Killer Charms Read online

  “You are most gracious, lass.”

  As she turned toward the wooden stairs, she held her head high, her trepidation and fear seemingly vanished. “It was five thousand, wasn’t it? An acceptable figure, don’t you think?”

  He watched the back of her head as she began the climb, the sway of her hips, the curve of her calves, and he wondered to which figure she was referring.

  His voice a mixture of solemnity and hesitation, he said, “I don’t feel right taking your money, Drew. I barely scratched the surface and didn’t relieve poor Tolley of his pains. Perhaps a mere four thousand would be more appropriate.”

  “Nonsense,” she countered as she opened the door. Light from the scullery, er, kitchen, he reminded himself, spilled out, casting her body in dark silhouette in the open doorway. “Since my dear brother has gone on to his reward, I’m a very wealthy woman. So it’ll be five thousand for you, and not a pound less.”

  Logan followed her across the threshold and into the vast and gleaming kitchen. “If you insist, I’ll simply have to accept.”

  She stopped abruptly and whirled to face him. A seductive grin tilted her lips. He seized the opportunity to press the issue.

  “You’re very kind, Drew,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. “Very kind, indeed.”

  With a slight toss of her golden head, she inched a bit closer. He felt her fingers curl around his in a more-than-friendly squeeze. “And you, my dear Mr. Sinclair…Logan…are far too handsome for your own good I’d say.”

  “When might I return to finish our…business?”

  She nibbled coyly on her bottom lip as her cheeks flushed. Then she grinned.

  And the hook is set.

  “What do you say to Thursday next?” she purred, squeezing his hands again. “Eight o’clock?”

  He winked and bestowed on her a promising smile. “Thursday next it is then. Most definitely.”

  Standing in the curved drive outside what had once been Tolley Mochrie’s exclusive Sea Cliff estate, Logan watched Ollie carefully place the recording equipment in the back of the van and secure the door.

  “So she went for it.” Ollie chuckled, turning the key in the lock. “Made anither date, and five thousand to sweeten the deal. By-the-by, is that dollars American, or English pounds?”

  “Money isn’t everything,” Logan said solemnly, loosening his tie and his foul temper. It would be a blessing to get out of his charcoal Hugo Boss suit and slip into something more casual, like a warm and willing woman. He thought of Drew Mochrie. Obviously willing, but hardly warm. “Thursday next at eight. I won’t be needing the services of my cameraman.”

  “Aye,” Ollie said. “I’d only be in the way.” At thirty, Ollie Kerr had short-cropped brown hair, a long, crooked nose, and a chipped front tooth. He’d never bothered to get it repaired, for he claimed it made him more charming to the ladies. “The minute you’re in the door, she’ll be all over you like flies on shite.”

  “Eloquently put, as usual.” Logan arched a brow and pursed his lips. “But no matter. One more conversation with her late brother will seal the deal, and I’ll have the Star of Avril in my hands before you know it.”

  “What if she won’t show it to you?”

  Logan grinned. “She will.”

  Ollie snorted a laugh.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, Logan took a deep breath of the salty ocean air.

  It felt good to be in San Francisco once more. He hadn’t been back to the city by the bay in nearly twenty years, not since he’d visited with his family when he’d been fourteen. Today, in typical northern California style, the October sky was brilliant blue over the land, yet gray and dense and damp where the heavens bent to the sea out on the far horizon.

  “I’ve been a long time gone,” he said, more to himself than Ollie. “I rather fancy the States this time of year, the seasons changing and all.”

  Ollie leaned against the van and crossed his arms over his chest. “I keep forgettin’ yer half-Yank. Yer mither, right?”

  Not in the mood to discuss his parents, his dual citizenship, or anything else of a personal nature at the moment, he said only, “Aye.”

  Pulling his keys from his pocket, he pressed the auto-unlock. Next to Ollie’s van, the leased silver Lexus chirped to life. “I’ll contact you after I’ve acquired the Star.”

