The Prey

CHAPTER 13

Hours after Rowan’s movie premiere, Michael stepped into a North Hollywood dive spoiling for a fight.

He sauntered over to a stool near the end of the bar and nodded to the bartender. “Scotch, double. And a draft.”

He was off duty, after all, put on leave by his traitorous brother. John had told Quinn Peterson, the arrogant prick, that he hadn’t had time off in a week, and Peterson agreed. Dismissed him.

Leaving John alone with Rowan.

He downed half his Scotch and let the heat of the alcohol warm the icy pit in his stomach. He scowled at some hooker making eyes at him from the other end of the bar and turned away from her.

John had had the audacity to throw Jessica in his face yet again. John didn’t know what had really happened between Michael and Jessica. If he had, he’d know it had been even worse than he thought.

Jessica was a beauty. Long, dark hair and big chocolate-brown eyes. She was being stalked by her ex-boyfriend. Michael had been assigned the call.

She’d been so grateful for his help, truly feared for her life, so Michael gave her his cell phone number and told her to call him anytime. She did, and he found himself going over to her house virtually every night.

They ended up in bed and Michael fell in love. She needed him, relied on him, and he relished being able to protect her.

But she hadn’t been honest with him. He told himself it was because she was scared, but deep down Michael knew she’d used him. He believed she loved him in her own way, but she needed him for more than protection against a stalker. Her stalker was not her ex-boyfriend, but her husband, a low-level crime boss.

She’d ended up telling Michael that returning to her husband was the only way she could stay alive. Michael tried to convince her to run away with him, that he could protect her, that they could start over in another state, with new identities, anything. To do anything but go back to her husband.

Yet she went. Two years later, her body was found floating in a drainage ditch in the San Gabriel Mountains.

Michael tossed back his Scotch to drown the memories.

Rowan was nothing like Jessica. Yes, she needed him, and he would be there for her. But the feelings he had for Rowan went so much deeper.

John just wouldn’t listen. He’d pulled Michael aside after the premiere when Rowan was talking to the producer Annette. Told Michael he looked tired and should take the night off. Michael tried to explain that he needed to be there to protect Rowan, and John threw Jessica in his face. It wasn’t the same situation, but John didn’t understand.

Then John pulled a fast one. The FBI relieved Michael from duty for twelve hours, but he knew it was John’s doing. John escorted Rowan home.

Asshole.

He took a long gulp of beer. Sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Michael realized that maybe he himself was the one who was being an asshole. He’d blown this conflict with his brother out of proportion, letting his ego get in the way of the truth.

It wasn’t John’s fault. Michael really had fallen for Jessica. Hard. He’d loved her. He might have started in the role of knight in shining armor, but somehow, over time, it had developed into much more than that. He’d overlooked so much she did, so many things she lied about, all because he had loved her.

He owed John an apology. Some of the things Michael had said tonight were way out of line. Especially about Rowan.

For the first time, he realized that Rowan and Jessica were really nothing alike. He cared about Rowan-he really liked her-but he wasn’t in love with her. Maybe over time-but it wasn’t the same. Not like Jessica. When he saw Rowan running with John he detected a partnership, a similar style, a streak of independence and something else. Something more.

When this case was finally put to bed, could he live with the fact that John and Rowan might have something together? That John attracted Rowan and he hadn’t?

His ego might have a problem, but he was a big boy. He’d get over it. First thing tomorrow, he’d tell John… something. Smooth things over. Hell, he could never stay mad at his brother for long.

Someone slid onto the stool next to him, and the bartender brought over a premium Scotch.

“You look like you lost your best friend,” the stranger said. “Buy you a drink?”

Michael shrugged, glanced at the guy. Suit, tie, polished shoes. Forties. Businessman. “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, turning back to his beer. “Just an argument with my brother. It’ll pass.”

The businessman nodded to the bartender to pour two doubles. Michael shook his head.

“I’m done.”

