Killer Charms Page 3

  Still, she’d been reading guys for years, and Sinclair had given off all the signals of a man who followed the hunt until he bagged the prey—especially when it involved getting a woman into the sack.

  “Okay, Inspector I’m-So-Sure-Of-Myself,” Dylan chided in her ear. “Twenty bucks says he keeps right on driving.”

  Nibbling on her bottom lip, she tried to remember the look in Sinclair’s glittering aquamarine eyes when she’d dismissed him. There was no mistaking the interest she’d seen in them when he’d first walked up—or the snap of irritation that replaced it when she snubbed him.

  It worried her for a moment that if she really were a woman whose car had broken down, he might have gotten to her. He was a powerful force, tall, muscular, handsome, and much more charming than she’d anticipated. The photo in his file hadn’t done him justice, hadn’t captured the steely glint in his eye, the smoothness of his deep voice, his cajoling manner. And that brogue…

  He’d spoken to her as if they were acquaintances, old friends, even lovers. It was distracting, alluring, and she forced herself to remember she was only pretending to find him attractive.

  She released a nervous breath. Well, whatever. She’d rebuffed him, and his ego had taken a direct hit. Poor baby. A man like that might have a string of women a mile long, but he didn’t take rejection lightly; he probably didn’t take it at all.

  “Twenty bucks, Jericho?” she mused, then tilted her head in defiance. “Yeah, all right, partner. You’re on.”

  Twenty-two minutes later, Andie huffed out an irritated breath and smacked the steering wheel with her open palm.

  Boy, had she ever called that one wrong.

  Logan Sinclair had exhibited all the signs of a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer unless he chose to. When he’d looked her up and down, that spark in his eyes had assured her he liked what he saw; the dull gleam that replaced it spoke volumes over his pique at her rejection. He was the kind of man who’d convince himself a woman needed rescuing—in spite of her protests or assurances she was fine—and would circle back around for another shot at playing the hero. She’d counted on him doing just that.

  But he hadn’t come back.

  Well, dammit, this was going to make “accidentally” meeting him a second time much more difficult. What if her superiors saw this as a blunder and replaced her with another detective?

  No, they wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway. She’d have to get very creative, though, if she wanted to cross paths with the subject again without raising his suspicions.

  Before Sinclair’s arrival, in the seventy-three minutes she’d sat “helpless” by the side of the road waiting for him to “happen” along, five men, two women, a Girl Scout troop, and one Emo kid whose gender was anyone’s guess had stopped to offer assistance. Since the plan would only work if she appeared stranded, she thanked them all and sent them quickly on their way. The local police had been instructed to ignore her as well, yet when she saw the Lexus pull up behind her, she was both relieved and nervous.

  This little ploy had to work; it just had to. Her entire world, her past, her future was riding on it. It was a make-or-break scenario and could catapult her to the next level, shoot her out of Vice and into Homicide, where she belonged, where her heart was, where her grandfather and father and brothers had all made their names…

  She checked her watch again. In the twenty-four minutes since Sinclair had driven off, night had draped the world, leaving only streetlamps and taillights to illuminate her surroundings. Traffic thinned, pedestrians evaporated, gone to their homes to be with their loved ones—

  Well, screw this, she thought. Either she’d underestimated her charms or overestimated Sinclair’s ego.

  Tucking her legs inside, she slammed the door and reached for her cell phone. Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror, then went dark. She froze.

  Could be the Lexus, could be some other helpful citizen. If it was Sinclair, if he had come back, it was showtime.

  Keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror, she watched as lights from a passing truck illuminated the man as he stepped from behind the wheel and into the street.

  Yes. Her heart leaped up into her throat, and the butterflies in her stomach began an energetic hip-hop. Score one for women’s intuition.

  Not to mention, that chauvinistic brat Dylan Jericho now owed her twenty bucks.

  Crossing her arms under her breasts, she waited, staring straight ahead as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Tap-tap-tap on the window. She made sure her bored frown was in place before turning her head.

