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Syd tried not to stare, but it was hard. At three feet away, she should have been able to see this man’s imperfections—if not quite a wart, then maybe a chipped tooth. Some nose hair at least.

But at three feet away, he was even more gorgeous. And he smelled good, too.

Chief Zale gave him a baleful look. “And you are…?”

Navy Ken half stood up again. “I’m sorry. Of course, I should have introduced myself.” His smile was sheepish. Gosh darn it, it said, I plumb forgot that not everybody here knows who I am, wonderful though I may be. “Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon, of the U.S. Navy SEALs.”

Syd didn’t have to be an expert at reading body language to know that everyone in the room—at least everyone male—hated the Navy. And if they hadn’t before, they sure did now. The jealousy in the room was practically palpable. Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon gleamed. He shone. He was all white and gold and sunlight and sky-blue eyes.

He was a god. The mighty king of all Ken dolls.

And he knew it.

His glance touched Syd only briefly as he looked around the room, taking inventory of the police and FInCOM personnel. But as Zale’s assistant passed out manila files, Navy Ken’s gaze settled back on Syd. He smiled, and it was such a perfect, slightly puzzled smile, Syd nearly laughed aloud. Any second now and he was going to ask her who she was.

“Are you FInCOM?” he mouthed to her, taking the file that was passed to him and warmly nodding his thanks to the Coronado detective who was sitting beside him.

Syd shook her head, no.

“From the Coronado PD?” he asked silently.

Zale had begun to speak, and Syd shook her head again, then pointedly turned her attention to the head of the table.

The San Felipe police chief spoke at length about stepping up patrol cars in the areas where the rapes had taken place. He spoke of a team that would be working around the clock, attempting to find a pattern in the locations of the attacks, or among the seven victims. He talked about semen samples and DNA. He glared at Syd as he spoke of the need to keep the details of the crimes, of the rapist’s MO—method of operation—from leaking to the public. He brought up the nasty little matter of the SEAL pin, heated by the flame from a cigarette lighter and used to burn a mark onto the bodies of the last two victims.

Navy Ken cleared his throat and interrupted. “I’m sure it’s occurred to you that if this guy were a SEAL, he’d have to be pretty stupid to advertise it this way. Isn’t it much more likely that he’s trying to make you believe he’s a SEAL?”

“Absolutely,” Zale responded. “Which is why we implied that we thought he was a SEAL in the article that came out in this morning’s paper. We want him to think he’s winning, to become careless.”

“So you don’t think he’s a SEAL,” the SEAL tried to clarify.

“Maybe,” Syd volunteered, “he’s a SEAL who wants to be caught.”

Navy Ken’s eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at her, clearly thinking hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know just about everyone else here, but we haven’t been introduced. Are you a police psychologist?”

Zale didn’t let Syd reply. “Ms. Jameson is going to be working very closely with you, Lieutenant.”

Ms. not Doctor. Syd saw that information register in the SEAL’s eyes.

But then she realized what Zale had said and sat back in her chair. “I am?”

O’Donlon leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

Zale looked a little too pleased with himself. “Lieutenant Commander Francisco put in an official request to have a SEAL team be part of this task force. Detective McCoy convinced me that it might be a good idea. If our man is or was a SEAL, you may have better luck finding him.”

“I assure you, luck won’t be part of it, sir.”

Syd couldn’t believe O’Donlon’s audacity. The amazing part was that he spoke with such conviction. He actually believed himself.

“That remains to be seen,” Zale countered. “I’ve decided to give you permission to form this team, provided you keep Detective McCoy informed of your whereabouts and progress.”

“I can manage that.” O’Donlon flashed another of his smiles at Lucy McCoy. “In fact, it’ll be a pleasure.”

“Oh, ack.” Syd didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Navy Ken glanced at her in surprise.

“And provided,” Zale continued, “you agree to include Ms. Jameson in your team.”

The SEAL laughed. Yes, his teeth were perfect. “No,” he said, “Chief. You don’t understand. A SEAL team is a team of SEALs. Only SEALs. Ms. Jameson will—no offense, ma’am—only get in the way.”

“That’s something you’re just going to have to deal with,” Zale told him a little too happily. He didn’t like the Navy, and he didn’t like Syd. This was his way of getting back at them both. “I’m in charge of this task force. You do it my way, or your men don’t leave the naval base. There are other details to deal with, but Detective McCoy will review them with you.”

