The Prey

CHAPTER 22

Rowan lamented the fact that she wasn’t good with relationships. She was angry with John about the safe house, but understood its necessity. She’d tried to explain this in the car, but she hadn’t seemed to do a good job.

He’d made no attempt to come to her room last night.

Of course, he was in full protection mode, leaving the cabin every hour to prowl like a cat through the wilderness for ten minutes before coming back.

She’d asked to go with him and he simply said, “No.”

But she was going stir-crazy, and it was obvious John was, too. Rowan typed. John paced. Rowan stared out the window. John checked the perimeter. Rowan cleaned the guns. John paced.

Quinn had checked in that morning and said there was no news. Bobby hadn’t surfaced, but the decoy was in place.

Finally, Rowan had had enough. “Let’s run.”

“We can’t leave.”

“We’ve been cooped up in this damn cabin for the whole day. We have at least a good hour of daylight left, and running will do us both good. Besides, you’re wearing the finish off the poor hardwood floor.”

John frowned, obviously debating her suggestion. “All right,” he snapped. “We’ll go. But I’m in charge.”

“Of course you are,” Rowan mumbled, irritated.

They changed into sweats and running shoes. It was cooler up the coast in the evening. John had checked out the perimeter-again-and brought a map. The beach was a quarter-mile walk through the woods. He led the way, his whole body tense. Rowan resisted an urge to massage his shoulders; certain they would feel too tight and rock hard.

Not being in the action was hurting him as much as it was her. The sacrifice he’d made to protect her both disturbed and warmed her heart. She didn’t want to think he cared. After all, with Michael’s death on their conscience and the reality that when this was all over they wouldn’t be together, she could hardly afford to think that there was something more than physical desire between them.

Last night, before she’d drifted off to sleep-alone-she couldn’t help but think about what might have been. If Michael hadn’t been killed. If Bobby weren’t after her. If she were certain of her sanity.

John Flynn was a man she could love.

But love wasn’t for people like her. John had helped her start putting together the pieces of a life that had been shattered years ago, but now she could do it herself. And in doing it, she acknowledged that she wasn’t whole and it would take a lot more than accepting the past and focusing on the future to make her a complete, viable, lovable woman.

She would never forget what John had done for her.

They walked to the shore and stopped at the edge of a cliff. The beach looked clean and unused. Serene. The ocean here was more volatile than at Malibu, the waves crashing hard against the wet, rocky sand, violently claiming the land. They walked along the rim of the cliff until they found a slope easy to scramble down, then without talking they ran.

She breathed in the cold, wet air. The spray from the breaking waves caressed her skin, and the sensation invigorated her. She was alive. Free. Her heart felt lighter somehow, and she owed it to John. He couldn’t possibly know or understand the transformation she’d gone through over the past few days. Reliving the murders, feeling Dani in her arms again-even if only in her mind. Her willingness to confront Bobby. All of that, together, freed her soul.

She’d written more in the last two days than she had in months. Seventy pages, and she had more in her.

She felt guilty for her elation. Michael was dead. She wanted vengeance, justice, and for the first time truly believed it would happen. Bobby wouldn’t get away with his crimes. He would be punished-both Colorado and California had the death penalty-and he could rot for ten years in a ten-by-ten cell until he finally fried in the electric chair.

For the first time in a long time, she had hope. Not only that justice would be served, but that she would be complete. Healed.

She didn’t know the distance they ran, but suspected it was nearly three miles by the time they got back to the ledge they had descended. She started up first, John right behind her. The setting sun caught her eye and she turned.

“John,” she said quietly, nodding toward the sky.

He turned and looked. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered, then looked back at her. “Just like you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “John, I-”

He put his finger to her lips, took her arm, and motioned for her to sit. She did. Together, they watched the sunset. Such a normal thing, really. Why did it feel so odd? So different?

Because she didn’t do normal things. She didn’t have a normal life. She didn’t watch sunsets with handsome men she loved-cared about, she corrected herself.

She wanted to freeze this moment in time, as John wrapped an arm around her, squeezing her close to his side. Sighing, she let her head rest on his shoulder. This quiet affection was something she’d never had, but she could live with it. Forever.

“They’re going to catch Bobby,” John said quietly as the sun began its descent, seeming to sink into the ocean.

“I know.”

“You being here, safe, is the right thing. I know you’re torn up about not being in on the op, and I’m sorry I wasn’t more-uh, sensitive-about the way I told you.”

He was worrying about her feelings when she’d acted so irresponsibly. “No apologies, John. I’m okay.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I am. For the first time in a long time I’m okay.”

