The Prey (20 page)

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.

John had to force himself to do his job that morning when he and Rowan set out to jog along the beach. He wanted to watch her, but that would be dangerous. He had to watch the houses, watch the ocean, watch for anyone walking on the beach.

He craved her again. If he didn’t know Michael would be at the house by the time they were done running, he might have considered making love to her on the beach. But it would be better if Michael didn’t find out yet what had happened.

John wondered if he could keep his face blank.

After making love the second time, they’d slept a couple of hours. John woke with a start at four in the morning. Rowan was moaning in her sleep, crying out for Dani. He gathered her in his arms and felt a rare sense of peace as she quieted and held on to him. He didn’t want to delve too deeply into his feelings. After all, he didn’t doubt as soon as the murderer was caught that Rowan would go on with her life. And he would go after Pomera.

But his problems, his pain in losing Denny and others to drug-dealing killers like Pomera, seemed pitiful compared to what Rowan had endured every day since she was ten. Even before then. That Rowan had the courage to continue, albeit less than perfectly, gave him additional strength.

Rowan paused at the base of the stairs and took deep, cleansing breaths. She smiled at him, her eyes bright. She seemed almost carefree, and he was pleased he’d given her a little peace after the turmoil of the last two weeks.

“Want to join me for a shower?”

He was already semi-hard just watching her sweat, her small breasts straining against her damp T-shirt. He grabbed her and kissed her passionately, relishing the salty taste of her lips, the sweat on her back, her glow from exercise and the aftermath of good sex.

He quickly broke the embrace. This wasn’t the right place. “Let’s go.” His voice was husky and he cleared his throat.

He didn’t forget his responsibility. He checked out the deck and the house before declaring all was safe. He glanced at his watch. Seven.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” he said.

“Then we’d better get started.” She jogged up the stairs to her bedroom and he followed, locking the door behind him. She stripped in front of him and he could only watch and admire her lean muscles. But all the right places were soft.

“Rowan, I—”

She put a finger to his lips. “Like you said,” she said softly, “we don’t have a lot of time.”

He didn’t miss the double meaning. He didn’t know why it bothered him when she said it, even though he’d been thinking the same thing.

Rowan led him into the shower, relishing the connection they had forged the night before. She’d never felt so wanton, so incredibly desirous.

They began in the shower where she started to wash him, and he took over. She let him. He took the soap in his large, confident hands and rubbed her body until she quivered with more than simple lust. A longing grabbed her, a need to draw out this close intimacy. It was delicate and bright, and like anything new could easily be destroyed.