“Working tonight?”

“No, I’m off.”

“Then another drink can’t hurt, right?”

Michael considered. He hadn’t had a night off in a week. He supposed a buzz wouldn’t hurt. “Thanks, pal,” he said.

“Pissed off at your brother?” the businessman asked.

Michael shook his head. “Not anymore.”

When the bartender placed the drinks in front of them, Michael said, “Salute.” He drained half the Scotch. He hadn’t eaten that night and wondered what he had around his apartment to fix. Nothing. He’d been staying at Rowan’s.

He finished the drink and played with a basket of beer nuts in front of him. He supposed he could walk down the street and grab fast food on the way home. The thought made his stomach queasy. But at this time of night, he didn’t have many options.

Michael planned to buy the businessman a drink as he left, but when he looked up, the guy was gone. Just as well; Michael certainly didn’t need another one. Two doubles and a beer on an empty stomach didn’t sit well.

He stood, tossed down a tip, and left. Fast food, then home. His apartment was only two blocks from the bar; that was why he’d picked it. Then he’d sleep off the buzz and be ready to tell John that Rowan was all his-as long as he didn’t hurt her. Michael cared about her, and John played hardball. In work and with women.

Michael fully intended to live up to his responsibilities as a bodyguard, and while he owed John an apology for some of the things he’d said, his brother had to understand that this was still his case and he wasn’t going to be pushed aside again, no matter what John thought. Then they could arm wrestle, best two out of three, and the loser could buy the winner a six-pack.

Michael smiled. He could never stay mad at John for long.

Rowan had gone up to her room to change as soon as they’d arrived back at the beach house. John took the opportunity to secure the perimeter, get out of the monkey suit, and slip into jeans and a black T-shirt.

And stew over his fight with Michael.

It had been a low blow to pull Peterson into the mix, John admitted to himself, but Michael needed a night off. He was losing his objectivity. But when John told him as much, Michael looked ready to deck him.

John regretted his end of the conversation. He hadn’t wanted to fight with his brother; he hadn’t wanted to remind him about Jessica-again. He simply needed time alone with Rowan to get her to talk, knowing she wouldn’t say word one about her past with Michael hovering over her.

John had to find out the truth about Lily MacIntosh and her father. How it fit in with this lunatic running around, he didn’t know. But somehow, it was connected. It was the only thing that made sense.

He hoped Michael would forgive him. He was sure he would once he saw through the haze of his anger. They’d had worse arguments in the past, but when push came to shove, they stood by each other.

When Rowan hadn’t come down thirty minutes later, John went up to her room and knocked on the door. “Rowan, we need to talk.”

“I’m tired. Good night.”

“You’re not getting off the hook that easy. Open this door or I’ll break it down.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me. Lily.” His heart raced. It was a gamble, but he needed to get her to open up to him. To trust him enough to tell him everything.

He didn’t say anything and neither did Rowan. Several minutes later, he heard the bolt slide open. He braced himself as she opened the door.

Hatred was etched on her face, her jaw clenched, her neck throbbing, her hands in tight fists by her side. But her eyes-they weren’t filled with hate. They showed only one emotion: pain.

“Rowan-” he began. Then she came at him with her fists, hitting his chest over and over.

“Who told you? Who told you? You bastard! How dare you invade my privacy! How dare you!” She ended in a sob and he grabbed her wrists and ushered her into the bedroom.

“Tell me everything.”

“What, you don’t know?” she said bitterly. “You obviously found out my name is Lily.” She pulled away from him, her hair whipping his face as she turned abruptly and crossed the room to stare out the window. It was dark outside, pitch black. He saw her reflection in the glass, the agony of her defeated expression, and his heart skipped a beat.

He hated doing this to her, but it was the only option.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Your name was Lily Elizabeth MacIntosh and Roger Collins became your guardian when you were ten. You were born in Boston and your father is still there.” He saw her eyes grow wide in the reflection. “And I know where he is.”

