“Tell me about your family,” Andie said, taking another sip of whisky.
“Nothing to tell.”
“Sure there is. Everybody—”
“They’re dead,” he said, his expression suddenly somber, distant. “Long time ago.” The dull gleam in his eye, the flat line of his mouth shouted Don’t go there.
For the first time since she’d met him, she got a glimpse under the veneer. And she knew without doubt that when crossed, Logan Sinclair could be a very dangerous man.
His posture shifted, shoulders relaxed, and the easy smile returned to his face. With his fork, he indicated the haggis that remained on her plate. “So you liked it well enough did ye?”
“Aye. Well enough,” she mimicked. “So this clairvoyance thing you’ve got going.” Lifting her gaze to meet his, she said, “How do you do it really?”
He returned her gaze, steadily, a hint of challenge in their depths. “You don’t believe in my renowned psychic abilities?”
“I don’t believe in psychic abilities period, yours or anyone else’s.” Settling back in her chair, she picked up her whisky glass, rolling it between her fingers, watching the amber liquid tilt this way and that. “How’d you get so famous?”
“Did a few séances with a few celebrities.” He leaned forward, and whispered, “Actors are an insecure lot. They’re always looking to see what their future holds.” He picked up his own whisky and sipped at it. “I went on a few tours, wrote a couple of books. The tabloids splashed my name about a couple of times, and I was off and running.”
“Must turn a tidy sum.”
“It does.”
Crossing her arms over her waist, she said, “So what do you do with your millions?”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug, then gave her a toothy, used-car-salesman grin. “Why, don’t you know, I send it all to my poor widowed grandmother.”
Andie snorted. “Right.”
A strange look crossed his face for a moment, and he swallowed. “Nevertheless…” Sticking out his lower lip, he studied his whisky glass. “Money is only…money. They say the best things in life are free.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she quipped.
His eyes flashed up at her, and for a moment, he seemed to grow somber. “Aye, you do just that.”
Wiping her hands on her napkin, she said, “Okay, so tell me, how do you convince people you can talk to their dead relatives, when there’s absolutely no way you can really do that?”
He studied her for a moment. “You’d be surprised.”
“Okay. Surprise me.”
“Perhaps we should talk about something else.”
“Ah, come on,” she teased. “Do a séance for me. Talk to, um, let’s see. How about my father? He’s dead. I’ve a few things I’d like to get off my chest—”
“Doesn’t work that way,” he growled, shoving his empty plate away.
“Just how does it work?” She sent him her most charming smile, the one she had used when she was seventeen to get out of a well-deserved speeding ticket. “You must have some cutting-edge information network you access that provides you with all kinds of data, personal and public, about a potential client before the so-called séance. Then you turn on the charm, do a little smoke-and-mirrors thing, tell them whatever they want to hear, then cash the check.” Setting her whisky glass on the table, she circled the rim with a fingertip, then looked over at him. “C’mon. You can tell me.”
He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable except for the hard glint in his eyes. “Like the man says,” he drawled, leaning across the table until they were nearly nose to nose. “I could tell ye, but then I’d have to kill ye.”
Raising her chin, she met his gaze dead on. “But you wouldn’t kill me,” she whispered. “Would you.”
Chapter 6
There is only one difference between a long life and a good dinner: that, in the dinner, the sweets comes last.
Robert Louis Stevenson
Had she won, or lost? Had she hooked him, or pushed him too far? Would he want to see her again, or had she blown the whole operation?
In confused silence, Andie walked beside Logan toward the underground parking garage where they’d left his car. She replayed their conversation in her head, trying to calculate her gains and losses and figure her next move.
But her next move depended on his.
Her superiors had chosen her for this assignment, confident she could pull it off, and she’d assured them—and herself—she could. After all, this was her big break, the first stamp on her ticket out of Vice and into the elite Homicide Division, where her brothers and father had distinguished themselves. Now it was her turn to prove she could measure up, do the job, bring down the bad guys. No more “little sister Andie,” a small trembling leaf shadowed behind the big ones on the family tree.
Lieutenant Eagan had given her a remarkable chance to prove herself, her worth, and she would not let him down.
But Logan Sinclair was much more complex than she’d bargained for. He was smart, cagey, crafty. He used his charm and sexuality to manipulate, control, subtly persuade. He was nobody’s fool.
But then, neither was she. The question was, which one of them played the game better? In the end, which one of them would back the other one into the corner?
When she’d taken this assignment, Andie had been sure it would be she who’d prevail; she still was. It was just going to take more planning, more focus, and tiptoeing very carefully to avoid falling into his trap before he fell into hers.
They reached the elevator, and he pressed the button for the garage level. A moment later, the dull steel doors rattled open, and she stepped inside the tiny compartment. Without a word, Logan followed her, then thumbed the button for the lower level.
As the doors slid together and the elevator began its descent, Andie considered her next words. But before she could say anything, he took a step toward her. In one smooth move, he tugged her into his arms and kissed her.
