Killer Charms

by Marianne Stillings

  When the kiss ended, Logan cupped her cheek and eased back a bit so he could look into her eyes. “Darlin’, we’d best get up before…before—”

  “No,” she whispered. “No. Please don’t. I want it.” Averting her eyes, she murmured, “I want this time for it to be you and me. And this time…” She sought his gaze. “I want to remember.”

  In his arms, her body was warm, inviting. Her eyes quietly beseeched him. Her lips parted as she awaited his kiss.

  “Aye, lass,” he rasped. “This time…it’s me, and it’s you…and it’s for us to remember…”

  He lowered his head and kissed her, slowly teasing her tongue with his own. She responded, moaning in the back of her throat, wrapping her arms around him, tugging him close, closer, pressing her warm body into his.

  He reveled in the contact. He’d wanted to make love to her from the first, and he mentally raised a pint to the spirits of Jacob and Emma Harte for giving him a leg up. Andie fitted him perfectly in mind, in body, maybe even in soul for all he knew.

  Her back arched, allowing him access to her naked breasts. Trailing kisses down her throat, and down, and down, he cupped one breast, tugging the bit of tender flesh into his mouth, flicking the taut nipple with his tongue. In his arms, she squirmed and let go a long, high sigh.

  Parting her thighs with his knee, he settled between them and gazed down at her face. In the sweet light of morning, she looked hot and erotic and more desirable than any woman he’d ever known.

  She tossed her head back, raising her hips to rub against his erection, moaning at the contact.

  He reached up and tenderly caressed her cheek. For now, for this very moment at least, she was his. His, and only his. The realization made his heart nearly burst with an emotion he’d thought long dead.

  It wouldn’t last. They’d make love, release their passion, and move on. This was not a prelude to permanence, it could not be. He was not a lucky enough man to win and keep the heart of Andie Darling. Besides, a decade and a half ago, he’d vowed to live in isolation for the rest of his days in payment for his crimes.

  But he was still a man, and there were some things that couldn’t be put aside altogether. So if a woman such as the likes of this one was willing to welcome him into her arms and her body, he’d take it, and be grateful to her forever for keeping the dark away if only for one night.

  In one long, slow, glide, he entered her, so perfect, so right.

  “Ah, lass,” he whispered into her ear. “God, yer so damn beautiful. You feel so good…”

  As he began to move within her, she made a soft, mewling sound and lifted her hips to meet his thrusts. He rocked against her again and again, kissing her neck, then lowering his head to suckle her nipple. She liked that, so he did it again.

  “Are ye going to come for me, lass?” he murmured.

  “Aye,” she sighed. “Oh, aye…soon. Oh, yes, very very very…”

  Her muscles tightened, her breathing changed to rapid pants as her hips slammed against his.

  “Logan!” she choked. “Logan…I…oh, God…”

  As she began bucking under him, a wild woman clinging to her mate, she lifted her head and kissed him, her mouth open, her raw passion affecting him like a shot to the heart of undiluted lust.

  Logan came in a heated rush, filling her with himself until he had no more to give.

  Collapsing on top of her, his chest heaved as though he’d just scaled the top of Ben Lomond at a dead run, but she slid her arms around him and held him close, murmuring endearing and soothing words. Then she reached up, stroked his damp brow with her fingertips, and smiled into his eyes.

  “For us,” she whispered. “To remember.”

  “Aye, lass,” he said, then lowered his head and kissed the tip of her nose. “To remember.”

  By the time Andie showered and finished dressing, Logan had gone downstairs to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat.

  Comb in hand, she sat on the bed and worked the tangles out of her hair. While she did so, she let her idle gaze take in the room from the pretty rose-print wallpaper and mahogany furniture, to the small shelf of books and several Tiffany lamps…

  This had to have been Emma’s room. No wonder then, that she and Logan had been possessed—if that was the right word—by the spirits of Emma and the man she loved.

  She lowered her hand to her lap and let her thumb run over the teeth of the comb as she thought about last night’s dream…

  Emma had accidentally killed Jacob, and then she herself had died. What had happened then? Whatever had become of her father? What about Sean, the baby?