She turned and faced him, her chin up. “But you don’t know why?”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I want you to tell me.”

“Why? You know everything. How long did it take you to dig up those files? Four, five days? Nice job.” Her voice cracked at the end.

“I’m afraid you don’t have another day, Rowan,” he said, his volume increasing. “I think he’s coming after you, and I can’t protect you if I don’t know who I’m fighting against. I think you know. I think you know exactly who’s murdering these women.”

Her mouth dropped open. “If I knew, I’d tell you. I have no fucking idea who’s doing this!” She closed her eyes and John watched as she gathered her strength. He wanted to go to her side, console her, coddle her.

But she’d clam up. This was the only way.

“Convince me.” He sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest.

Rowan opened her eyes and stared at him. She hated John Flynn. All her fears, all the pain she’d buried for so long, filled her heart. She was at the breaking point. Was this what it felt like to lose your sanity? As if a million pounds of pressure pushed at you from within, threatening to explode?

Her chin quivered, and she tightened it, turning to face the window again. Everything had come down to this. No matter what Roger said, how much he’d reassured her over the last week that these murders had nothing to do with her past, she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone knew about Dani. Who? She had no idea. Why? Why would he go after her now? After all this time? Who had she hurt so much that he wanted to destroy her?

Was Roger too close to the situation to see it clearly? She had relied on his wisdom and his strength for so long, she didn’t question his judgment. He’d been more a father to her than her own, more a mentor than any of her many partners. She loved and trusted him. But what if he’d missed something? Something important?

She glanced over her shoulder at John. He knew about her father, but his dark green eyes weren’t full of pity or disdain. They were curious, inquisitive, probing.

And understanding.

Maybe, just maybe, an impartial third party could make heads or tails of this mess.

Her voice sounded surprisingly low and calm. “I changed my name. I didn’t want the name my father gave me. I didn’t want his name.” She saw John’s reflection in the glass, unable to escape his watchful gaze. But somehow it was soothing, and she gathered the last of her strength to share her story, her past that had been buried for twenty-three years.

“I was ten years old,” she began, her voice sounding unlike her, distant, flat, odd. “It was late, after eleven o’clock. I heard Johnny Carson in my parents’ bedroom. Something woke me.”

She leapt from her bed, heart pounding. What was that? What was that noise?

There. Again. A cry of pain.

She rushed to the toddler bed in the corner, searched for Dani amongst all the stuffed animals. There she was, between Winnie-the-Pooh and her huge giraffe.

“I started downstairs and I heard my father say, ‘I can’t trust you! I can’t trust you!’ My mother screamed.”

“I can’t trust you!”

“Robert, no! Please! The children-“

And she screamed, but it was cut short. The sound of silence was even worse. Then grunts and an inhuman scream coming from her father. Banging, a shout, a door slamming.

“Beth! Beth! Dear God, Beth!”

“I didn’t want to follow the voices, but I couldn’t help myself. They were in the kitchen.”

The white walls were red, drips running down the smooth painted surface. An arc of blood stained Mama’s blue checked curtains, the new ones she’d just made last month.

“My father didn’t see me. He was holding a knife and it was red with blood. He was drenched, and for a minute I thought he’d been hurt.

“Then I saw Mama.”

An arm draped across her face, her pink nightie stained red. It was wet and blood oozed out of her body. One blue eye stared at her. The other was missing. Her mama wasn’t there. Mama was dead.

“I screamed, but Daddy didn’t hear me. He dropped the knife and gathered Mama up in his arms and rocked her like a baby. But-I sensed he wasn’t there. It was like he was already gone; his eyes were vacant, hollow.

“Then he came in.”

“Who?” John asked, but his voice sounded so far away.

“Bobby. My brother. He was eighteen, the oldest.”

Bobby stood in the door, an odd expression on his face. He was almost smiling. He looked at her and narrowed his eyes. “You. You’ve always been a fucking pain in my ass. It’s your turn.”