  “Make sure you don’t stuff it into your pocket and take off for some tropical island, partner. I’d hate to have to track you down and put a bullet behind your ear.”

  Ollie grinned at Logan.

  Logan grinned at Ollie.

  Then, placing his hand on his forehead as though tipping a hat, Ollie walked to the front of the van, slid behind the wheel, and drove on up the street and out of sight.

  Logan paused before getting into the Lexus, instead letting his gaze wander down the hill and out to the bay. The sun had just dipped its toes into the sea, turning the Pacific the color of pale champagne. He blew out a breath. Soon now, it would be dark; he had no plans for the evening.

  The niggling notion he’d stuffed away at the back of his brain since he arrived in San Francisco, edged its way to the front…again.

  He could call her. She wouldn’t have to know he was in town; she’d assume he was in Scotland or maybe London, and just out of the blue had decided to ring her up—for old times’ sake. It wouldn’t occur to her he could be at her front door in a mere minute.

  He blew out a hard breath. How long had it been since he’d spoken to her? Rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he tried to remember.

  Years. Aye, it had been years.

  Letting his hand slowly slide into his pocket, he curled his fingers around the cell phone. When he pulled it out, he stared down at it in the palm of his hand. Tiny portable instrument of mental torture. Omnipresent. Obliterating the excuses of a time not long past.

  No excuses not to call these days. No excuses…

  Though he’d never used the cell to call her, he’d programmed in the number in the event that someday…some distant day, he’d use it. In the meantime, the number sat there quietly in the background, waiting for the day he was too sick or lonely or desperate to put it off any longer.

  And if he called her today, what would it say of him…

  Before he could change his mind, he pressed the button and put the phone to his ear. His gut tightened, his jaw clenched. The number began ringing. He steeled himself.

  She was a busy woman; maybe she wouldn’t be home. If he got her voice mail, he’d leave a quick message, no more than that. No need to explain why, after all these years, he’d decided to—

  “Hello?”

  He was silent for a moment, too startled to speak. When finally he opened his mouth, no sound came out. His throat closed, and his eyes.

  “Hello?” she said again, a wee bit louder now. “I know someone’s there.”

  He licked his lips, swallowed. This was ridiculous; he never should have called. After all these years, he’d finally found the desire, the courage, only to discover he had lost the words.

  “Look,” she growled. “If this is another damn telemarketer, I’m on the Do Frickin’ Not Call List, and I’ve half a mind to report…”

  Her words trailed off as though all the air had gone out of her lungs, and she didn’t know how to draw in any more.

  His eyes still shut tight, he put his head down and drew in the breath it seemed she could not. A moment later, she whispered, “Logan. Logan? It’s you, isn’t it? Don’t hang up! Logan? Oh, please, sweetheart, please say something.”

  He cleared his throat, lifted his head, opened his burning eyes. “Hello, Gran.”

  She made an odd noise that sounded like grief mixed with joy. On barely a breath, she said, “Oh my God, has anything happened? Are you all right?”

  He swallowed again before answering. “Aye.”

  By his calculations, she had to be in her late seventies, but her voice didn’t seem to have changed much. The
last time he’d seen her was at the funeral. Her hair had been gray, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Her back had been bent from the weight of her grief. Though she’d barely spoken to him, he’d read the condemnation clear enough in those eyes.

  He wondered if she still looked the same…if she still looked like his mother…

  “Are…are you well?” he managed.

  “Yes, quite well. Where are you, Logan?”

  “I…actually, I’m calling from London,” he lied. “I’ve been doing fine, and, uh, I was wondering if you needed anything.”

  There was silence for a moment, then she said, “It’s you, isn’t it.”

  “Is what me?” he said, as though he hadn’t a clue as to what she was talking about.

  “For the last ten years or so,” she said quietly, “my bank balance increases as if by magic. The bank assures me it’s no mistake, and that there’s nothing illegal about the transactions.”

  “I…I just figured you could use a wee bit of help now and again, being alone and all.”

  “I don’t have to be alone, Logan. I’m not alone. I have you.”