It was as though she were being consumed by a forest fire. Heat seeped into her skin through her palms, flat against his chest. His fingers left a searing trail as they traced her waist, then slid down her hips to grab her butt in a firm hold. His warm breath mingled with her own as he kissed her until she thought she would melt.
His lips were soft yet in total command. His tongue teased. He must have kissed a thousand women—hell, maybe a million—to get this good at it.
Pulling back, he nibbled and suckled her lower lip as he ended the kiss.
She wanted to moan from the loss.
The elevator halted at the garage level; the door opened, but neither of them moved.
His sleepy eyes gazed down into hers, searching. Then he lowered his head, kissing her again, more tenderly this time, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sending a chill of desire through her body.
His big hands skimmed up and around until he cupped her breasts through the fabric of her dress. While his thumbs rubbed her nipples into peaks, his kiss coaxed, his tongue caressed. Against her stomach, she felt the hard length of him.
Andie fought like mad to avoid succumbing. Mentally, she detached herself from what her body was experiencing. She could not, would not under any circumstances, allow herself to respond.
He pulled away a fraction of an inch. Through labored breaths, he rasped, “Come back to my hotel with me, Andie. Let me make love to you.”
Oh, God. Yes, yes, yes, and yes…
Well, so much for iron self-control.
“N-no,” she managed.
“Come with me anyway,” he coaxed softly. Another kiss. M-m-m. “For a drink,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll be good. We will nae do anythin’ you don’t want to do.”
In a dreamlike state, she heard his promise; then the words registered.
Putting her hands to his shoulders, she shoved him away. “And how many teenage boys have said that, and how many teenage girls believed it?”
“Damn straight, ah didna,” she mimicked.
“Yer crafty and overprotective brother again?”
“He made me wise beyond my years.”
“So where does that leave the likes of me, who wants to make love to the likes of you?”
She tilted her head, giving him a coy grin. Time to go for broke, or the game was over.
“Frustrated?” she quipped. “And maybe hopeful enough to ask me out again?”
“I wish Daddy were still alive! If Daddy were here, you’d never get away—”
“Well ‘Daddy’ is dead, Gloria. Now shut up and do what I told you to do. If your mother’s still there when I get home tonight, I’ll kick her ass out into the street myself, then have her arrested for vagrancy!”
Brad Bostwick snapped his personal cell phone closed and threw it down on his trim and tidy desk.
That’s what he got for marrying the police commissioner’s daughter. Nag, nag, nag. Daddy always this…Daddy never that…if Daddy were only here…Daddy, Daddy, Daddy until Brad had wanted to shove his fist down his wife’s throat.
Shit, the old fart had died four months ago, and his widow had been staying at Brad’s house ever since. If it had been up to Gloria, she’d have had the old bat move in with them for good! Her constant presence put a crimp in his style. He always had to be on guard, on his best behavior when his wife’s mother was around, and he was damn tired of being “on” all the time. If a man couldn’t be himself in his own house, what did that leave him?
Enough was enough—it was time for his mother-in-law to go the hell home. What was the old bag now, eighty? Eighty-five? Why wasn’t she in some senior home where they put the worn-out people nobody wanted?
As he tried to calm himself before anyone saw him in this unprofessional and agitated state, he let his angry gaze flit around his office.
Looking at his things, bowling trophies, the photograph of him with the mayor—a few mayors back, of course—his several distinguished service plaques, always made him feel better about himself. He was the best, and had earned his current position. He’d been told that his direct reports admired him for his tenacity and fairness, and sought to emulate him. The fact he’d married the police commissioner’s daughter was simply his due and not related in any way to his steady rise within the ranks. Over the years, he’d made sure—damn sure—no scandal was ever attached to his name.
And he intended it to stay that way.
When he noticed that his cell phone had knocked the brass nameplate on his desk slightly askew, he reached to straighten it, but instead picked it up. COMMANDER BRADLEY R. BOSTWICK. He smiled, using his thumb to wipe away bits of dust and a smudge of some kind. Stupid, unfit cleaning crew.
Carefully, he placed the nameplate on his desk so it aligned with the corner perfectly, and was the first thing anyone saw when entering his office.
Standing, he went to the narrow, but nearly full-length mirror on the wall next to his locked filing cabinet. He raised his head, squared his shoulders, sucked in his gut. Hell, not half bad for fifty-five. Yeah, there was that little bald spot at the crown of his head, but the comb-over pretty much took care of that. Women still came on to him, all the time, as a matter of fact. Gloria should be damn lucky she had him, and that he had remained relatively faithful over the course of their twenty-something-year marriage.
He looked himself in the eye. Now that her old man was dead, maybe it was time to move on, get himself one of those trophy wives. Gloria was okay, but really, didn’t he deserve better?
If he left her, he knew what people would say, that he was shallow or unappreciative, but he was neither. He was deep, very deep, and he did appreciate Gloria. Hell, she’d been a good wife, he had no complaints. She’d given him a couple of daughters—who never seemed to be around anymore, the ingrates, but that wasn’t Gloria’s fault.
He knew the rumors, that he’d only married her to further his career, but that wasn’t true. The first time he’d set eyes on her, he’d fallen in love. She’d been a stunner back then, so pretty, sexy even. He’d wanted to marry her, build a life with her.
