him stabilized. He’s in a lot of pain, but it’s not as bad as they first thought.” Mia smiled at Syd again, friendly but curious, taking in her shapeless linen jacket, her baggy khaki pants, her cloddish boots and the mannish blouse she wore buttoned all the way to her neck.

      Syd had no doubt that she looked extremely different from the usual sort of women who followed Lieutenant O’Donlon around.

      “I’m sorry,” Mia continued. “We didn’t mean to shanghai Lucky this way.”

      Lucky. The girl had referred to O’Donlon by that name, too. It was too perfect. Syd tried her best not to smirk.

      “It’s not a problem,” she said. “I’m Syd Jameson.”

      “We’re working together on a special project,” the man who was actually nicknamed Lucky interjected, as if he were afraid Mia might assume they were together socially. Yeah, as if.

      “Is that the same project Lucy McCoy kicked us out of Alan’s office to talk to him about?” Mia asked.

      Lucky started to speak, then put his hands over Tasha’s ears and swore. The girl giggled, and he winked at her before looking at Mia. “Lucy’s already here?”

      “Tell Alan it’s my fault you’re late.”