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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.

  Dear Reader,

  What do you plan to accomplish in 2005? Let Silhouette Bombshell jump-start your year with this month’s fast-paced lineup of stories featuring amazing women who will entertain you, energize you and inspire you to get out there and get things done!

  Author Nancy Bartholomew brings on the heat with Stella, Get Your Man. P.I. Stella Valocchi is on a missing-persons case—but with a lying client, a drug lord gunning for her and a new partner who thinks he’s the boss, Stella’s got her hands full staying cool under fire.

  The pressure rises as our popular twelve-book ATHENA FORCE continuity series continues with Deceived, by Carla Cassidy, in which a computer whiz with special, supersecret talents discovers that she’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list and her entire life may be a lie.

  Reality isn’t what it seems in the mystic thriller Always Look Twice by Sheri WhiteFeather. Heroine Olivia Whirlwind has a unique gift, but delving into the minds of crime victims will bring her ever closer to a ruthless killer and will make everyone a suspect—including those she loves.

  And finally, travel to Romania with Crystal Green’s The Huntress, as an heiress with an attitude becomes a vampire hunter on a mission for vengeance after her lover is captured by those mysterious creatures of the night.

  Enjoy all four, and when you’re finished, please send your comments to me c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

  Sincerely,

  Natashya Wilson

  Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell

  SHERI WHITEFEATHER

  ALWAYS LOOK TWICE

  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 Silhouette 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 Web site at: www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.

  To Tara Gavin, Melissa Jeglinski, Leslie Wainger, Natashya Wilson and Lynda Curnyn (the editorial Bombshells at Silhouette) 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.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  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 p
sychic. 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 buzzed between them, zapping the room like fireflies. The flag in the corner didn’t dare wave, in spite of a strong, hard blast from an air-conditioning vent.

  “Olivia is FBI, too,” Muncy said, catching the profiler’s attention with a silly joke. “Full-blooded Indian.”

  “I’m aware of that.” He leaned forward, putting his hands on the conference table, looking straight at her, his voice laced with a Southern-boy slant. “I assume you’re concerned about helping our people.”

  “Our people?” She raised her eyebrows. He wasn’t claiming to be Indian, was he? Olivia hailed from an Oglala Lakota father and a Chiricahua Apache mother, both of whom were long gone from her life. A younger sister was her only family.

  “Let me guess. Your great-great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess,” she said, poking fun at the oldest, most ridiculous wannabe claim that ever existed.

  A cynical smile ghosted across his lips. Apparently he was familiar with the princess scenario. “I’m a card-carrying Muscogee Creek, Ms. Whirlwind.”

  Who relied on his heritage when it suited him, she thought. A special agent, ready to save the day, with one-sixteenth or possibly one-eighth Native blood flowing through his veins.

  But, hey, he was registered with his tribe.

  “I’m impressed,” she told him.

  “So I see,” he mocked. “And considering you have a lot in common with the victims in this case, you should be. A young, attractive Native American woman living and working in Los Angeles County. I’d be careful if I were you.”

  “But you’re not me, are you?” Olivia knew damn well that she could shoot a flea off the back of a gnat’s ass faster than West could pull out his peter to pee. “I can take care of myself.”

  He dropped his gaze to the base of her throat, where a noticeable scar made a mysterious statement. “You sure about that?”

  “Positive.” Was the special agent wondering if someone had tried to slit her throat? Olivia knew how her scar affected most people and what their speculations were. Of course, he was different. He’d probably figured it out already. He’d probably seen enough wounds to know how they were inflicted. But even so, she lifted her chin, allowing him a good hard look.

  He took an unabashed gander, but he didn’t let his gaze slip lower, even though her curve-clinging jumpsuit attracted plenty of attention. Olivia enjoyed dressing like a designer-clad dominatrix. It fit her daring personality, the part of her that refused to be tamed.

  “Why don’t you brief me on the case?” West said, his tone a tad too condescending.

  She glared at him. “I’m sure the detectives already brought you up to speed.”

  “I’d really like to hear it from a psychic’s perspective.”

  “Fine.” She accepted his challenge and glanced at Muncy, who leaned back in his chair, keeping his emotions in check. Riggs, on the other hand, managed a small smile. But whom the smile was intended for wasn’t quite clear.

  Olivia came to her feet, walking to the front of the room. At twenty-nine she worked hard to keep her body fit, taking pride in the beauty that came from being a woman. Bulletlike, her spiky-heeled boots sounded on the floor, as deadly as her aim. A ladylike bondage belt was slung low on her hips, resting to one side. And although the Glock she routinely carried was in plain sight, she’d snagged a permit to carry a concealed weapon, something next to impossible for a California civilian.

