The Prey (31 page)

“I’m okay,” Rowan said.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

She looked at him quizzically and John frowned. Didn’t she trust him? After everything they’d been through?

Yet he’d treated her like crap after Michael was killed on Friday.

Friday. It had been three nights—seventy-two hours since Michael was gunned down. And John was here eating dinner in a nice Boston restaurant with the woman Michael had half fallen in love with.

“John?” Rowan asked, concern in her voice.

He didn’t want to talk about Michael, but she had a right to know what he was thinking. “I don’t blame you for Michael’s death. Please believe me. I wasn’t myself, and I said some things I didn’t mean. I was out of line.”

She absorbed what he said and he watched her shake her head slightly. “You may not blame me, but that doesn’t make it any less my fault.”

“Rowan, you had no idea the killer was your brother. You had every reason to believe he was dead.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. “I can’t believe Roger kept this secret for so long.”

The hostess approached. “Your table is ready,” she said. “For three?”

John nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“Who are we waiting for? Not Roger. I—I can’t deal with him right now.”

“Not Roger. Peter.”

Her eyes widened in concern. “Peter? But he has to keep a low profile, what if—”

He put his finger to her lips. “Rowan, I got his number from Roger and called him. He wants to see you. I think it would be good for you, especially after today.”

The indecision on her face was clear. She loved her brother, but feared for him.

“He has an FBI escort, if that makes you feel any better.”

“A little,” she admitted.

They sat at the table and Rowan kept turning her head to look for her brother.

She drew in a deep breath, a hitch in her voice. “John, I cared for Michael. I liked him. I’m so sorry he’s gone.”

“Stop.” His voice was harsher than he’d intended. “I don’t blame you, Rowan. You have to stop blaming yourself.”

He took a deep breath. His hands had become tight fists and he slowly flexed them, trying to ease the tension that had been building since Michael was killed. It was more his fault than anyone’s.

He didn’t want to yell at her, but he had to make her understand. “I’m just as responsible for Michael being there as you. I should never have taken him off that night. It was me being selfish and judgmental.” Damn, it hurt to say it out loud, but there it was.

“Who’s Jessica?”

John blinked, surprised at the change of subject. “A woman Michael was involved with.”

“I overheard you and Tess talking about me being another Jessica. What did you mean?”

John mulled that over. He couldn’t tell her everything without betraying Michael on some level, but he didn’t want to lie to her. Couldn’t lie to her. He opted for a sanitized version of the truth. “Michael was a cop and caught the case. Jessica’s ex-boyfriend was stalking her. Some badass junior Mafia goon. Michael helped her, continued to see her. Fell in love. It didn’t work out. Jessica went back to the guy, ended up dead.” He paused. “He has a thing for damsels in distress.”

“I’m hardly a damsel in distress.” She glanced down, and John couldn’t read her expression. It was hard enough with all her self-imposed barriers, but if he couldn’t see her eyes he didn’t know what she was thinking.

“No, but you’re a beautiful woman who needed someone to watch over her,” he said softly. He reached over and took her hand. “Rowan, I’m not going to get over Michael’s death anytime soon. It’s my fault he was alone. I didn’t think—no one thought—that Bobby would go after him.” He put his free hand up when she looked like she was going to interrupt him. “But,” he continued, “I’ll deal with it in my own time and my own way.”

She nodded, understanding in her pretty eyes.

“Rowan,” a voice said behind her.

Rowan felt John tense, but she smiled, let go of his hand, and stood. “Peter,” she whispered, turning to face her baby brother.

Peter wore a simple, dark sweater over his cleric’s collar, his gray eyes shining bright with concern. He held out his arms and she stepped into his warm embrace, breathing in his safe and familiar scent, her cheek on his chest. He was quite tall, taller than John, and on the thin side.

She stepped back and inspected him. Definite worry in the faint lines of his handsome face. His dark hair had started graying on the sides, a few white strands intermingled here and there. He was only thirty; where had the gray come from?

She touched his face. “It’s so good to see you.” And it was. More than good; seeing him was almost like healing.

He kissed her on the forehead, then stepped back and extended his hand to John, who had stood and assumed his bodyguard stance behind her and to the side. “John Flynn?”