  Oh. It’s you, she told him with her eyes.

  Aye, it’s me, his half-smiling expression said in return.

  She made a show of her indifference by blowing out a long breath before opening the door. Scooting out of the seat, she stepped onto the pavement. Though Sinclair moved back to make space for her, he didn’t make much.

  At five-seven, she was not a short woman, but even so, he towered over her, all heat and testosterone and male aggression. Her brothers were tall, but she had nothing to fear from them; Logan Sinclair could be a completely different story.

  His eyes drifted over her. The gleam returned.

  “I’d fire that mechanic,” he said softly. “If I were you.”

  Ef ahh-warr yue…

  It was more a sigh than a sentence.

  The skin on her arms prickled. He sounded like James Bond, the first one, the real one. That subtle Scottish burr was sleepy, like he’d just tumbled out of bed. Of course, he meant to do it. According to his file, he played women like fine instruments, and for one quick flash of insanity, she wanted to know what that would feel like to be the fiddle to his bow.

  “He called,” she lied. “His truck had a flat or something. He’s sending a minion.”

  “But it’s nearing six. You’ll miss your party.”

  “It’s not a party, and it’s not your concern.”

  “Look, the name’s Logan Sinclair, and I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

  That was what his mouth said. His eyes indicated he’d be willing to substitute “lift” for any number of other action verbs.

  She glanced down for a moment, as though she were preparing a response. In truth, she was forcing aside her emotions so her inner undercover operative could take center stage.

  This was the jumping-off point. Her next words would open a door through which there would be no retreat until this man was in prison.

  A loss to womankind, but those were the breaks.

  When she raised her face to him, she capitulated blandly, “I’ll need to see some ID first.”

  His eyes widened in amusement, then he pulled a billfold from his inside coat pocket. He had both a Scottish driving permit and an International Driver’s License.

  She glanced up at him—coyly, she hoped. “So you’re from Edinburgh?”

  He cringed. “Aye, but ’tis nae how you say it, lass. ’Tis pronounced ED-in-bur-ruh.”

  “Fascinating. Vacationing in San-Fran-SIS-KO, are you?”

  His lips tilted on one end, but he made no reply.

  So that’s how it was going to be, hmm?

  Narrowing one eye as though she were assessing him, she ventured, “You must have been to the U.S. before, Mr. Sinclair. Your accent doesn’t seem extremely pronounced.”

  “I’m half-American.”

  It was her turn to look him up and down. “Oh? Which half?” She arched a brow, then blinked innocently up at him.

  He laughed, startling her. Laughter shifted his masculine charm into a boyish joy so attractive, she had to work to keep her composure. His eyes crinkled at the corners, long dimples curved around his mouth. And the deep sound of his laughter…

  “I have dual citizenship,” he ended with a chuckle. “Now, do you trust the likes of me enough to drive you wherever you need to go, with the promise I’ll be a proper gentleman?”

  Shifting her stance, she met his gaze. “Your name
sounds…familiar. Logan Sinclair…” She pretended to search her memory. “Are you an actor or something?”

  The dimples in his cheeks deepened. “Not in the way you’re meaning.”

  Not wishing to push too far, too fast, she said, “Well, whatever. I really need to get home.”

  “I assure you, lass, I’m no serial killer. Just an ordinary citizen trying to help a beautiful woman out of a pickle.”

  Since that was exactly what she wanted him to do, she made no protest as he reached past her into the car. Removing the keys from the ignition, he locked the door, then took her hand, turning it palm up. Dropping the keys there, he curled her fingers over the key ring, all the while, gazing warmly into her eyes.

  Under hers, his hand was strong, steady. Yeah, boy, whew. He was hot all right. He could easily seduce a woman, make her want things she’d never even heard of, let alone done with a man. With looks like his, a few well-chosen words, and that charming glint in his eye, he undoubtedly got what he wanted.

