Always Look Twice. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      “Christ.” His gaze shifted, but only for a moment. “In this room? I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

      He seemed sincere, but she wasn’t going to back off. Not until she found a way to frisk him, to check his pockets for magic stones, to search for an amulet around his neck, something, anything that could be used against her.

      “When?” he asked. “When did it happen?”

      “Ten years ago.”

      “How he’d do it?”

      “A.44 Magnum.”

      “Christ,” he said again, only this time he sounded as if he were praying. “Can we put these away now? Or are we going to keep this up all night?”

      “Fine.” She agreed to holster her weapon at the same time as him, waiting for another chance to strike.

      She stepped out of the bathroom, inching closer to him. He remained where he was, studying her through those bone-chilling eyes. They weren’t glowing, but they looked right through her, nearly penetrating her soul.

      “Who told you I was staying here?” he asked. “Muncy? Riggs?”

      A blast of betrayal gripped her hard and quick. “They knew?”

      “They could have found out, I guess. I gave the lieutenant the name and number of this place. Right before I left the station tonight.”

      Which meant Muncy and Riggs didn’t know. “Casper warned me that you were here.”

      “Who?”

      “The friendly ghost.”

      West frowned. His tie was loose, and a strand of his hair fell across his forehead. His features were taut, strong and serious. She wondered if his wife had left him for another man.

      He blew out a rough breath. “My grandfather says that when you pass a graveyard, you should chew a little ginseng, then spit it out on each side of your mouth, four times each way.”

      “That drives away the ghosts?”

      “He thinks so. He never said anything about motel rooms, though.”

      “Your grandfather is a superstitious man.”

      “A lot of Indians are.”

      Olivia could see West’s profile in the vanity mirror. For all she knew, his grandfather was a witch. “I heard about an ancient Creek belief. Supposedly they wouldn’t allow their children to congregate where old people were conversing because the elders might bewitch them. Is that true?”

      “Yes, but that’s because some of the old men had been through so many fastings in their lifetimes, people thought they might be wizards.”

      Exactly, she thought, as she lunged at him, knocking him against the closet door.

      He cursed, rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms to the floor. She took the opportunity to knee him in the groin. Hard. As hard as she possibly could.

      “Shit!” He doubled over, wincing in pain.

      She frisked him, checked his pockets, then pulled open his shirt.

      Nothing. Nada. No witchcraft tools.

      “What the hell is wrong with you?” He found the strength to shove her away.

      “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?” He braced his back against the closet. He was still wincing, still feeling the brunt of her attack. “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.”

      “What about this room?”

      “Maybe Casper drew me here.”

      “Why would he do that?”

      “To tie us together. To help you trust me.”

      She thought about her premonition, the vision of them kissing in her loft. No damn way was she going to let that happen. “Fine, we’ll call a truce. But if you try anything funny, I’ll kill you.”

      “Likewise.” He got to his feet. He was doing his damnedest to maintain his machismo, to pretend that his balls weren’t still throbbing in his brain. “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.

      Later that night Olivia couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned, gazing at the window, where moonlight glinted through lace sheers, sending a filigree pattern across the floor.

      After she climbed out of bed, she slipped on a pair of sheepskin slippers, warming her feet from the linoleum. The loft was a little chilly at two in the morning. But just a little.

      She smiled to herself. That was the beauty of living in Southern California. While other parts of the country were banked in snow, L.A. offered mild temperatures, even in February.

      Olivia went into the kitchen, where a twenty-watt bulb above the stove served as a nightlight. She fixed herself a cup of mint tea and noticed conversation-heart candies dotting the counter.

      Allie had left them for the ghost.

      She picked one up, read the Be Mine inscription, almost ate it, then set it back down. Allie used to leave cookies and milk for Santa Claus, too.

      Olivia tasted her tea. She’d never believed in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny or any of those childhood myths.

      Allie had believed in everything.

      Taking her cup, she walked to her sister’s room and peeked in. A low-burning lamp bathed a collection of fancy dance shawls with an amber glow, making the retired powwow regalia look like oversize butterflies with fringed wings.

      Olivia expected to find Allie in bed, sleeping like a castle-bound princess, but the pink-and-gold chamber was empty.

      She closed the bedroom door and headed to Allie’s studio, knowing that was where she would be. Sure enough, her sister was working. The smooth side of a buffalo hide was stretched across a table, with Allie leaning over it, drawing a design she intended to paint.

      “Couldn’t that wait until morning?” Olivia asked.

      Allie looked up. She wore white pajamas and pair of cat-shaped slippers. Samantha, the real cat, slept on a nearby shelf cluttered with art supplies. “No. I have to do this now.”

      “Why? What’s the hurry?”

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