“Yes, Father.”

Peter smiled wide, a touch of humor glimmering in his eyes. “Peter will suffice. Thank you for calling me.”

John nodded, motioning for him to sit. Once they were all settled, the waitress took their orders and left.

“What did John tell you?” Rowan asked, breaking an awkward silence. Both Peter and John seemed to be sizing each other up. It made her feel strange.

“I suppose I should ask what he
didn’t
tell me.” Peter frowned. “Why did you come to Boston?”

Rowan closed her eyes. “To see our father.”

“What?” The quiet shock in Peter’s deep voice surprised Rowan. “But—I never thought you—” He stopped himself. “Why?”

“Bobby is alive,” she said quietly. “Alive and killing people. He’s the killer, Peter.”

Rowan told Peter everything, from beginning to end. About the murders, the pigtails, the lilies, Roger’s lies. Their food came and they picked at it, no one in the mood to eat.

When she was done, Peter turned to John. “I am so sorry about your brother.”

“Thank you.” Rowan thought John sounded a little gruff, but what did she expect? She’d just recounted how Michael had been killed.

“Dad talked?” Peter sipped water. “I’m surprised.”

Rowan nodded. “Me, too. You know, I keep playing over and over in my mind what he said. Bobby told him my mother was with someone. Did Bobby set this whole thing up? Did he want to cause problems between Mom and Dad? I just don’t understand.”

“Bobby always got a perverse pleasure out of hurting people. Physically and emotionally,” Peter said. “I was too young to understand how deep his anger and hatred went, but I knew enough to stay as far away from him as possible.”

“I think Bobby had to have been manipulating Dad for a long time. Maybe he never thought he’d kill Mama, just wanted to cause problems for the pleasure of causing problems, but something happened to Daddy and he broke.”

She pushed her plate away. “Or maybe I’m just making excuses for him.”

“Because he hit Mama.”

Her eyes widened. “You knew? You never said anything.”

Eyes swimming with grief, Peter nodded. “I knew, but didn’t understand. I was seven when she died. I heard fights more than saw. Except the bruises.” He took a deep breath. “Mama chose to stay. That makes everything harder to deal with.”

A tear slipped down Rowan’s face and she wiped it away. “You should have talked to me. Maybe we could have helped each other.”

“Maybe we could have, if we were older. And together. But when the O’Briens adopted me and Roger took you in, we didn’t see each other and then—time. Time is cruel, Rowan. I’ve dealt with everything the best way I could, and I’m at peace with it. What else can I do? Except try to help you. But you never let anyone in.” Peter looked at John. “At least, you didn’t for a long time.”

Rowan stole a glance at John. His jaw was tight, posture stiff, but his eyes looked at her with compassion and something more. Something binding. Her heart paused as she realized in that moment that John had grown to be such an important part of her life so quickly, she hadn’t seen it happen.

That wasn’t an entirely comfortable thought.

“Why didn’t the O’Briens adopt Rowan?” John asked, turning from her to Peter.

Peter paused a long time. “It was a difficult time for both of us, I think. They’re good people, but two damaged kids would be trying on anyone. Aunt Karen, our mother’s sister, refused to take us in. Rowan and I overheard her call us the ‘Devil’s spawn.’ ”

Rowan would never forget that. It reminded her always of where she came from. The loins of a devil.

“Our grandparents were old,” she said quietly. “We were with them for a week, but—I didn’t make it easy.”

“Who could blame you?” Peter snapped, rare anger in his voice. “When are you going to stop blaming yourself? What could you have done as a child to stop our father from stabbing our mother to death? What could you have done to protect Dani? You did everything you could. You saved my life.”

She stifled a sob, and Peter’s hand shot out and squeezed hers. “You have to let the past go.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But not until Bobby is caught. He’s on the loose, killing people to get to me. Please be careful, Peter. If he finds out you’re still alive, he’ll go after you.”

“I’m ready, Rowan. I’m at peace. The question is, are you?”

After Peter left, John escorted Rowan to her room. He had the adjoining suite, and made sure the door was open in case she was in trouble. He doubted Bobby knew where they were, but if he had help or access to airline records—illegally—he might be able to track them down.

John couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back and stared at the acoustic hotel ceiling, the dim light from the street casting shadows across his room. He thought about everything Peter had said. Rowan’s guilt and frustration. He understood that. He had plenty of guilt and frustration of his own.

He missed Michael. Wednesday was his funeral, and he didn’t want to go. He hated funerals. He’d been to too many in his nearly forty years. His mom. His dad. Colleagues. Criminals.

Denny.

He’d already said goodbye to Michael in the morgue—face-to-face. He closed his eyes and saw his brother’s cold, lifeless body in the steel drawer.

But he would go. He had to. For Tess. For Michael.

A faint movement from Rowan’s room caught his eye and he silently slid from his bed, gun in hand.

“It’s me,” Rowan said as she stepped through the doorway. Her long white hair fell down her back and shimmered in the shadows. She wore a long T-shirt that barely touched the top of her thighs, and her long, shapely legs were bare.

He relaxed, put his gun by his side. “Is everything okay?”

She nodded. “I just—Can I sleep with you tonight?”

The words were like a child’s, but her voice was husky, sexy. His body instantly responded. “Are you sure?”

She walked over to him, laid a hand on his chest. Her lips were inches from his. “Yes, John. I’m sure.”

Rowan hadn’t been sure of a lot in her life, especially since she quit the FBI, but right here, right now, she was confident that she needed John. More than a need. A desire deeper than anything she’d felt for a man before.

How could something that felt so powerful, so right, happen so fast?

“Rowan.” His voice was dark and shaded with desire. He stood still, trembling slightly beneath her hands spread across his wide, muscular chest.

She couldn’t imagine being anywhere but here.
With John
.

She kissed his chest, his heat radiating through her lips, down her throat, to the center of her soul. Her breath hitched as she realized her feelings for John went deeper than she’d thought. She wanted to scream with the injustice of it all—that she very well could die. Or that John could.

Dear God, no. Not John. She’d never be able to live with herself if he died protecting her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as she feathered kisses on his chest, up his shoulder.

He was too perceptive for his own good. She didn’t say a word, just continued to kiss him. She didn’t want to talk. She just wanted to
feel
.

He stepped back, tilted her chin up with his finger. “Talk to me.”

But she couldn’t talk about it. Not her fears, not what her heart was clamoring for her to say.

She couldn’t say it. Everyone she loved died.

“Make love to me,” she said and touched her lips to his.

“Row—”

“Shh,” she murmured into his lips, gently pushing him back onto the bed.

He hesitated only a moment before deepening the embrace. Like a switch, he went from soft caresses to hard passion. Her hands roamed the long, firm length of his body. Rowan couldn’t touch him enough. As if it were the last time, she needed to touch all of him, from his cropped hair to his broad shoulders to the jagged scar that ran from mid-thigh to his knee.

Her mouth trailed down his chest to his stomach. He quivered, his hands wound tightly in her hair. She kissed his navel, licked him from his hard stomach down to his pelvis, her hands reaching for his long hardness, and taking it into her mouth. He moaned and she drew him in deeper.

Sweat and raw masculine need wafted through her senses. Never had she felt so passionate, so desirable.

“Row-an.” He pulled her up and off him, rolled over on top of her. “You’re driving me crazy.”

He sank into her. His lips onto hers, his tongue dueling. Chest against chest, pelvis against pelvis. He slid comfortably into her, drawing out a long groan from deep in her body.

They quickly found their rhythm. Fast, hard, intense. She couldn’t get close enough to him; he pulled her closer, plunging deeper, until they pushed each other into orgasms, clinging and almost frantic. As if it were the last time.

No
. It couldn’t be the last time. She couldn’t lose him now that she’d found someone who fit so well into her tainted and troubled life.

Unless—

She didn’t want to think about John’s feelings, but she had to. He was comforting her, caring for her, loving her—for tonight. Tonight they had. Tomorrow—maybe. But forever?

She couldn’t even imagine forever. There had never been a forever in her life, and it was foolish to think of one with this complex and tough man with the tender soul.