  For a moment, Andie’s thoughts diverted to Logan. How would she feel if she were responsible for his death?

  She tossed the comb onto the bedspread and let her thoughts go where she’d tried to prevent them going for days now. In spite of her best efforts, she had fallen in love with him and simply couldn’t find it within herself to be sorry about it.

  Of course, the love she felt for him was the new kind, the kind where there’s no baggage between them, nothing but thoughts of anticipation and promise. The fresh, edgy, hot, start-of-something-big kind of love where the future holds only happiness, laughter, shared memories, companionship, and hope.

  If she were lucky, when today’s heat simmered down into an easy warmth, he’d still be there to share with her the even richer, forevermore kind of love.

  Aye. Smiling to herself, she realized that, in spite of her years-long decision to steer clear of commitment, that she’d actually like that kind of love, if it was with Logan…

  From her jeans pocket, the strains of Eric Clapton’s Change the World brought her out of her reverie. Retrieving the cell phone, she flipped it open. “Hey, Ethan. What’s up?”

  “Hey, brat,” he said, his tone more solemn than usual. “Listen, you sitting down?”

  Andie’s heart squeezed in alarm. “Has something happened to Nate or Mom?”

  “No. God, no. They’re fine.” Ethan cleared his throat and went into his firstborn, older brother, head-of-the-family, deep-voiced, former detective voice. “Hang on to your socks, kiddo. This is going to hit you hard.”

  Chapter 22

  What hangs people…is the unfortunate circumstance of guilt.

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  She stood by the side of the hospital bed, gazing down at the comatose form of Dylan Jericho, his handsome face pale, his cheek too cool to the touch.

  Tubes ran everywhere. Bags and bottles hung from metal rings, feeding him, hydrating him, medicating him, sustaining him while his body found a way to heal itself.

  ER doctors and nurses had labored for seven hours to save his life, mend him, repair the damage the bullets had done to his insides.

  Andie shook her head in wonder. He’d taken three bullets in the chest and had somehow managed not to die.

  Way to go, Jericho, she thought to herself. Way to go you stubborn bastard.

  But while the slugs had all missed hitting something vital, he’d lost a lot of blood…maybe too much. He’d been found on a seldom-used path in Golden Gate Park and rushed to the hospital before he’d bled out, but that didn’t mean he’d recover. According to whichever doctor Andie listened to, Dylan’s chances of pulling out of the coma were slim…to none.

  Since slim at least didn’t write him off completely, as far as Andie was concerned, each day he remained alive was enough to give her hope.

  If she knew Dylan, he’d stay alive if only to identify who’d done this to him. He wouldn’t like it that somebody had gotten the drop on him. He’d go down fighting, that was for damn sure.

  On the other side of the bed, Lieutenant Eagan stood, his stance rigid, his hands clasped in front of him as though he were listening to the national anthem. With his left thumb, he fiddled with his wedding band, absently rolling it around and around his finger.

  “A shame,” he mumbled. “Real shame. Fine police officer. Good detective. A damn shame.”


  Andie sucked in a hard breath. “He’ll make it, sir. If anybody can make it, he will.” If saying the words would make it true, then she’d say them over and over, no matter how deep the doubt she hid inside.

  Eagan’s weary eyes lifted to meet hers. “I know you two go way back.”

  “Yes, sir. To the academy.”

  He nodded, kept nodding as though the motion would punctuate his next words, make his wishes irrefutable. “We’ll get who did this. I want who did this.” Again, he lifted his gaze to meet Andie’s. “I want him, you know?”

  “Yes, sir.” Her voice was a mere whisper, but angry and determined for all that. She swallowed. Framing her next question carefully, she worked to sound interested and yet casual at the same time. “Any leads?”

  He shook his head. “The slugs appear to be from a Glock, but without a weapon, no ballistics match. And no witnesses. Nothing.”

  “What was he doing in the park that night?”

  Eagan shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe out for an evening stroll, maybe chasing a lead, maybe meeting somebody. Whoever he ran across caught him off guard, though. He took the slugs in the chest, facing his attacker. No defensive wounds on his arms or hands. His weapon was still secured in its shoulder holster.”