Syd’s brain was moving at warp speed. Zale thought he was getting away with something here—by casting her off on to the SEALs. But this was the real story—the one that would be unfolding within the confines of the naval base as well as without. She’d done enough research on the SEAL units over the past forty-odd hours to know that these unconventional spec-warriors would be eager to stop the bad press and find the San Felipe Rapist on their own. She was curious to find out what would happen if the rapist did turn out to be one of them. Would they try to hide it? Would they try to deal with punishment on their own terms?

The story she was going to write could be an in-depth look at one of America’s elite military organizations. And it could well be exactly what she needed to get herself noticed, to get that magazine editor position, back in New York City, that she wanted so desperately.

“I’m sorry.” O’Donlon started an awful lot of his sentences with an apology. “But there’s just no way a police social worker could keep up with—”

“I’m not a social worker,” Syd interrupted.

“Ms. Jameson is one of our chief eyewitnesses,” Zale said. “She’s been face to face with our man.”

O’Donlon faltered. His face actually got pale, and he dropped all friendly, easygoing pretense. And as Syd gazed into his eyes, she got a glimpse of his horror and shock.

“My God,” he whispered. “I didn’t…I’m sorry—I had no idea….”

He was ashamed. And embarrassed. Honestly shaken. “I feel like I should apologize for all men, everywhere.”

Amazing. Navy Ken wasn’t all plastic. He was at least part human. Go figure.

Obviously, he thought she had been one of the rapist’s victims.

“No,” she said quickly. “I mean, thanks, but I’m an eyewitness because my neighbor was attacked. I was coming up the stairs as the man who raped her was coming down. And I’m afraid I didn’t even get that good a look at him.”

“God,” O’Donlon said. “Thank God. When Chief Zale said…I thought…” He drew in a deep breath and let it out forcefully. “I’m sorry. I just can’t imagine…” He recovered quickly, then leaned forward slightly, his face speculative. “So…you’ve actually seen this guy.”

Syd nodded. “Like I said, I didn’t—”

O’Donlon turned to Zale. “And you’re giving her to me?”

Syd laughed in disbelief. “Excuse me, I would appreciate it if you could rephrase that….”

Zale stood up. Meeting over. “Yeah. She’s all yours.”

CHAPTER TWO

“HAVE YOU EVER BEEN HYPNOTIZED?” Lucky glanced over at the woman sitting beside him as he pulled his pickup truck onto the main drag that led to the naval base.

She turned to give him a disbelieving look.

She was good at that look. He wondered if it came naturally or if she’d worked to perfect it, practicing for hours in front of her bathroom mirror. The thought made him smile, which only made her glower even harder.

She was pretty enough—if you went for women who hid every one of their curves beneath androgynous clothes, women who never let themselves smile.

No, he mused, looking at her more closely as he stopped at a red light. He’d once dated a woman who’d never smiled. Jacqui Fontaine. She’d been a beautiful young woman who was so terrified of getting wrinkles she kept her face carefully devoid of all expression. In fact, she’d gotten angry with him for making her laugh. At first he’d thought she was joking, but she’d been serious. She’d asked him back to her apartment after they’d seen a movie, but he’d declined. Sex would have been positively bizarre. It would have been like making love to a mannequin. The thought still made him shudder.

This woman, however, had laugh lines around her eyes. Proof that she did smile. Probably frequently, in fact.

She just had no intention of smi ling at him.

Her hair was thick and dark, curling around her face, unstyled and casual—cut short enough so that she probably could get away with little more than raking her fingers through it after climbing out of bed.

Her eyes were dark brown and impossibly large in a face that could only be called pixielike.

Provided, of course, that pixies had a solid dose of unresolved resentment. She didn’t like him. She hadn’t liked him from the moment he’d walked into the San Felipe police-station conference room.

“Cindy, wasn’t it?” He knew damn well that her name was Sydney. But what kind of woman was named Sydney? If he was going to have to baby-sit the woman who could potentially ID the San Felipe Rapist, why couldn’t she be named Crystal or Mellisande—and dress accordingly?

“No,” she said tightly, in a voice that was deceptively low and husky, unfairly sexy considering she clearly didn’t want anyone looking at her to think even remotely about sex, “it wasn’t. And no, I’ve never been hypnotized.”

