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Olivia lunged at him, knocking him against the closet door.
Agent West cursed, rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms to the floor. She took the opportunity to knee him in the groin.
He doubled over, wincing in pain. “What is wrong with you?”
She frisked him, checked his pockets, then pulled open his shirt. Nothing. Nada. No witchcraft tools. “Your eyes were glowing earlier, and now here you are, in the room where my dad killed himself. That’s too damn weird for me.”
“My eyes? They’ve always been like that.”
“They’re your power.”
He made a face. “Well, thank you very much, but I’m not feeling particularly powerful right now.”
She thought about her premonition, the vision of them kissing in her loft. No damn way was she going to let that happen “Truce, then. But if you try anything funny, I’ll kill you.”
“Likewise.” He got to his feet, doing his best to maintain his machismo. “Now get the hell out of here.”
Olivia almost smiled. “See you around, Agent West.” With that, she left him alone, knowing this was the first time a woman had knocked him on his ass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sheri WhiteFeather lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. She believes in the power of being a woman and thoroughly enjoys creating kick-ass heroines for the Bombshell line. But she also thrives on emotion-steeped romances, writing for Desire™ as well.
Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats – domestic and wild. Visit her website at: www. SheriWhiteFeather.com.
Always Look Twice
SHERI WHITEFEATHER
To Tara Gavin, Melissa Jeglinski, Leslie
Wainger, Natashya Wilson and Lynda Curnyn
(the editorial Bombshells) for making this
project happen. To Irene Goodman (my agent)
for her enthusiasm and advice. To Judy Duarte
(my critique partner) for her unwavering
support while Crystal Green and I wrote our
first Bombshell novels. To Crystal (my other
critique partner) for being wonderfully neurotic
with me. To Katherine Garbera (fellow
Desirable and Bombshellite) for her expertise.
And to my readers for their interest in this story,
even while I was in the process of writing it.
For those of you curious about the supernatural
elements, I researched American Indian
witchcraft and added my own spin, blending
fact, fiction and imagination.
Chapter 1
The stainless steel table was cold. Olivia Whirlwind could almost feel the chilled metal beneath Denise Red Bow’s lifeless form. Her body had been gutted, from top to bottom, through a Y-shaped incision that crossed her chest then ran down to the top of her pubis. She looked waxy, inhuman, as surreal as a hollowed-out mannequin.
Death didn’t become her.
And neither did the autopsy room: a row of operating tables, water sloshing in sinks, surgical instruments clattering upon deaf ears.
Olivia wanted to rescue her, but it was too late. She wished she could go back in time, before the pathologist had wielded his precision blade. Before Denise Red Bow had been the third victim of the Indian Slasher.
“Special Agent West should be here any minute.”
Detective Steve Muncy’s voice interrupted the image, bringing Olivia back to the present, back to a conference room at the Los Angeles Street Police Station.
She rubbed her eyes, blinked, did her damnedest to clear her senses.
The autopsy was hours ago, but Olivia hadn’t been present. That privilege had been reserved for the Homicide Special Section detectives and the FBI profiler who’d been assigned to the case.
She sat back in her chair, knowing Agent West intended to give her a hard time. She’d yet to meet the elusive fed, but his reputation preceded him.
He didn’t like working with psychics.
So much so, he’d banned her from the autopsy room, convincing the pathologist that she didn’t belong there.
Although Olivia had been involved in the Indian Slasher investigation for months, this was West’s first day on the case. He’d arrived just in time for the autopsy, just in time to see Denise Red Bow flayed out on the table.
Well, bully for him, she thought.
Muncy bumped Olivia’s shoulder. “Riggs thinks the special agent’s a hunk.”
At the mention of her name, Detective Joyce Riggs turned, flashed a pretty smile, then told her partner to piss off.
Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. Muncy and Riggs were an unlikely pair.
At forty-eight, he was short, rumpled and happily married. A dedicated detective, Muncy lived by his own set of rules, determined to solve every case the department dropped in his lap.
Riggs was just as tenacious. Only, she came in the form of a single, flirt-for-the-fun-of-it blonde. Olivia nicknamed them Columbo and Cagney, after the TV cops they reminded her of.
Suddenly the door to the conference room opened, and Olivia looked up. A striking man in his midthirties wearing a dark suit and slightly scuffed cowboy boots took center stage. He stood tall, with tanned skin, thick brown hair, chiseled features and disturbing eyes. An obscure shade of gray, they assessed her with cool reserve.
Special Agent Ian West.
There was no damn way she was going to let him intimidate her.
He greeted everyone with a nod, including Olivia. Then he slid some photographs on the table in front of her. “Ms. Whirlwind, I presume.”
“That’s right.” She didn’t bother to glance at the pictures. She knew they were from Denise Red Bow’s autopsy. “I’ve already seen them. In my mind,” she added, reminding him that she was an established psychic. That banning her from the medical examination hadn’t made a difference.
Detectives Muncy and Riggs remained silent, watching her and West.
He left the photographs in front of her. Finally she picked one up, studied it, saw that Denise’s scalp was pulled down over her face. The front quadrant of her skull had been cut away and removed. Standard autopsy stuff.
“Denise doesn’t like this,” she said, pretending the victim was making contact with her. “She preferred her brain the way it was.”
Agent West wasn’t amused, but she knew Detective Muncy appreciated her offbeat humor. They’d met ten years ago, on the night of her father’s suicide. He’d seen her at her worst.
“I heard you were a smart-ass,” West told her.
“And I heard you would try to discredit me.” Los Angeles was her turf, her city, the place where she’d been born and raised. She had every right to help the police apprehend the Indian Slasher. The faceless woman in the photograph deserved that much.
West didn’t respond. Tension