Always Look Twice

He lowered his gaze to her throat, and she sensed that he wanted to touch her scar.

And then she got another eerie feeling.

Someone was watching them. Not someone in the bar. But someone with powers that rivaled Olivia’s. Someone who could see them in his mind.

The Slasher, she thought, as her veins turned to ice.

The man prowling the city for another victim.

Chapter 4

West didn’t puke in her Porsche, but he didn’t say anything to her, either. The drive to his motel was steeped in silence. She hadn’t told him about the Slasher watching them. But the empathic vibration hadn’t lasted more than a second, making her wonder if it had been real.

Olivia’s gift wasn’t infallible. Sometimes fear got in the way, an emotion she did her damnedest to control.

She parked in front of West’s room and killed the engine. His rental car was still at the bar.

Finally he turned to look at her. She could feel his heart thumping in his chest. The way she’d felt her dad’s pulse on the night he’d died.

Strong and steady. Edgy. No imaginary trick.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“What for?”

“So I can apologize.”

She almost smiled. Now he’d intrigued her. “Sure. Why not?”

He didn’t weave on the way to the door, but he fumbled for his key, cursing when he couldn’t find it in his pocket.

“I still have mine.” She opened her purse. “Good thing I kept it.”

“Oh, yeah. Good thing.” He leaned against the stucco wall and watched her. “I should have made them change the lock.”

She opened the door. “But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” He reached across and flipped the switch, where the lamp flickered, illuminating the room like a strobe light.

She placed her purse on the dinette table in the corner and draped her jacket over a chair. Her silver-studded accessories looked sorely out of place in the simple surroundings.

Following her lead, he removed his sport coat. But he hung it in the closet. Neat and tidy, she thought. Even when he was drunk.

She glanced at the bed, then sat in one of the straight-back chairs. “Feel free to apologize anytime.”

West grabbed the chair with her jacket, turned it around and straddled it. His face was shadowed in harsh lines and angles, making him look sensually surreal. “How’d you get that scar?”

“That’s my apology?”

“I’m sorry for being an ass. Now, how’d you get that scar?”

She touched her own throat, using the tip of her finger like a blade. “None of your business, and your apology sucked.”

He shrugged. “I think I already know. I just haven’t figured out the details yet.”

“So what?” She met his gaze, looking into those unnerving eyes.

“I’ll bet you got that raspy voice from whatever caused your scar. Women with husky voices fascinate me.”

“Too bad I prefer men who can hold their liquor.”

“But I can.” He laughed a little. “Most of the time.”

She laughed, too. He had an odd brand of charm.

A moment later they both turned solemn. The misbehaving lamp flickered once again, making her wonder about the Slasher, about how strong his powers were.

“My ability isn’t error proof,” she said. “Sometimes I make mistakes.”

“I didn’t think you were perfect. But you were right about my ex-wife. She couldn’t handle my job.”

Olivia wondered if he would be telling her this if he was sober. “Did she cheat? Did she leave you for someone else?”

He nodded. “It was the worst experience of my life. The most hurtful, I guess. I liked being married. I liked having a woman to come home to.” He studied her scar again. “We were together for six years.”

“But did you love her, Agent West? Was she as important as your career?”

He pondered the question. He was still straddling the jacket-draped chair, still looking surreal. “I loved her, but my job is my life. It’s who I am.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead. “Does that make me a bastard?”

No, she thought. It just made him that much more appealing. Olivia’s work was her priority, too. “How old are you?” she asked, realizing the simple things about him eluded her.

“Guess,” he said. “Figure it out.”

“Thirty-six.”

“Nope. I’m thirty-five, and you’re a lousy psychic.”

That made her laugh. In spite of her imperfections, she knew she was good. He knew it, too. “Where are you from?”

He removed his wallet and tossed his ID on the table. “I live in Virginia.”

“Of course you do. The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime is located there.” She took a good look at his license, wondering if he’d meant to reveal his home address, to let it sink into her memory. “That’s where you work, where criminal profiling is done. I was asking where you were from. Originally.”

“I was born and raised in Oklahoma.” He tapped the rail of her chair with his boot. “And for the record, we call it criminal investigative analysis now. Profiling is an outdated term for what we do.”

“Fine. Have you analyzed the Slasher?” she asked, knowing the LAPD was trying to get a handle on the killer, too.

“Yes. But I’m going to return to the NCAVC on Monday to consult with my colleagues about it.”