“Bobby picked up the knife my father dropped. He told me to run.”

“Run, little bitch. I’ll get you. After I take care of everyone else. One by one they’ll die and then I’ll come for you.”

“I ran.” Her voice cracked and she swallowed. She vividly remembered the terror in her chest.

Get out! Get out! She started for the front door.

“I couldn’t leave the house. Not without Dani and Peter. How could I leave them to die? I ran past the front door just as I heard the lock turning. Melanie and Rachel had been out at a movie and they were coming home. I screamed at them to run, but I don’t think any sound came out.”

Call the police! Please! Go away! Had she spoken? She didn’t know, but the door opened and Bobby stood there, on the other side of the door, and she did scream then.

“Lily?” Rachel said, then her eyes widened as she saw Bobby come at her with the knife. She had no time to scream, but Mel did.

“He stabbed Rachel and Mel in the foyer. Over and over and I watched. It was like I couldn’t move. Then he looked up the stairs at me.”

“Exciting, little Lily Pad, isn’t it?” Bobby was breathing hard, covered in blood, and he plunged the knife again into Rachel’s body and left it there. He crossed over to the hall closet and she knew he was getting Daddy’s gun. Lily turned and ran down the hall.

“He had a gun. Peter had come out of his room and was standing in the hall, shaking. I grabbed him and went into my room to get Dani. I was crying, I couldn’t stop, and we all went to Mama’s room.”

She locked the door but feared Bobby could get in. “Lily, what’s happening?” Peter asked, his voice quivering.

“Get in the closet!” she told him. “Take Dani.”

Dani was crying and Peter held her close.

“I picked up the phone and dialed 911. I waited and waited and someone finally picked up. But I heard Bobby coming down the hall. He was laughing, but it wasn’t a laugh.”

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

“M-m-my mama’s dead. Dad-daddy. B-Bobby has a gun.” She couldn’t help stuttering, and hated herself for it.

“Stay on the line. Are you in danger?”

“Yes!”

A gunshot rang out, down the hall, followed by more of Bobby’s laughter. She screamed and dropped the phone.

“I went into the closet with Peter and Dani and tried to keep them quiet, but I was crying and I just knew the police weren’t going to get to us in time. We prayed together, Peter and I, and held Dani between us.”

More gunshots, and the bedroom door burst open. “I know you’re in here, Lily bitch. You think you’re so smart. I see how you look at me. Well, I’m going to have the last laugh.” The gun went off again and again and again…

Rowan turned and faced John, tears streaming down her face. She impatiently wiped at them with the back of her hand. “I heard the sirens and the shooting stopped. I didn’t know where Bobby went, but Roger told me later he jumped out one of the bedroom windows to escape. They caught him at the end of the street and arrested him. Daddy-they arrested Daddy, but he was already gone. In his mind, he was dead.”

She closed her eyes, saw Dani in her mind. Her beautiful, sweet little baby sister. “I didn’t know Dani was dead until the paramedics came in and pulled her from my arms. A bullet had hit her and she’d died instantly. I thought the warm liquid I felt was our tears. It was her blood. All over me.”

She hadn’t heard John get up, but suddenly he pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair. She sank into him, gripping his back, feeding off his strength.

Then her feet left the ground and he carried her to the oversized chair in the corner, nestling her into his lap. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and felt herself marginally relax.

“What happened to Peter?” John asked quietly.

“He was adopted by a wonderful family in Boston. He’s a priest now. We keep in touch, but no one knows about him. No one knows he’s my brother.”

“You didn’t have any other family? Anyone to take you in?”

The rejection was still raw, she realized as she told him, her voice detached. “My mother had a sister. Aunt Karen. She-she came out to see Peter and me. She wouldn’t take us. She-we were his children, after all. And he’d killed our mother. Her sister. She couldn’t forgive us.”