  He shook his head. “No, Gran. ’Tis not possible, and you know why.”

  Judging from the sniffling he heard, she was crying, or trying hard not to. His heart cracked at the sound, but he could not relent. For her own good, he could not relent.

  “I thank you for the money, Logan,” she said, as her voice broke. “Are you really in London?”

  Instead of lying again, he said, “I have to go now, Gran. I…I just wanted to see if, you know, if you needed anything.”

  “You, sweetheart,” she sobbed quietly. “I need you.”

  “After what happened—”

  “I forgave you, Logan,” she whispered. “A long, long time ago.”

  “Aye, well, maybe so, Gran. But I’ve not forgiven myself. I never will.”

  Ending the call, he shoved the cell phone back into his pocket, cranked the ignition, and put the car in gear.

  He should not have called her. Doing so had only hurt her, and he’d already brought her enough grief.

  As he guided the Lexus out of the driveway onto Franklin, he made his way over to Van Ness, glancing at the dashboard clock as he turned the corner. While four thirty was too early for supper, a sandwich and a pint might sit pretty well just about now. Glancing about for a neon sign that announced an eatery, up ahead, flashing red lights off to the side of the road snared his attention. Wary of an accident on the busy avenue, he slowed.

  The gleaming white Mercedes was sleek and expensive-looking. The driver’s side door stood open, and the bonnet was up.

  Make that its hood. Why didn’t the bloody Americans name their auto parts properly?

  The car was basically unremarkable—except for the exquisite pair of legs extending through the open door. As he rolled to a stop behind the sedan, she crossed those legs, dangling one shiny black heel from her toes.

  He flipped on his own emergency lights to warn drivers to go around both cars, then, shoving his hands into his pockets, he approached the sedan, a congenial smile on his face.

  Elbow on knee, chin in hand, her face was turned away from him. Her tight black dress was scooped just low enough to reveal the curve of a very fine set o’ chebs, while a thin diamond necklace winked at her elegant throat. Her short blond hair ruffled in the breeze.

  He stopped, waited. Traffic was noisy. Maybe she hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Do you need some help, lass?” he said to the back of her head, adding a bit more brogue than necessary. American women were damned hard to impress, but his accent always gave him an edge. “Engine trouble, is it?”

  Without turning toward him, she said in a bored tone, “I’m not helpless. I have a cell phone, which I have already used to call my mechanic. Buh-bye and thanks for stopping.”

  She flicked her foot, and her shoe dropped to the pavement.

  Before she could retrieve it, he bent, picked it up, and held it out to her. She turned her face toward him then, looked him quickly in the eye, then averted her gaze the way women do when they first meet a man. Even so, he’d caught the unusual green of her irises in that flash—and wanted to see more.

  Taking the shoe from him, she slipped it onto her foot. “Thanks. I don’t know what’s keeping him. I called twenty minutes ago. If I’m not home by six, it’ll put me way behind schedule…”

  She glanced up at him again, and this time, her gaze held.

  As they looked into each other’s eyes, a strange sensation began pulsing inside his chest. An awareness of sorts, expanding outward through his muscles and bones, down his legs and out his arms until his fingers tingled. His blood stirred, his brain sharpened. The intensity gathered strength, catching him off guard—unpleasant sensations for a man continually on the alert, and he wanted to shake it off.

  She blinked, averted her gaze; the spell was broken.

  Hell, she was an unusually beautiful woman. With a mental shrug, he attributed his reaction to extreme attraction. A massive dose of testosterone must have flooded his system, distorting his brain functions for a moment. Aye, that was it.

  “What’s at six?” he ventured, “if you don’t mind my being nosy. Big party?”

  She gave a wiggly little shrug of her shoulders, as though whatever it was she might miss either wasn’t that important—or none of his business.

  Behind him, cars roared by on the busy avenue, stirring up the air, bits of dust, exhaust fumes.

  “Well then,” he said, “if you needn’t any help.”

  “I needn’t.” With her left hand, she stifled a yawn.