Acknowledging that she hadn’t been okay for a long time was the hardest part. But once she’d said it out loud, she felt at peace.

John fidgeted next to her. She glanced over at him. He was frowning slightly, his brows furrowed in some sort of deep thought, and she wondered what was going on in his mind.

She was also curious about what Roger had told her about John’s past, the sting operation that had gone bad.

“Roger told me what happened in Baton Rouge.”

John tensed next to her. “Did he?”

“Roger was impressed.”

“Not many people were.”

She sighed, looked at his hand on the ground, and took it into her own. Rowan surprised herself; she’d never considered herself a comforting sort of person.

“It seems to me,” she said after a moment, “that you risked your own life to save your fellow agents. At least, that’s how Roger portrayed it.”

She paused, glancing at him. “Did that have anything to do with you quitting DEA and going freelance?”

He didn’t speak for a long time, only staring out at the setting sun and the vast array of bright colors that shaded the sky. “Someone had to do it.”

Rowan had a dozen questions, but remained silent. Momentarily, John spoke, his voice reflective.

“I was in Pomera’s inner circle. It took me three years. Three years to gain the trust of his people, to become part of the team. I had to break a lot of rules to get there, doing some things I’m not especially proud of.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” John said, his voice full of venom. “Look the other way while your comrades kill innocent people?”

She knew he wasn’t angry at her, but at himself. “We do what we have to do, John. Sometimes the lesser of two evils is the only choice we have.”

Silence descended, and as the sun disappeared on the horizon the air grew cooler. Still, they stayed on the edge of the cliff, and John didn’t doubt that Rowan understood.

“I could have taken down Pomera then. But that day, in Baton Rouge, the lesser of two evils was letting him go. And we still lost eight men and women.” He’d never forget the brief moment of indecision, and the guilt that the two minutes he’d wasted in pursuit of Pomera had been two minutes taken from saving his colleagues.

The guilt had never left him. John would never know if he could have saved more of them.

“Many more lives would have been lost had you not diffused those bombs,” Rowan said.

“Maybe fewer would have died had I not debated my duty.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I started to go after Pomera. I could have gotten him, and I went after him. But-”

“But you thought twice and ended up doing the right thing.” She squeezed his hand and forced him to look at her.

She hadn’t worn her little shaded glasses, and the compassion-and love?-he saw in her stormy blue eyes told him she did understand. Some choices were almost impossible to make. Some choices were between wrong and wrong, and there was not a damned thing you could do about it.

Yes, he’d saved lives. But how many lives had been lost because Pomera got away that day? He’d never gotten that close to him before.

Too often, he doubted he’d ever be that close again.

“Yeah, I did the right thing,” he said softly. “But I had to quit. There was a mole in the operation, someone my boss trusted, and he protected the bastard. Too many people died, and ‘I’m sorry’ didn’t hold any water with me. I got fed up with the bureaucratic nonsense, the waste, the damn walking on eggshells trying to play by the rules.”

They sat in silence, John thinking about the choices he’d had to make. Were they the right ones? He didn’t know. But at the time, it was the best he could do.

Much like Rowan’s choices.

Rowan wondered about the recent decision John had made.

“John? Are you okay? I mean, about not being there to apprehend Bobby?”

He looked at her and his eyes flashed anger and something else, something personal, that warmed her. “You don’t even have to ask, Rowan. I wouldn’t be anyplace else except here with you. Can’t you see that I care about you?”

He didn’t give her a chance to respond. He kissed her hard on the lips, a groan escaping his chest. She wrapped her arms around him and in his urgency to get close, they toppled to the ground. His hard weight pinned her down, but she relished the closeness, the desire radiating from him.

Suddenly, he jumped up, pulling her with him.

“We can’t do this here,” he said, his voice rusty and his eyes dark as he set a vigorous pace back to the cabin.

John was certain about two things. One, that Rowan believed he would walk away when this was over. And two, that he wouldn’t allow her to leave him. Somehow, some way, she had to remain in his life.

He didn’t quite know how it would work. The next time there was a shot at Pomera, he’d take it. He’d be in South America for as long as it took to get that murderous bastard. It could be months, or years. It wouldn’t be fair to ask Rowan to wait for him.

But he wanted her. Now and forever. He couldn’t imagine making love to another woman. She’d become a part of him. Through the pain of losing Michael, the betrayal of her guardian, the confrontation with her father, he saw her foundation and it was solid. She was rebuilding her life. He saw it in everything she did. She thought she’d been weak when she quit the FBI, but if anything, it was self-preservation.

Even he had burned out once.