“You were children!”

“And then our grandparents, my father’s parents. They were older, in their late sixties or so; they’re dead now. They tried, but they couldn’t take care of us.” She took a deep breath. “I had nightmares. Peter wouldn’t, couldn’t talk. They didn’t know how to help us.”

“And Roger Collins stepped in?”

She took a deep breath, slowly let it out. “I met Roger when I agreed to testify against my brother Bobby. It wasn’t an FBI case, but Roger was a crime scene investigator and had experience working with survivors. He debriefed me.” Debriefed. How clinical, she thought. “He took pity on me and asked if I wanted to live with him and his wife. I agreed. But I wouldn’t let them adopt me.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t. I didn’t want to love them. Everyone I love dies.”

“Where’s Bobby now?” John’s voice was a low growl, his anger simmering beneath the surface, but Rowan felt it in his tense muscles.

“Dead.” She paused, then let out a jerky breath, a sob breaking at the end. “He escaped on his way to the courthouse. Killed two guards in the process. He was shot on sight a few miles away when he tried to carjack someone. Good riddance.”

“You wanted to testify,” John said as he stroked her hair.

“Yes, dammit! I wanted everyone in the world to hear what he did. He got off too easy. I wanted him to suffer.” Her hands fisted in his T-shirt and a low, guttural sob escaped her chest.

She stayed like that for a long time, until she could control her breathing, until the tremors in her body subsided. The hard strength of John’s body beneath hers, his muscular arms holding her tight, keeping her close, gave her a peace she’d never felt before. Even if only for this moment, she truly felt safe.

She felt lighter, as if sharing her burden with John had cleansed her soul. She allowed his comfort, allowed him to share her pain. She felt almost free, and it was a heady experience.

John rocked her for quite some time, mulling over everything she’d told him. He’d suspected she’d gone through something traumatic as a child, and when he learned her father had killed her mother he couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Yet it was much, much worse. It sickened him. He wanted to twist the bastard’s neck himself. Both her father and her dead brother.

All that death, all that misery, heaped on a ten-year-old. It was amazing she hadn’t broken down before.

“Is that why you quit the force? The Franklin murders hit too close to home?”

She stiffened in his arms, and he inwardly swore. It wasn’t fair, but he had to know everything. Somehow, her past and what was happening now were connected. Maybe the Franklin murders fit in somehow.

“I almost lost my mind when I saw little Rebecca Sue Franklin dead, because she looked just like Dani. Satisfied?” She tried to sound tough and embittered, but failed. She sounded defeated.

“I’m not trying to hurt you, Rowan. But you have to face the truth. Something in your past is connected to these murders. Someone knows what happened to you. You can’t tell me, after receiving the hair and the lilies, that you don’t believe it.”

She said nothing for a long time, and John wondered if she was going to speak at all. “I-I really thought after the hair that it was all connected to the Franklin murders. That case was why I quit the force. It was the impetus to get me to focus on writing books, because I couldn’t do the job anymore. I thought for sure…” Her voice trailed off.

“And?”

“Roger interviewed Franklin’s brother, the one who’d never believed Karl Franklin killed his family and himself. He reviewed the case files; I looked at them for the first time. He has a dozen agents going through not only that case, but all my cases. And nothing. Nothing.”

She paused a long time, and John didn’t interrupt her contemplation. A few moments later she said, “I asked Roger if there was someone else who knew about me, someone from the past. A relative I didn’t know about, a cop who wasn’t right in the head, anyone. He promised he’d look into it, but so far-” she shrugged. “They’re all dead, John! Gone.”

“What about your brother?”

“I told you, he’s dead.”

“Your other brother. Peter.”

She jumped up, staggered backward. Her entire body trembled. “Peter? Are you serious? How dare you!”

“I’m trying to figure this out,” he said, standing slowly, palms up. He hoped she understood he didn’t mean to hurt her. She continued to back away from him.