“Great,” he said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible as he parked in the lot near Frisco’s office. His office now, too, at least temporarily. “Then we’re going to have some fun. A real adventure. Uncharted territory. Boldly going, etcetera.”

Now Sydney was looking at him with something akin to horror in her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Lucky took the keys out of the ignition and opened the truck’s door. “Of course not. Not completely. Who’d ever want to be completely serious about anything?” He climbed out and looked back inside at her. “But the part I’m not completely serious about is whether it’s going to be fun. In fact, I suspect it’s going to be pretty low key. Probably dull. Unless while you’re under, I can convince the hypnotist to make you quack like a duck.”

If she were a Crystal or a Mellisande, Lucky would’ve winked at her, but he knew, without a doubt, that winking at Sydney would result in her trying to melt him into unidentifiable goo with her death-ray glare.

Most women liked to be winked at. Most women could be softened up with an appreciative look and a compliment. Most women responded to his “hey, baby” body language and subtle flirting with a little “hey, baby” body language and subtle flirting in return. With most women, he didn’t have to wait long for an invitation to move from subtle flirting to flat-out seduction.

Sydney, however, was not most women.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to be hypnotized,” she told him as she climbed awkwardly down from the cab of his truck. “I’ve read that some people are less susceptible to hypnotism—that they just can’t be hypnotized. I’m pretty sure I’m one of them.”

“How do you know,” Lucky reasoned, “if you’ve never tried?”

His best smile bounced right off her. “It’s a waste of time,” she said sternly.

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t think so.” Lucky tried his apologetic smile as he led the way into the building, but that one didn’t work either. “I guess you’ll have an opportunity to prove me wrong.”

Sydney stood still. “Do you ever not get your way?”

Lucky pretended to think about that for a moment. “No,” he finally said. He smiled. “I always get my way, and I’m never completely serious. You keep that in mind, and we’ll get along just fine.”

SYDNEY STOOD IN THE building’s lobby watching as Lieutenant Luke O’Donlon greeted a lovely, dark-haired, very pregnant woman with a stunner from his vast repertoire of smiles.

“Hey, gorgeous—what are you doing here?” He wrapped his arms around her and planted a kiss full on her lips.

His wife. Had to be.

It was funny, Syd wouldn’t have believed this man capable of marriage. And it still didn’t make sense. He didn’t walk like a married man. He certainly didn’t talk like a married man. Everything about him, from the way he sat as he drove his truck to the way he smiled at anything and everything even remotely female, screamed bachelor. Terminal bachelor.

Yet as Syd watched, he crouched down and pressed his face against the woman’s burgeoning belly. “Hello in there!”

Whoever she was, she was gorgeous. Long, straight, dark hair cascaded down her back. Her delicately featured face held a hint of the Far East. She rolled her beautiful, exotic eyes as she laughed.

“This is why I don’t come out here that often,” she said to Syd over the top of O’Donlon’s head as he pressed his ear to her stomach, listening now. “I’m Mia Francisco, by the way.”

Francisco. The Lieutenant Commander’s wife.

“He’s singing that Shania Twain song,” O’Donlon reported, looking past Syd and grinning. “The one Frisco says never leaves your CD player?”

Syd turned to see a teenaged girl standing behind her—all long legs and skinny arms, surrounded by an amazing cloud of curly red hair.

The girl smiled, but it was decidedly half-hearted. “Ha, ha, Lucky,” she said. “Very funny.”

“We heard about the diving accident,” Mia explained as O’Donlon straightened up. “They weren’t releasing any names, and we couldn’t reach Alan, so Tasha talked me into driving out to make sure Thomas was okay.”

“Thomas?”

“King,” Mia said. “Former student of mine? You remember him, don’t you? He’s going through BUD/S training with this class.”

“Yeah.” O’Donlon snapped his fingers. “Right. Black kid, serious attitude.”

“It wasn’t Thomas,” the red-haired girl—Tasha—informed him. “It was someone else who got hurt.”

“An ensign named Marc Riley. They’ve got him stabilized. He’s in a lot of pain, but it’s not as bad as they first thought.” Mia smiled at Syd again, friendly but curious, taking in her shapeless linen jacket, her baggy khaki pants, her cloddish boots and the mannish blouse she wore buttoned all the way to her neck.

Syd had no doubt that she looked extremely different from the usual sort of women who followed Lieutenant O’Donlon around.