  Except for this time, of course. Little did he know he’d targeted a woman who’d been fending off sexual predators—more commonly known as teenage boys—since she’d turned fourteen. Thanks to her insanely overprotective brother Ethan, she’d learned early on how boys thought, what they were after, and how they had no qualms about saying or doing whatever it took to score. As a result, knowledge being power and all that, the male population never got anywhere with Andie Darling she didn’t want them to get.

  Opening her purse, she dropped the keys inside—right next to her cell phone and her backup .38. With a snap of the latch, she slipped the strap over her shoulder.

  “Let’s go,” she said lightly. “I haven’t got all night.”

  She walked beside him to his car, and when he opened the door for her, she slid into the buttery leather seat, her mind racing.

  He didn’t suspect anything, or if he did, he certainly hid it well. He was interested, must be. He wouldn’t have come back if he wasn’t interested. Would he?

  “You’re perfect for this assignment, Inspector Darling,” Detective Lieutenant Eagan had told her three weeks ago. “You’re just the type of woman he’s known to associate with.”

  “I’m a type, sir?”

  Eagan had swallowed, fiddled with the file in his hand. He shrugged, tilting his head at what appeared to be an uncomfortable angle. “Uh, well, yes, you have what many would call, uh, beauty, and uh, the body thing you’ve got going is, well, I mean you have, uh, you, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You must know…I mean, people, well, men in particular, I suppose, must have told you…see, it’s the department’s official assessment, not mine, personally, you know, as a man…as your superior that you, uh—”

  “I’m not going to file sexual harassment charges because the SFPD thinks I’m nice-looking, Lieutenant.” She lowered her lashes. Quietly, she said, “But thank you.” She met his gaze once more. “Now, about this case?”

  He ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “You’re beautiful. There. I’ve said it. And you’re smart, can think on your feet, and you’re tough. In fact, you’re well, it’s the department’s view that you’re just a bit on the uh, well, on the, uh…”

  “Bitchy side?” she finished for him dryly. Blowing out a breath, she said, “If a man’s tough and aggressive, he’s tough and aggressive. But if a woman is, she’s bitchy.”

  “I never said that. You said that. I never said that.” He adjusted his tie. “Besides, sometimes bitchy is good. Sometimes, it’s just what we need—”

  “Since I don’t have any problem with who I am, sir,” she said, then smiled, “I’m not offended in the least.”

  His short laugh sounded relieved. Adjusting his half-moon glasses on the bulb of his blunt nose, he said, “At least you’re aware of it, Inspector. We want you to use it. Keep him on his toes, off-balance. He’s known to be extremely charming, very smart, quick. He seems to take up with women who challenge him.”

  She nodded, flattered that her superiors were putting such confidence in her.

  “We want you to try and get him to impress you,” Eagan continued. “More importantly, confide in you. We need to find out how he pulls off his tricks. Nobody yet has caught him in the act.”

  “How do you know for sure it’s an act?”

  Eagan scoffed. “Well, he can’t really be a clairvoyant, Inspector, now can he? It’s all bullshit. What we want to know is, how he gets the intel he uses to convince people—wealthy gullible love-struck women, mostly—that he’s on the level.”

  “How many women have filed charges?”

  Shifting in his chair, Eagan picked up his coffee mug, took a swallow, then set it heavily back on his desk. He stuck out his lower lip and shrugged. “To date, none. But he scammed a widow in New York a few weeks back, then showed up in San Francisco, targeting a wealthy heiress.”

  Andie let the information roll around in her head for a moment. “If he’s a known con artist, why hasn’t he been apprehended?”

  “No evidence, and none of his victims seem inclined to press charges. He arrived on the West Coast about a week ago, ostensibly to do an interview for KALM-TV. But he seemed to home in right away on a woman he met at a party, one Drew Mochrie. She inherited a bundle when her brother was killed about a year ago. Ms. Mochrie is single, attractive, rich, and believes all that mumbo jumbo spiritualist crap…just the kind of mark Sinclair’s known for going after.”