  West didn’t take a chair. He parked his butt on the edge of the table, and when Riggs cleared her throat, a blast of sexual energy ripped through Olivia’s body.

  Well what do you know? The lady cop really did think the profiler was a hunk. Olivia wondered if fraternization was allowed, or if FBI agents were banned from boffing pretty blond detectives.

  She glanced at his left hand, then got a quick flash of the wedding band that used to be there. She shrugged away the energy connected to it, the hurt and anger, the nights he spent alone.

  West crossed his arms. “Any time you’re ready.”

  Needing a distraction, Olivia messed up her hair, scattering the short, choppy layers, blocking out the profiler’s private life. “There’s been three female victims in this case,” she began. “The first two were slashed inside their L.A. homes, stabbed repeatedly, with no forced entry and no sexual assault. The third, Denise Red Bow,” she added, indicating the autopsy pictures, “was killed in the same manner. But even though she lived and worked in Hollywood, she was stabbed while house-sitting for her parents on their reservation, about 120 miles south of L.A.” Olivia paused, cursing the law. “And that’s why you were brought in. Indian Country falls under federal jurisdiction.”

  “That’s right.” He uncrossed his arms. “And now here we are, one big happy family, working on this investigation together.”

  She looked at Muncy and noticed the strain around his mouth. The LAPD did its own profiling. They didn’t need the FBI’s assistance.

  Olivia continued the briefing, reciting information West already knew. “The killer’s calling card is an arrowhead encased in a valentine-style heart. He draws this symbol on the victim’s abdomen, on the right side, using an average black marker.”

  “Have you gotten a reading on the artwork?” he asked. “Any vibes that enhance the investigation?”

  Was he testing her skill? Or just hell-bent on giving her a hard time? Either way, she was used to proving herself. Most law enforcement officials—skeptical by nature and suspicious by training—didn’t believe in her ability. And those who did, like Detective Muncy, didn’t admit, at least publicly, that he consulted a psychic. The press would have a field day if they knew how many investigations she’d been involved in.

  She finally answered West’s question. “No, I haven’t gotten any vibes about the Slasher’s calling card.”

  “So what’s your opinion? Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

  “Yes,” she responded, knowing full well she was talking to a highly educated man with several advanced degrees. But that didn’t make her opinion any less valuable. Olivia’s gift gave her an edge.

  “Why?” he pressed. “Why a serial killer?”

  “Because he perpetrated random murders, with an emotional cooling-off period in between. The victims were unrelated. They didn’t know each other,” she clarified. “And each had been slain in a different location.” She shuffled the autopsy pictures, stacking them like a deck of cards. “So far, the Slasher has gone after married women.” But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his MO, she thought. Single girls could be at risk, too.

  “Two of our victims were cheating on their husbands,” West remarked.

  “But Denise wasn’t. At least not that we know of.”

  “So you think this is one killer? One man?”

  Olivia nodded. “That’s the feeling I have. My intuition.”

  “Why not multiple offenders? The forensic evidence is inconclusive.” A frown marred West’s forehea
d, carving a groove into his skin. “In fact, it’s downright weird. Footprints that appear then disappear, hair samples that test human one time and animal the next. Nothing makes any sense.” He shifted his weight. He was still perched on the edge of the table. “Do you have an answer for any of that?”

  “Actually, she does.” This came from Muncy, who rose from his chair. “Olivia thinks the killer has supernatural powers.”

  “Really?” West’s frown remained, deep and dark and troubled. “And do you agree with her analysis, Detective?”

  “I’m inclined to.”

  The profiler turned to Riggs. “And you?”

  Her blue eyes locked onto his. “It’s a baffling case.”

  The special agent nodded. “That it is.” He tunneled his hands through his hair, quietly perplexed. Then he addressed Olivia. “Do you think the killer is a skinwalker?”

  She tilted her head. “It’s hard to say. There are other tribes besides the Navajo that have witches among them.” And his attitude confused her. Why would a man who believed in supernatural beings resent working with a psychic?

  Because he envied her power, her mind answered. West wanted what she had. The ability she possessed.

  “You better be careful,” he said, reminding her once again that the Slasher was attacking American Indian women.

  Like her. And her sister.

  She thought about Allie, about how gentle her younger sibling was. Then she glanced at West.

  Suddenly his eyes, those odd gray eyes, were glowing.

  Like a witch.

  Twenty minutes later Olivia took the 101, engaging the gas petal, gaining speed, switching lanes, snarling at the late-day traffic.

  She kept telling herself that West’s eyes were a trick of the light, an illusion. He wasn’t powerful enough to be a witch.

  Darting past a poky compact, she accelerated again, her vintage Porsche purring with elation, the wind whipping through the convertible, stinging her face. And then she wondered what the hell she was doing.