“I’m sorry,” Mia continued. “We didn’t mean to shanghai Lucky this way.”

Lucky. The girl had referred to O’Donlon by that name, too. It was too perfect. Syd tried her best not to smirk.

“It’s not a problem,” she said. “I’m Syd Jameson.”

“We’re working together on a special project,” the man who was actually nicknamed Lucky interjected, as if he were afraid Mia might assume they were together socially. Yeah, as if.

“Is that the same project Lucy McCoy kicked us out of Alan’s office to talk to him about?” Mia asked.

Lucky started to speak, then put his hands over Tasha’s ears and swore. The girl giggled, and he winked at her before looking at Mia. “Lucy’s already here?”

“Tell Alan it’s my fault you’re late.”

“Yeah, great.” Lucky laughed as he waved good-bye, leading Syd down one of the corridors. “I’ll tell him I’m delayed because I stopped to flirt with his wife. That’ll go over just swell.”

Syd had to run to keep up. She had no doubt that whatever excuse O’Donlon gave for being late, he would be instantly forgiven. Grown men didn’t keep nicknames like Lucky well past adolescence for no reason.

Lucky.

Sheesh.

Back in seventh grade, Syd had had a nickname.

Stinky.

She’d forgotten to wear deodorant one day. Just one day, and she was Stinky until the end of the school year.

Speaking of stinky, she’d have dressed differently if she’d known she was going to be running a marathon today. Lieutenant Lucky O’Donlon was well out in front of her and showed no sign of slowing down. How big was this place, anyway?

Not content to wait for an elevator, he led the way into a stairwell and headed up.

Syd was already out of breath, but she pushed herself to keep up, afraid if she let him out of her sight, she’d lose him. She tried to keep her eyes glued to his broad back, but it was hard, particularly since his perfect rear end was directly in her line of sight.

Of course he had a perfect rear end—trim and tiny, about one one-hundredth the size of hers, and a perfect match for his narrow hips. She shouldn’t have expected anything less from a man named Lucky.

She followed his microbutt back out into the hallway and into an empty outer office and…

Syd caught her breath as he knocked on a closed door. The SEAL wasn’t even slightly winded, damn him, and here she was, all but bent over, hands on her knees, puffing and wheezing.

“Smoker?” he asked, almost apologetically. Almost, but not quite. He was just a little too amused to be truly sorry.

“No,” she said. She was more out of shape than she’d realized. She’d always enjoyed running, but this spring and summer she hadn’t quite managed to get started again.

The door opened, and standing in the inner office was a man who could have been a mirror reflection of Lucky. His hair was a slightly different color, and his face was more craggy than pretty, but the widths of the two men’s shoulders were close to exact.

“I have a meeting with Admirals Forrest and Stonegate,” the man said in a way of greeting. “Lucy’s already here. Hear her out, and do whatever you’ve got to do to catch this guy. Preferably before the end of this week.”

He looked from Lucky to Syd. His eyes were different from Lucky’s and not just in color. He seemed capable of looking past the unruly hair that was falling into her own eyes, past the high neck of her shirt, past her near-permanent expression of slightly bored, slightly raised-eyebrow disbelief that she’d adopted after too many years of being given nicknames like Stinky.

Whatever he saw when he looked at her made him smile.

And it wasn’t a condescending smile, or a “wow, you are such a freak” smile, either.

It was warm and welcoming. He held out his hand. “I’m Alan Francisco.” His grip was as pleasantly solid as his smile. “Welcome to Coronado. If there’s anything you need while you’re here, I’m sure Lieutenant O’Donlon will be more than happy to provide it for you.”

And just like that, he was gone. It wasn’t until he was out the far door that Syd realized he’d moved stiffly, leaning heavily on a cane.

With a jolt, she realized she was standing there gazing after Alan Francisco. Lucky had already gone into the lieutenant commander’s office, and she followed, shutting the door behind her.

Surprise, surprise—Lucky had his arms wrapped around Detective McCoy. As Syd watched, he gave her a hello kiss.

“I didn’t get to say hello properly before,” he murmured. “You are looking too good for words, babe.” Keeping his arm looped around her shoulders, he turned to Syd. “Lucy’s husband, Blue, is XO of SEAL Team Ten’s Alpha Squad.”