But he’d come back from that defeat to fight again. So would Rowan. Because that was what she did. He wouldn’t be surprised if she went back to the FBI when this was all over. Her sense of justice was too important to lock herself away in seclusion, writing. But even if she didn’t return, even if she continued her writing career, it wouldn’t be from fear. It would be because she wanted to.

And that made all the difference in the world.

So he’d kissed her. But one taste wasn’t enough. One taste reminded him of making love to her, of touching her, of holding her lithe body in his arms after sex, both of them satiated.

Not for long. He always wanted more of her.

He couldn’t get back to the cabin fast enough, but he had protocol to follow, though that had certainly slipped his mind for the moment he almost made love to her there on the cliff.

“Wait here,” he told her as he did a security check around the perimeter.

Surprisingly, when he finished his check he found her waiting right where he’d left her. He almost smiled, but as soon as her eyes narrowed with desire and she took a step toward him, he couldn’t wait any longer. He dived in.

Her lips responded to his with passion, spurring him on. Parting for him so he could go deeper. He pulled in her tongue, playing with it, trying to possess her. To bring her closer. To make her truly his. She kept the pace, her arms wrapped around his neck pulling him closer. Her nails squeezed his neck and he shuddered.

He could take her right there, right then. But he didn’t. He wanted to do it right. Show her feelings he wasn’t ready to express out loud. Show her the depth of his desire, that this wasn’t the last time, but the first of many.

That the end was nowhere near.

She reached down and pulled up his shirt, still damp from their run in the cold. He moaned when her fingers kneaded his back and roamed up to his shoulders, never stopping, pulling him in to her.

He whipped off his shirt and tossed it aside. Her hands splayed across his chest, her thumbs making circles over his nipples, sending jolts of energy to his loins. He was already hard and wanted to speed things up, but he stopped himself. He wasn’t going to rush this. He took a deep breath and pushed himself off her.

Her skin was flushed and her nipples poked through her damp T-shirt, hard and pointed. He swallowed, bent down, and picked her up. She really didn’t weigh much, but she was solid muscle from running. Muscles tense with anticipation as he carried her into his room and laid her on the bed.

She looked at him with eyes so clear and serene, his voice caught in his throat. She trusted him. It was written all over her face, in her expressive eyes, that she’d put her life, her body, in his hands.

That meant more to him than anything she could say because he knew how difficult it was for Rowan to have faith in anyone but herself.

He slid out of his pants and stood naked before her. She watched him, a half-smile on her face. Her perusal was almost as much a turn-on as her touch, and his penis jerked toward her. He reached over, pulling off her T-shirt at the same time she unhooked her bra.

She wasn’t large, but her breasts were perfect handfuls, her nipples hard. He took one into his mouth and tasted.

Rowan was in heaven. She’d never imagined that making love could mean so much more than physical release. She had an emotional attachment that heightened every touch, every sensation, every murmur of affection.

She moaned as John sucked her breast, his tongue flicking her nipple already aching with need. She rubbed his shoulders, his head, his arms. She couldn’t get enough of him. Last night she had almost gone to his room, but she wasn’t sure how he would respond. He was trapped up here as much as she was, though it was by choice.

She’d wanted this, his touch, his kiss, a physical connection that told her she was alive and healthy and whole. But his assault on her senses was more than physical. She felt something else, something possessive and loving.

She didn’t dwell on it, because she knew it couldn’t last. But for now she could bask in his affection, his touch, his desire.

He switched to her other breast while kneading the first. Hot liquid pooled between her legs. A mere touch would set her off. Something about John’s caress, his kiss, his firm and seductive confidence.

She couldn’t define the feeling, but deep down she sensed she could give her body to no other man but John. He had claimed her soul when he saved it; it belonged to no other. She didn’t realize she was crying until tears pooled in her ears.

John must have sensed something, because he looked at her face. “Rowan? Honey, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. Nothing she could put into words. “Kiss me,” she murmured, her voice husky.

But he didn’t. He looked down at her with dark green eyes full of desire, of concern, of love.

No. Not love. Everyone she loved died.

“Rowan, I-”

She cut him off by pulling his lips to hers and kissing him hard. She reached down between them and took him in her hand. He felt his pulse throbbing between her fingers. She took her thumb and rubbed his head. He moaned and ground into her as he returned her kiss.

It wasn’t just a kiss. Their lips joined in a passionate mating game, mimicking the act of making love they both urgently craved, a ravenous need that would never be completely satiated.