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard! He’s a priest, dammit! He’s the kindest, gentlest man I know. He would never, never take anyone’s life. He would never hurt me.”

John spoke slowly and steadily, wanting Rowan to carefully consider all the possibilities but not sure she was ready to. “Rowan, listen to me. Someone knows about your past, intimate details about your family and your sister Dani. Hell, it took me nearly a week to get what I got and it barely scratched the surface. Someone knows what hurts you. Your brother Peter is a possibility.”

She shook her head. “No. No! You don’t know him.” She put her hands to her face and violently sobbed.

John went to her. She tried to push him off, but she stumbled in her anguish and he gathered her up. “I’m sorry, Rowan. I’m sorry.” He kissed her forehead as he forced her to sit with him on the edge of the bed.

“It’s not Peter,” she mumbled after several minutes, finally relaxing into his chest, her body still shaking. “Roger put an FBI team on him after the second murder. As protection. If he was traveling all over killing people, they’d have known.”

It seemed like a logical explanation, John thought as he stroked Rowan’s hair. The one person alive who knew about Rowan’s past, knew what would torment her. He’d thought that as soon as he got her to talk, the answer would reveal itself. Peter was one of the few people who knew what happened that night, who knew about her sister’s hair and that Rowan’s name was Lily. He’d almost forgive her for protecting her little brother, not wanting to believe it was him.

But if Peter had been under surveillance, there was no way he could have flown back and forth to Los Angeles, Portland, Washington, Boston. Yet what if Rowan was wrong? What if Peter had an accomplice? Hired someone to help him? Any number of possibilities lodged themselves in John’s mind.

It definitely warranted a call to Roger Collins.

“Are you positive your father is still locked up?” he asked finally.

“Yes. He hasn’t spoken since he killed Mama. Roger called the hospital right after the first murder. Just to be sure.”

It had been a slim chance; now they had nothing. Not nothing-there was still Peter. He glanced at his watch. After three in D.C. He’d call Collins first thing in the morning.

He held Rowan in his arms, feeling her relax inch by inch. She felt good here with him, like she belonged. He rubbed his hands slowly up and down her back. Working the tension out of her muscles. What she’d gone through-he closed his eyes. He’d recall her pain later when he was alone and examine it more closely. Try to understand her complete and total trust in Roger Collins.

Collins was holding everything close to the vest. Why did he feel it was so important to keep Rowan’s past a secret? To protect her? From her emotions-or from someone else?

Did the assistant director know more than he was letting on? John’s instincts hummed. Rowan had been searching for answers and went to Collins for confirmation. He’d assured her that whatever concerns she had about her past were unfounded. She believed him because she trusted him.

John had a feeling her trust in her father-figure was about to be shattered.

He worked a hand up to her neck and she moaned a small pleasure as he kneaded her tight muscles. Feeling the dampness of her tears on his hand, he looked down at her face.

She was so beautiful. Her eyes were closed, but she leaned closer into him to allow his hand more access to her neck. Even with her pale skin splotchy from tears and emotion, her high cheekbones, elegant nose, and full red lips all beckoned to him.

He resisted the urge to kiss her and closed his eyes. He was getting dangerously close to falling for her. Just what he’d warned Michael about.

Had he fallen already?

He felt her kiss his neck, a feather of a kiss, but it reverberated below his belt. “John?” she whispered in his ear.

“What?” His voice sounded gruff and he cleared his throat, his hand pausing on her slender neck.

“Don’t leave.”

He tightened his grip on her and swallowed. She kissed his earlobe. He should leave. She was upset, needy, emotionally drained. He felt like he was taking advantage of her.

She trailed kisses from his ear to his shoulder. Her hand wrapped around his neck, her long, elegant fingers combing his hair, her touch sending heat down his spine.

There was no way in hell he was leaving. He put aside his feelings of hypocrisy and realized for the first time what Michael had felt for Jessica.