Lucy’s husband. Syd blinked. Lucy had a husband, who was also a SEAL. And presumably the two men were acquaintances, if not friends. This guy was too much.

“XO means executive officer,” Lucy explained, giving Lucky a quick hug before slipping free from his grasp, reaching up to adjust the long brown hair that had slipped free from her ponytail holder. She really did have remarkably pretty eyes. “Blue’s second in command of Alpha Squad.”

“Blue,” Syd repeated. “His name’s really Blue?”

“It’s a nickname,” Lucy told her with a smile. “SEALs tend to get nicknames when they first go through BUD/S training. Let’s see, we’ve got Cat, Cowboy, Frisco—” she ticked the names off on her fingers “—Blue, Lucky, Harvard, Crow, Fingers, Snakefoot, Wizard, Elmer, the Priest, Doc, Spaceman, Crash…”

“So your husband works here on the Navy base,” Syd clarified.

“Some of the time,” Lucy said. She glanced at Lucky and what that look meant, Syd couldn’t begin to guess. “Alpha Squad went wheels up while we were downtown.”

Syd couldn’t guess the meaning of Lucy’s words, either. “Wheels up?” She was starting to sound like a parrot.

“They’ve shipped out,” Lucky explained. He leaned back casually, half sitting on Lieutenant Commander Francisco’s desk. “The expression refers to a plane’s wheels leaving the ground. Alpha Squad is outta town.”

Again, Lucy and Lucky seemed to be communicating with no words—only a long, meaningful look. Was it possible that this blue-eyed blond god was having an affair with the wife of a superior officer? Anything was possible, but that seemed a little too sordid.

“What you’ve done,” Lucy said quietly, breaking the silence, “is going to mean everything to Ellen. Looking back, you know it’s going to be worth it.”

“I could still be shipped out myself,” he countered. “If something big came up, and I was needed, I wouldn’t even be able to attend my own wedding.”

Syd cleared her throat. She didn’t know what they were talking about, didn’t want to know. She wasn’t interested in Ellen—whoever she was—or what Lucky and Lucy McCoy did behind her husband’s back. She just wanted to help catch the rapist, get her story and be off to New York.

“I’m okay, you know,” Lucky told the detective. “And I’ll be even more okay if you’ll meet me for dinner one of these nights.”

Lucy gave him a quick smile, glancing at Syd, obviously aware that the two of them weren’t alone. “You’ve got my number,” she said. She sat down at the conference table that was over by the window. “Right now, we need to go over some task-force rules, talk about your team.”

Lucky sat at the head of the table. “Great. Let’s start with my rules. You let me form a team of SEALs, you don’t hammer me with a lot of useless rules and hamper me with unqualified people who will only slow us down—” he shot Syd an apologetic version of his smile “—no offense—and then we’ll catch your guy.”

Lucy didn’t blink. “The members of your team have to meet Chief Zale’s approval.”

“Oh, no way!”

“He—and I—believe that since we don’t know who we’re dealing with, and since you have plenty of alternatives for personnel, you should construct your team from SEALs or SEAL candidates who absolutely—no question—do not fit the rapist’s description.”

Syd sat down across from Lucky. “So in other words, no one white, powerfully built, with a crew cut.”

Lucky sputtered. “That eliminates the majority of the men stationed in Coronado.”

Lucy nodded serenely. “That’s right. And the majority of the men are all potential suspects.”

“You honestly think a real SEAL could have raped those women?”

“I think until we know more, we need to be conservative as to whom we allow into our information loop,” she told him. “You’d be a suspect yourself, Luke, but your hair’s too long.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“The second rule is about weapons,” Lucy continued. “We don’t want you running around town armed to the teeth. And that means knives as well as sidearms.”

“Sure,” he said. “Great. And when we apprehend this guy, we’ll throw spoons at him.”

“You won’t apprehend him,” she countered. “The task force will. Your team’s job is to help locate him. Track him down. Try to think like this son of a bitch and anticipate his next move, so we—the police and FInCOM—can be there, waiting for him.”

“Okay,” Lucky said. He pointed across the table at Sydney. “I’ll follow your rules—if you take her off my hands. After we do the hypnotist thing tomorrow afternoon, all she’s going to do is get in the way.” He looked at Syd. “No offense.”

“Too bad,” she said, “because I am offended.”