  No ring on her finger. Something about the absence of a ring encouraged him to give it another go.

  “Perhaps I should stay until your mechanic arrives,” he offered. “I’m not entirely sure it’s safe for a lass such as yourself to be sitting here by the side of the road with night coming down.”

  At last, she swiveled to face him full on, and his heart nearly flew away. A stunner she was, and no mistake. Though she didn’t smile, her lips were full and ripe. Her darkly lashed green eyes shone bright with intelligence—and was that bewilderment?—as she looked him up and down.

  “Uh, um, no,” she stumbled. She licked her lips, straightened a bit. In a stronger tone, she said, “No need for you to stay. I’m fine.”

  With that, she turned away again, and the message was loud and clear: He was dismissed.

  A tiny spear of irritation lanced his gut at the rebuff. Sure, he’d been rejected by women before, but rarely by one he’d decided he wanted.

  “A good evening to you then,” he said as he began backing away toward his own car. She never so much as glanced in his direction.

  Well, to hell with that one, he thought as he cranked the ignition on the Lexus. Women usually fell all over him, not that he necessarily wanted them to, but it made getting the ones he did want that much easier. He seldom had to work to get any woman’s attention, and as he glared at the back of this obstinate lass’s car, he decided he didn’t like the feeling.

  As he pulled out into traffic, he kept his eye on his side view mirror.

  She was looking down. From her purse, she pulled out a cell phone and put it to her ear, never once following his car with her eyes.

  His irritation increased.

  A block later, his palms damp, his jaw tight, he swerved into a grocery store lot and parked where he could see the flash of her emergency lights in the distance, but she couldn’t see him.

  She was obviously one of those women who didn’t trust men and thought she could handle any situation with a can of Mace and a solid kick to the nuts. But he was willing to wager he knew one hell of a lot more about determined men than she did.

  So he’d relax a bit, think about where he’d like to have supper, calculate the odds of the Tartans taking the World Cup this year—and if her mechanic didn’t show up in fifteen minutes, he’d go back.

  Chapter 2

>   I regard you with an indifference closely bordering on aversion.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  SFPD detective Andrea Darling waited for the call to ring through, pretending not to watch the suspect’s car disappear into the early-evening traffic. Just as she lost sight of the silver Lexus, her partner answered.

  “Jericho.”

  She raised her head, searching the distance for any sign of Sinclair. “Arrogant bastard. He just left.”

  “Well, I may have a strong sense of self, but I wouldn’t exactly say I was arrogant—”

  “Not you, Jericho,” she chuckled. “Okay, on second thought—”

  “Let’s not go there,” Dylan said dryly. “What happened?”

  She worked to keep the frustration from her voice. “I blew him off. He didn’t like it.”

  “If you blew me off, I’d like it a lot—”

  “Goddammit, Detective,” she snapped. “Be serious for once and keep your mind on task!”

  “What happened to your sense of humor, partner?” Dylan said. “This guy must really have gotten to you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve been sitting by the side of the roadway for frickin’ ever, I’m starved, and I have to pee.”

  He paused a moment, as if assessing whether she was telling the truth. Finally, he said, “So you blew him off. That screws Plan A.”

  “We’re still good with Plan A. I give him fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. He’ll be back.”

  Jericho snorted a laugh. “I don’t know. A man like Sinclair gets dumped by a babe, he never blinks twice. One woman gives him the brush-off, there’s a hundred more ready to soothe his hurt.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “I’ll just keep that to myself,” he said lightly. “I wouldn’t want you to think less of me—”

  “Than I already do? Yeah, well, he’s not you, Jericho.” Under her breath, she muttered, “He’ll be back.”

  Her eyes searched the street for any sign the Lexus was returning. The streetlamps had winked on, illuminating Van Ness as far as she could see. Headlights reached toward her, taillights flashed, stoplights went from green to amber to red, neon business signs glowed in pinks, yellows, blues. A honk, a shout, the rev of engines, mixed with chatter from passersby on the sidewalks, but so far, no silver Lexus.