He should never have been so quick to judge his brother. He vowed to tell him that tomorrow.

He rubbed Rowan’s back, removed her Glock pressing against his gut. She stiffened at being disarmed, but took her gun from his hand and slid it under her pillow. He took off his own firearm and put it on the nightstand, not taking his eyes from hers.

“Rowan, are you sure-?”

She put her fingers to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t talk.”

He wanted to talk, but didn’t want to lose this connection with her. He’d felt the intense attraction from the minute he saw her, and everything that had happened since only brought them closer. There’d be time for talk later.

He held her wrist, kissed her fingers, and drew them into his mouth. The pain and tension in her face faded away. They shouldn’t be doing this, but dammit, it felt right. He pulled her fingers from his mouth, tilted his head and touched his lips to hers.

There was no way one kiss could satisfy him. He pushed deeper, wanting to give her the warmth and physical contact she needed, knowing there was no going back. This wasn’t going to be an easy one-night stand where he could kiss her goodbye and walk out of her life.

She was already etched in his soul.

He gently pushed her onto the bed and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, returning his deep assault on her lush mouth. Her mouth parted and a moan escaped. He licked her lips, her neck, behind her ear. She tasted salty from her tears. His heart twisted. No one should ever go through what Rowan had. No one. It was amazing she had come so far. She was an amazing woman.

He trailed kisses back to her lips, and plunged in with his tongue. She met him kiss for kiss, entwining her tongue with his, massaging and scratching his back.

Impatiently, she pulled his T-shirt up and he broke the kiss momentarily to whip the shirt over his head and toss it aside. She still wore her little black dress and he reached behind and unzipped it down her back. She slipped out of it and he saw her exquisite body.

She had scars. He kissed an obvious gunshot wound that had grazed her lower right rib. It looked like a knife wound had damaged her upper arm, an old one. He kissed it. Unclasping her bra, he held her breasts in his hands and caressed them. He looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open. The tears had stopped.

He never wanted to see her cry again.

He kissed one breast, pulled in the nipple to suckle, and she moaned. He repeated the attention on the other breast, enjoying the way she responded to his touch. She’d been like an icicle before; now she was melting, on fire. She pulled at his jeans, and he impatiently slid out of them. He put his full weight on top of her and kissed her again.

He’d never get enough and knew he had fallen for her.

Rowan roamed her hands over John’s tight, muscular body. Every hard muscle rippled beneath his uniformly tan skin. Only a line below his waist proved he didn’t sunbathe in the nude.

She hadn’t intended for this to happen, but as he’d held her earlier, her heart had raced and she’d felt safe. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt safe. He shared her pain and her past now seemed bearable. How that was possible after John had forced her to bare her soul, she didn’t know, but getting the secrets off her chest was a relief. She hadn’t spoken of any of it for twenty-three years.

A small veil had been lifted from her heart. Her burden felt lighter, as if John were carrying it with her. She was freer than she’d ever been before. Because of John.

So she had kissed his neck and asked him to stay. She wasn’t sure he would. If he left, she’d find a way to live without him. She was a survivor, a loner.

But she was glad he stayed. Begging wasn’t her strong suit, but right now she wasn’t above it to keep John with her.

Maybe, for the first time in the two weeks since Doreen Rodriguez was murdered, the nightmares would stay away.

But more than the feeling of security, she felt a companionship and understanding with John that she’d never had before in her life. The way he looked at her, his deep eyes darkening, beckoning, promising that he was trustworthy. That he wouldn’t get himself killed. That he was strong enough to take on her and the world.

He turned her on like no man had before. It was more than his dark good looks and tight, fit body. It was the way he focused on the task at hand, whether it was dragging the past out of her, pursuing justice, or right here and now making her feel whole again. Making love to her.

She had so many questions, wanted to know everything about him. And when she did, she would care about him even more. Care about him too much.

She already did.