It was just that she wasn’t the beauty she had once been. Time had passed, and she’d grown a little soft around the edges. Makeup, good jewelry, and nice clothes could only take a woman so far. A tiara on a pig didn’t change the fact it was a pig.
After all, he had his career, his ambition to think about. Gloria was dragging him down.
He turned sideways to check out his biceps. Flexing, he smiled at the bulge he saw rise beneath the fabric of his white-cotton shirtsleeve. The low-fat diet, working out, lifting weights, running, all kept him trim and in fighting form. And he knew from recent experience, if called upon to do so, he could best a man half his age.
Stretching, he straightened his tie, then returned to his desk. He checked his calendar, then his watch. Almost ten.
He settled back into his chair and let his mind drift a bit. She was beautiful, she was under his command, and she was on her way to his office. Life just didn’t get any better than this.
Knowing what he did of her, if he suggested a liaison, she’d knee him in the groin despite the evidence he had in his locked cabinet that would make her toe the line. So he’d keep it businesslike, tell her what he wanted, and instruct her in how to provide it for him.
Very simple, really. He’d make her an offer she couldn’t refuse.
He laughed. God, how he loved that line.
When he heard the knock on the door, he sat up straight, inhaled a deep breath, let it out.
“It’s open,” he said lightly, congenially. It was his way; it was expected. Brad Bostwick, always the courteous professional. He curved his mouth into a smile so she’d see it as soon as she walked in—after she saw his nameplate of course. Inside his chest, his heart beat a little faster.
“We have an appointment, Commander,” she said. “At ten?”
He stood. “Come on in, Inspector Darling. Have a seat.”
She smiled and took one of the two chairs that faced his desk.
Wow, what a knockout. Too bad he wanted other things from her—at the moment.
“You have a status update for me?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, obviously trying to hide her nervousness and pride at having been called into the great man’s presence. “I’m seeing Sinclair again tonight.”
“Where?”
“The mansion.” She licked her lips, cleared her throat, raised her chin. “He’s ostensibly going to perform a séance for me. It’ll be my first chance to—”
“How long do you think it’ll take to wrap this up?” he interrupted, tapping his tented fingers together. His gaze remained steady on her.
Andrea straightened in the standard-issue office chair. “Well, I really couldn’t say, sir. I’ve only encountered the suspect on two occasions. Not quite enough time to gain his—”
“Did you know,” he said, examining the tips of his fingers. “I was the one who recommended to Lieutenant Eagan that you be assigned to this operation?”
She blinked. “No, sir. I mean, well, thank you sir. This is a great opportunity—”
“And…that I expect you to perform to my expectations? Your family has a reputation with this department that is going to be difficult to meet, or exceed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir—”
“Even though you haven’t as much undercover experience as many other officers, and even though you have only recently been promoted to detective, I insisted you be the one to infiltrate Sinclair’s little operation.”
The detective sat perfectly still. “Thank you again, sir. I’m flattered.”
He smiled. “I appreciate your heartfelt thanks, Inspector, but I’d much prefer a practical demonstration.”
She said nothing, but simply stared past his shoulder out the second-story win
dow behind him.
Lifting a pair of reading glasses from the blotter on his desk, he unfolded them and slipped them on. A file lay under his hand. He opened it.
“I would think a police officer of your caliber,” he drawled, “with your exemplary record, and certainly one with your ambitions, would have better sense than to have an affair with a fellow police officer.”
She blinked like she’d just been smacked in the head with a brick. “I’ve never…what are you talking about?”
He slowly removed his black-rimmed glasses, tapping them against the pale manila folder. “Dylan Jericho. You and he were lovers.”
He watched her green eyes go wide. She choked. “What? No sir, that’s not true. I would never…I mean, we dated once, one date, that’s all, back when we were rookies in uniform. Nothing ever…I mean, we never—”
“I really don’t care if he fucked you or not, Inspector,” he said blandly. “All I know is, I have a photograph of you and your coincidentally now-partner wrapped in a passionate embrace, and if you don’t follow my instructions to the letter, I’m going to make it public. Any questions?”
Andie sat in shock, unable to speak, let alone ask a question, while Bostwick thumbed through the file, removed an eight-by-ten glossy, and held it up for her to see.
It was a photo of her and Dylan. Of course she remembered that night eight years ago—her one and only date with Dylan Jericho. But how in the hell had Bostwick gotten ahold of a photograph? Who had snapped it, and why?
Her cheeks heated, and her throat seemed too tight for words to form. “I…Commander Bostwick, I—”
“You know it’s against department regs for officers to have personal relationships, and if you do decide to fly in the face of policy, you must notify the commanding officer.”
Finally finding her voice, Andie said, “Well, there was no relationship, sir. We went to dinner one night. One dinner. Nothing came of it. We were just coworkers spending time together. If it somehow had developed into a relationship, I would have made the department aware of it.” She cleared her throat. “As for the photograph, that’s not an embrace. Sir. He was helping me into my coat.”
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