Lucky looked at her again. “I don’t know what Zale has against you, but it’s obvious he doesn’t like me. He’s trying to make it close to impossible for my team to operate by assigning me…”

“I’m a reporter,” Syd told him.

“…what amounts to little more than baby-sitting duty and…” His impossibly blue eyes widened. “A reporter.” Now he was the parrot. His eyes narrowed. “Sydney Jameson. S. Jameson. Ah, jeez, you’re not just a reporter, you’re that reporter.” He glared at her. “Where the hell do you get off making us all sound like psychotic killers?”

He was serious. He’d taken offense to the one part of her story the police had actually requested she include. “Cool your jets, Ken,” she told him. “The police wanted me to make it sound as if they actually believed the rapist was a SEAL.”

“It’s entirely likely our man is a SEAL wannabe,” Lucy interjected. “We were hoping the news story would feed his ego, maybe make him careless.”

“Ken?” Lucky asked Syd. “My name’s Luke.”

Oops, had she actually called him that? “Right. Sorry.” Syd gave him the least sorry smile she could manage.

Lucky looked at her hard before he turned to Lucy. “How the hell did a reporter get involved?”

“Her neighbor was attacked. Sydney stayed with the girl—and this was just a girl. She wasn’t more than nineteen years old, Luke. Sydney was there when I arrived, and oddly enough, I didn’t think to inquire as to whether she was with UPI or Associated Press.”

“So what did you do?” Lucky turned back to Syd. “Blackmail your way onto the task force?”

“Damn straight.” Syd lifted her chin. “Seven rapes and not a single word of warning in any of the papers. It was a story that needed to be written—desperately. I figured I’d write it—and I’ll write the exclusive behind-the-scenes story about tracking and catching the rapist, too.”

He shook his head, obviously in disgust, and Syd’s temper flared. “You know, if I were a man,” she snapped, “you’d be impressed by my assertive behavior.”

“So did you actually see this guy, or did you just make that part up?” he asked.

Syd refused to let him see how completely annoyed he made her feel. She forced her voice to sound even, controlled. “He nearly knocked me over coming down the stairs. But like I told the police, the light’s bad in the hallways. I didn’t get a real clear look at him.”

“Is there a chance it was good enough for you to look at a lineup of my men and eliminate them as potential suspects?” he demanded.

Lucy sighed. “Lucky, I don’t—”

“I want Bobby Taylor and Wes Skelly on my team.”

“Bobby’s fine. He’s Native American,” she told Syd. “Long dark hair, about eight feet tall and seven feet wide—definitely not our man. But Wes…”

“Wes shouldn’t be a suspect,” Lucky argued.

“Police investigations don’t work that way,” Lucy argued in response. “Yes, he shouldn’t be a suspect. But Chief Zale wants every individual on your team to be completely, obviously not the man we’re looking for.”

“This is a man who’s put his life on the line for me—for your husband—more times than you want to know. If Sydney could look at Skelly and—”

“I really don’t remember much about the man’s face,” Syd interrupted. “He came flying down the stairs, nearly wiped me out, stopped a few steps down. I’m not even sure he turned all the way around. He apologized, and was gone.”

Lucky leaned forward. “He spoke to you?”

God, he was good-looking. Syd forced away the little flutter she felt in her stomach every time he gazed at her. She really was pathetic. She didn’t like this man. In fact, she was well on her way to disliking him intensely, and yet simply looking into his eyes was enough to make her knees grow weak.

Obviously, it had been way too long since she’d last had sex. Not that her situation was likely to change any time in the near future.

“What did he say?” Lucky asked. “His exact words?”

Syd shrugged, hating to tell him what the man had said, but knowing he wouldn’t let up until she did.

Just do it. She took a deep breath. “He said, ‘Sorry, bud.’”

“Sorry…bud?”

Syd felt her face flush. “Like I said. The light was bad in there. He must’ve thought I was, you know, a man.”

Lucky O’Donlon didn’t say anything aloud, but as he sat back in his seat, the expression on his face spoke volumes. His gaze traveled over her, taking in her unfeminine clothes, her lack of makeup. An understandable mistake for any man to make, he telegraphed with his eyes.

He finally looked over at Lucy. “The fact remains that I can’t possibly work with a reporter following me around.”

“Neither can I,” she countered.

“I’ve worked for years as an investigative reporter,” Syd told them both. “Hasn’t it occurred to either one of you that I might actually be able to help?”