  Andie peered down at her toes, then slid her hands into her jeans pockets. “What does Commander Bostwick make of all this?”

  Again, Eagan shrugged. “I spoke with the commander earlier today. He’s made finding Jericho’s assailant a top priority. Putting every available detective on it. Everyone’s stirred up over this, you know. Everyone’s determined to collar the creep who shot a cop.”

  He adjusted his glasses, then said, “Uh, I have to ask, you know, as routine, your whereabouts two nights ago. You know, the night Jericho was shot.”

  At first, she felt alarmed that she’d come under suspicion, but almost immediately let it go. People generally were shot by somebody they knew. Eagan was only doing his job.

  “I was on the Sinclair case, sir,” she said. “I was with him at the time. Besides, I have no motive for killing my partner.”

  But I know who did…

  She choked back the words, aching to tell Eagan what was going on. But she didn’t dare. For all she knew, Eagan was in Bostwick’s pocket, too…

  The lieutenant nodded again, kept nodding as before. “Had to ask, Inspector. You understand.”

  “I do, sir. And if I may return the favor, where were you that night?”

  Eagan’s head came up, and his eyes widened, then he smiled. “Sure. Sure, sure. Not a problem. I was at home with my wife watching a DVD.”

  She swallowed her trepidation. “And Commander Bostwick?”

  Eagan’s brows furrowed, and he looked confused. “Are you concerned the commander had something to do with Jericho’s attempted murder?”

  “No, sir,” she lied. “It was a silly question, you know, just a turnabout is fair play kind of thing.”

  Jamming his hands into his jacket pockets, he stuck out his lower lip. “Well, not that it matters, but I understand he was at one of his wife’s fund-raiser dinners that night. Dozens of people around. Can’t have a much more solid alibi than that.”

  She smiled. “Like I said. Silly question.”

  Returning her attention to Dylan, she reached for his hand and clasped it, giving it a gentle squeeze. His fingers were cold, so she squeezed again to try and infuse him with some of her warmth.

  Leaning close, she placed her mouth near his ear. “We’re going to get him, Dylan,” she rasped harshly. “You just do your part and stay alive, okay?”

  As tears burned the back of her throat, she nodded good-bye to Eagan, then turned to the door just as it eased open. Delicate fingers curled around the threshold, and a moment later, a face came into view.

  The woman had a thick shock of wavy gray hair, bright blue eyes, a pert nose, and full mouth. She appeared to be around fifty, and was the prettiest lady Andie had ever seen.

  She smiled at Andie, and said, “Pardon me, is this…” Before she could finish her sentence, her bright gaze darted past Andie’s shoulder to land on Dylan. “Oh! There he is!” She turned her head to speak to someone in the hallway. “It’s this one. He’s in here, girls!”

  Andie watched as the woman flung the door all the way open and entered the room, followed by four girls lined up like baby ducks behind their mother, each girl younger and more beautiful than the next.

  As a gaggle, they pushed past Lieutenant Eagan, who stepped back to give them more room. Surrounding Dylan’s bed, cooing and crying, they patted his hands and lamented his predicament.

  The gray-haired lady stood closest, her red-rimmed eyes filled with tears. She placed her fingertips gently on Dylan’s brow, then slid her hand down to cup his cheek. Leaning forward, she placed a tender kiss on his forehead, then moved back to let one of her weeping daughters take her place.

  Pulling a tissue from the box on the nightstand, Andie handed it to the woman, who took it and gently blew her nose.

  “We just flew up from L.A.,” she choked. “I’m Mary Jericho, Dylan’s mom.”

  “I figured,” Andie said sympathetically. “I’m Andie Darling, your son’s partner. And this is Lieutenant Eagan.”

  Eagan stepped forward, smiled, and took the lady’s hand, giving it a single shake. “An honor to meet you, ma’am.” Releasing her hand, he said, “My apologies, but I have a prior commitment. I…I just want you to know how sorry I am to have to meet you under such disagreeable circumstances.”

  Mrs. Jericho gave him a watery smile as he turned and pushed through the door. It made a quiet swoosh as it closed behind him.