His hands roamed down her bare chest, under the waistband of her sweats, and touched her wetness. She arched her back, wanting him. He broke the kiss and pulled off her sweats. When he kissed her toes she sighed, stifling a moan. When had her feet become so sensual? His hot breath between her toes sent chills down her spine and heightened her desire.

When she didn’t think she could stand it anymore, his mouth left her toes and kissed her calves, then under her knees, trailing wet kisses all the way to her clit.

She came as soon as his tongue plunged into her. Her body rocked against him, her hands holding his head, his tongue circling her nub, prolonging her intense pleasure. She’d just begun to come down off the fabulous orgasm when he pulled up and put his hands on either side of her head.

“Oh, John,” she said, her voice breathy and not at all sounding like her.

His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded. His face was twisted with restraint. Then, in one swift motion, he plunged deep into her and she cried out. Not from pain, but the exquisite pleasure of taking John completely within her. He stopped, his face clearly showing he was trying to stay in control.

Here, with John, she could be out of control. Out of control in a good way, a way to purge and please, hope and yearn. She reached down and squeezed his firm ass, pushing him even deeper. His face strained and she felt his penis jump inside her, bringing her pleasure again. She felt another spiral begin within her, and he wasn’t even moving.

Then he withdrew and plunged again.

Holding back was driving him crazy, but John wanted to prolong the connection he’d made with Rowan. No rushing; he wanted to slowly make love to her, show her his feelings, feelings he struggled to voice, though every time he tried she stopped him.

She couldn’t stop this.

He pulled out and plunged again, relishing her tight core that accommodated him perfectly. He felt thicker than he had in a long time, harder than he’d ever remembered being. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back and keep this union.

But her hands squeezed and touched, pushing him closer, caressing the sensitive skin behind his penis, touching him. He moaned and pushed deeper, felt her writhe beneath him.

He couldn’t hold back, didn’t want to hold back. He wanted to claim her, bring her to orgasm, share her heat with his own. He pumped into her hard and fast and she panted beneath him, letting herself go, losing control.

With each thrust he ground into her clit and she gasped and pushed into him. She arched up and clutched him with her muscles and came around him. With a final thrust he poured himself into her. He loved the way her body met his, loved the way she kept up with him.

Loved her.

He moaned and collapsed onto her, sweating and completely satiated. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her ears. Her lips. She held on to him tightly, as if trying to get closer, and he relished their connection. Even though she wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t let him talk about it, they had bonded so deeply even death couldn’t separate them.

Where had that thought come from? He shivered.

Rowan felt John tense after the most incredible sex she’d ever had. Incredible because she felt something other than the physical act between them, which was glorious. There was something more, something deeper, as if they’d committed to something without speaking.

Then he’d tensed.

“Is something wrong?” Her voice was low, barely a whisper.

He rolled over, pulling her on top of him, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “No,” he said and kissed her again. “We fit well together.”

She smiled slightly. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

“I’ve never found anyone I, um, fit so well with.” John looked at Rowan with questioning eyes and she sucked in her breath. She couldn’t miss the double meaning.

“Nor have I,” she said quietly, turning her eyes from his.

He forced her to look at him. “Rowan, after-after everything is over, I want to-”

“John, please, let’s not-”

He cut her off with a kiss. “Rowan, this isn’t going to end. We are not going to end. I don’t know exactly what’s happened, but you are a part of me in a way I can’t explain, and I’m not going to let you walk away.”

The pain she felt in her heart told her she loved him. She knew because the thought of him dying was the foremost thing on her mind.

Everyone she loved died.

“John, let’s talk about this later. After-everything is over.”

He stared at her for a long time and she couldn’t read his expression. Was he angry? Upset? She didn’t want to hurt him, but it would hurt more if she lost him. Yes, she was being selfish. But the great strides she’d made at putting the past behind her would be shattered if she cared too much and the worst happened. No plans for the future, nothing to wrap her heart around, not now. Maybe not ever.

In the back of her mind, a whispered thought murmured It’s too late. You care. You love him. But she didn’t-couldn’t-acknowledge it.

“I understand,” he said, then kissed her.

She believed he did.

The whore should be dead, but she’d beaten him.

The fucking slut fought like a cat, and Bobby sported two black eyes to prove it. They hurt like hell, and his vision was blurred in his left eye. If he had time-if he hadn’t been identified-he would go back and finish the job. He’d beat her to a pulp before slicing her throat and watching her bleed like a stuck pig.

But he couldn’t go back to Dallas. He was holed up in some fucking motel in the Arizona desert waiting for dark so he could steal some bitch’s car and get back to Los Angeles.

Lily was there. She was waiting for him.

And this time, the little cunt wouldn’t survive.