Killer Charms by Marianne Stillings

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By Marianne Stillings

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According to his file, he played women like fine instruments, and for one quick flash of insanity, she wanted to know what that would feel like to be the fiddle to his bow. “He called,” she lied. “His truck had a flat or something. ” “But it’s nearing six. ” That was what his mouth said. His eyes indicated he’d be willing to substitute “lift” for any number of other action verbs. She glanced down for a moment, as though she were preparing a response. In truth, she was forcing aside her emotions so her inner undercover operative could take center stage.

The dimples in his cheeks deepened. ” Not wishing to push too far, too fast, she said, “Well, whatever. ” “I assure you, lass, I’m no serial killer. ” Since that was exactly what she wanted him to do, she made no protest as he reached past her into the car. Removing the keys from the ignition, he locked the door, then took her hand, turning it palm up. Dropping the keys there, he curled her fingers over the key ring, all the while, gazing warmly into her eyes. Under hers, his hand was strong, steady.

Her gaze raked him head to toe. ” She offered her hand. He clasped it between his own, giving it a squeeze. Immediately, her lips bowed in a demure smile. She lowered her lashes, and her cheeks flushed. “The photo on the back of your books don’t do you justice, Mr. Sinclair,” she purred. ” Her none-too-subtle innuendo aside, it was clear she didn’t realize who he was; more’s the better since his plan would go straight to hell if she did, and all would be for naught. She might even figure out what he’d come for.

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