  She scowled. “What about jurisdiction? If he’s involved in international fraud or theft, why is the SFPD—”

  Eagan cleared his throat, leaned forward across his desk, lowered his voice. “Eh, you see, Inspector, it’s like this. Ms. Mochrie is the, uh, special friend of a friend of the commissioner’s. You understand what I’m saying?”

  Ah. So this whole thing was really about sex—who would have it with Drew Mochrie, and who wouldn’t.

  Andie met Eagan’s gaze. “Understood.” Clasping her hands in her lap, she said, “How did her brother die?”

  “Fell down some stairs, broke his neck. Had all the earmarks of a homicide, but the investigation never went very far. It was finally ruled an accident.”

  She took the file Eagan handed her across his cluttered desk, opened it. A photograph of Logan Blakewell Sinclair stared up at her. Dark hair; intelligent, clever eyes the color of tropical rainwater; dark brows and lashes; a sensuous mouth. He was smiling, and she nearly smiled back. Age, thirty-four; height, six-two; weight, one-eighty. Whew. Pound-for-pound, the studliest guy Andie had ever seen.

  “I appreciate your faith in me, Lieutenant,” she said as she glanced through the file. “I did a little undercover work before I was promoted to detective four months ago, but it was nothing like this.”

  “Well, if you’re half as good as your brothers…” He left the sentiment unfinished and grinned congenially.

  Love and pride mixed with irritation as she continued reading Sinclair’s file. Her brothers. Two big-shot San Francisco detectives, and two big pains in the ego. Her ego.

  The line of legendary detectives leading to Andie was long and distinguished. She had some very impressive shoes to fill, and she intended to fill them until nobody on the SFPD remembered she even had brothers, let alone a father and grandfather who’d both served with honor and distinction. Throw in the occasional uncle and cousin—all male—and Andie stood alone as the only female Darling to face the challenge of proving a woman could serve with honor and distinction just as well as any of her illustrious male counterparts.

  This undercover assignment couldn’t have come at a better time. It was her ticket to making a name for herself. The Logan Sinclair case was tailor-made to raise her above the ranks, and she was going to make damn sure it did. Excellent police work on her part would nail this charlatan and put him away, and get her the next open spot in the highly coveted Homicide Division.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Sinclair said, interrupting her thoughts as he cranked the
ignition on the Lexus.

  “Oh, it’s Andrea,” she said, forcing her attention to the matter at hand. “Andrea Devon.”

  He looked over at her, a hint of confusion in his eyes. “Andrea Devon?”

  “You have a problem with that?” Why was he questioning her name?

  “Nae. None at all.” Sparks ignited his eyes like fireworks in a fading summer sky. “Suits you, it does. I’ll wager they call you Andie.” He signaled, then pulled out into traffic. “I think it’s darlin’.”

  She blinked hard, trying to retain her composure. “What’s so…” She swallowed. “…darling about it?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Came to mind, is all.”

  Dismissing the coincidence, she instructed, “Uh, turn left at the next corner. In three blocks, there’s a four-way stop. Take a right onto Manzanita.”

  Her gut felt like it had just been zapped with a Taser. He couldn’t know her real name. It had to be a weird, cosmic joke meant to create even more anxiety than she already felt. “It’s this one. Turn in here.”

  After entering the U-shaped drive, the Lexus came to a smooth halt in front of the three-story Gothic-revival-style mansion. Andie glanced up at the imposing façade, square turrets, and cathedral-style windows of the house she would be required to frequent during the investigation.

  They’d told her it had been built in 1883 by a wealthy San Francisco gambler, and even though it had suffered some damage during the 1906 quake and fire, had managed to survive several changes of ownership over the last hundred-plus years as well.

  And—of course—local legend claimed it to be haunted, which was why it had apparently stood empty for a good while after the quake. Since the current owners lived abroad, the property management firm in charge was more than willing to do their civic duty by allowing the police its use.

  The SFPD secured the mansion in the hopes its notoriety would add credibility to her cover story, and as such act as the perfect lure for a con-man “clairvoyant.”