  Returning her attention to Mrs. Jericho, Andie said, “I…Look I don’t know what to say. I’m so very sorry for—”

  “No!” Mrs. Jericho rushed. “He’s fine. He’s going to be fine. Whatever condition he’s in right now is only temporary.” Her blue eyes pleaded with Andie to accept her desperately optimistic diagnosis.

  Andie gave the lady a weak smile and nodded. “I think so, too.”

  It was then Andie looked around her. Mrs. Jericho and her four girls didn’t look as though they’d just stepped off an airplane on a mission to see their critically ill son and brother, they looked like escapees from a New York fashion show.

  “You say you flew up from L.A.?” she asked. “Dylan never talks about his personal or family life much. Whereabouts in L.A. do you live?”

  Mrs. Jericho’s gaze drifted across the room to her son, lying still as death, fighting for his every breath.

  “Brentwood,” she said absently. “It’s near Beverly Hills.” Turning back to Andie, she rushed, “They said he lost a lot of blood and that he might not come out of the coma, but he’s strong, you know. Dylan was always a very strong baby. I…I’m sure he’ll heal quickly.” Tears filled her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks. “He’s always been so strong. I can’t believe…”

  “Mrs. Jericho,” Andie said soothingly. “Please don’t do this to yourself. Let’s keep a good thought, okay?”

  Mary Jericho wiped away her tears, straightened her shoulders, and did her best to smile. “You’re right, Andie. You’re so right. Girls,” she said, and four blond heads turned her way. “This is Andie Darling, Dylan’s partner.”

  “Hello,” they all said, and smiled. Andie could only stare in wonder. Macho man Dylan Jericho had a doting mother and four silly sisters? And he was rich? In all the years she’d known him, he’d never mentioned any of this, and she had to wonder why.

  As soon as he woke up, she’d ask him. Yes, the very minute he came out of this damn coma—and he would—that would be the second thing she’d ask him, the first being, could he identify Bradley Bostwick as the man who’d tried to kill him.

  It was a moment before Andie realized Mary Jericho was speaking. “…father died ten years ago, Dylan refused to take part in the family business. Insisted he wanted to be a police officer. A detective.” She gave
Andie another sad look. “How did your mother feel about you becoming a police officer, Andie?”

  “My family and law enforcement go way back,” she said. “With a grandfather, a father, two brothers, and various other relatives all police officers, I don’t think it was a surprise when I—”

  “But they were all male,” she said, concern glowing in her eyes. “Your mother must be very proud of you for choosing such a noble path, even though it puts her only daughter at risk. It’s hard enough to watch a son put himself in harm’s way, but a daughter…”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked over at her four budding beauty queens, still cooing over their brother’s prone and silent form.

  “Dylan’s the eldest,” she volunteered, staring at him wistfully. “When Janine, Josie, Erin, and Terri came along, he was such a good big brother to them. They adore him.”

  It was plain to see that Mary Jericho and her four daughters all adored Dylan. For a moment, Andie wanted to laugh out loud. This must be where the smoother-than-smooth Jericho had learned how to deal with—and conquer—the fairer sex. She imagined he was a fierce protector of his sisters, and any guy dumb enough to mess with a Jericho daughter would have big brother Dylan to answer to.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to your privacy,” Andie said. “It was nice meeting you, and if you need anything…” She handed Mrs. Jericho her card. “Please contact me, any day, any hour. I mean that.”

  As Mrs. Jericho slipped the card into her purse, she said, “Dylan talked about you, you know.”

  “He did?”

  “He always had something nice to say. He said if there was anybody he’d ever trust to watch his back, it would be you.”

  Inside Andie’s chest, her heart crimped. He hadn’t talked about her looks, or the fact he’d wanted to date her, and she’d spurned him. Instead, he’d told his mother he trusted her.

  And she’d let him down. She’d been too wrapped up in her own troubles, she hadn’t watched Dylan’s back, and look what had happened. She’d known Bostwick was going to pull something but had no idea whether he was serious, or if he was, what he would do. His targeting Dylan had never even crossed her mind.