Pushing those thoughts from her mind, she reached down and felt his firm buttocks. She dug in her fingers and he thrust forward. He was rigid against her and she wanted him. She kissed him, and he took her mouth deep in his, his hands never stopping, touching her all over, keeping her warm, making her hot. “Make love to me,” she whispered in his ear, then licked the sensitive spot behind the lobe. He shuddered in her arms.

“Not yet.” His voice was low and husky, and he pulled her panties off with his teeth. She grew cold without his body pressed firmly against hers, but then his tongue parted her vagina and she gasped as liquid heat pooled between her legs.

She grabbed the comforter in her fists as his tongue worked magic. She moaned, the pleasure mixed with just a little pain as her orgasm built and his mouth suckled. She arched her back, her hips rose off the bed, and he lightly bit her nub, bringing on a shuddering orgasm that left her panting and hoarse.

Then he climbed on top of her and kissed her hard. She held on to him, bringing him as close as possible. He spread her legs to enter her.

Then she flipped him.

John almost didn’t know what hit him. One second he was about to sheath himself deep in Rowan’s hot body, needing her, wanting her, craving her. Then he was on his back and Rowan’s long blonde hair hung in his face. He spit out a strand and began to say, “What?” when she kissed him hard, then sat up.

He watched as she took him into her elegant hands and guided him into her. She gasped as his head entered, her eyes closed, her mouth parted. It was all he could do not to thrust himself completely into her at once and come. He was so close.

But he loved watching her. She was like a goddess perched above him, her back arched, her breasts firm, her nipples hard and pointed. Her skin was so white, so soft, so perfect, even with the scars.

Then she slid completely onto him and he saw stars.

He reached for her hands and held them tight. She was directing, and it was all he could do to allow it. He wanted to take control, but relished her abandon. She ground herself into him and moaned, then pulled up until he was almost out, then slid back down.

The torture was excruciating and wonderful at the same time.

He felt her muscles clutch him as she slid down and her body quivered, sending shock waves from his balls to his brain. He couldn’t wait.

Grabbing her beautiful ass in his hands, he pushed her down onto him and pumped into her. She moaned and fell onto his chest, quivering. He felt her muscles clamp down on him.

He came with more force than he had ever remembered coming, and then held her close as she rocked with her own orgasm.

He gently, tenderly, turned her over and pulled the comforter around them. He held her, kissing her hair, her face, her lips. He was already growing hard again, still sheathed in her warm body. “Rowan, I want you again.”

She kissed him long and sweet. Together, they explored.

Michael staggered into his apartment, his head pounding and his stomach threatening to rebel. He should never have eaten two cheeseburgers and fries on a stomach full of Scotch and beer. Just get to the toilet, he kept telling himself. Don’t make a mess on the floor.

He made it in time, and bowed to the porcelain god for a good ten minutes. When he stood, he didn’t feel sick anymore, and briefly considered heading back to Rowan’s to help John with protection. Naw, he’d get a good night’s sleep and go back in the morning.

After drinking water directly from the bathroom faucet, he slowly walked back to his living room. His door stood wide open. “Shit,” he muttered, lambasting himself for being so stupid. He crossed over and slammed the door shut.

“Hello, Mr. Flynn.”

He whirled around and saw someone familiar standing in the middle of his living room. The stranger. The businessman from the bar.

Michael reached for his gun, but he already knew it was too late. Three bullets hit his chest. Excruciating heat and pain radiated throughout his body. He was on fire.

His body slammed against the wall and he fell to the floor. Everything moved in slow motion. The stranger walked over to him, light gleaming off his dark blond hair. He shook his head, a half-smile on his face, as he looked down at Michael.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn. It wasn’t in the book, but sometimes, we have to improvise.”

The book. Rowan. Shit, he’d fucked up. I’m sorry, John. You were right.

A flash of light-a camera? Maybe it was a tunnel. Yes, a bright tunnel.

Then the world was gone.