Allison Brennan - The Prey

Longing?

She blinked, and the sensation was gone. John frowned at her, and she noticed his lips-full, kissable lips. His entire face spoke of subtle masculinity, a man comfortable with himself, a man who knew his place in the world-and it wasn’t at the bottom. A dimple dented his otherwise square jaw, and he hadn’t shaved. His whiskers were damn sexy.

She turned her eyes to his again and wished she hadn’t. Again, she sensed he saw her innermost thoughts.

She involuntarily swallowed.

“You think you’re in control,” he said, voice low and gruff, as rough as the stubble on his cheeks. He leaned forward, his chest still heaving from their ten-mile run. “I will find out what you’re hiding. And dammit, Rowan, if it’s some stupid FBI game that’s going to get my family hurt, you’ll pay.”

Rowan kept her face blank, but felt the steam of anger and fear rise with her words. “None of my secrets have anything to do with this.” As she said it, she feared she was wrong. How else did the murderer know about the pigtails?

Coincidence. Had to be.

That was why she’d quit after the Franklin murders. Those damn pigtails haunted her sleep. She couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t investigate a crime that had hit too close to home. Couldn’t be impartial. So she’d left.

John’s eyes narrowed, and Rowan averted her head to escape his gaze. His hand shot out and held her in place. She karate-chopped his arm and he winced, loosening his hold just enough so she could jerk her arm away from him. “Don’t touch me,” she said through clenched teeth.

He put his hands up in a “hands-off” gesture and motioned for her to get behind him. Reluctantly, she did, but pulled out her gun, her heartbeat steadying as she held the cold metal in both hands. Her gun grounded her, made it a job. John glanced at her weapon, nodding almost imperceptibly, a hint of a smile.

She frowned when he turned his back to her and led the way up the stairs. What was with John Flynn?

When Rowan stepped in through the side door, the first thing she saw was Michael leaning against the counter, steaming coffee mug in hand. His casual stance belied his stern expression, but when he glanced at Rowan, his eyes warmed.

Guilt sank heavily in her gut. “Excuse me,” she said, brushing past John. When her arm accidentally touched his chest, she jerked as if burned.

But the heat was from within.

Brief eye contact told Rowan that John felt the same zing, and they frowned at each other. Without another word, she went down the hall and upstairs.

John absently rubbed his arm, not from pain but from a deep need to make contact with Rowan again.

“What the hell are you doing?” Michael demanded as soon as Rowan had left the kitchen.

John glanced at his brother, crossed over to the fridge, opened it, and took out a water bottle. He drained it, then tossed the empty plastic container into the trash.

“She’s in good shape,” John said as he folded his arms in front of him. “Gotta admire that.”

Michael slammed his mug on the granite countertop and took a step toward his brother, fists clenched. “Don’t think for a minute that you’re taking over this case,” he said, jaw set.

John put his hands up. “Hey, I’m only here to help. It’s your gig.”

“I saw how you looked at her.”

“Whoa, brother. It’s not me who has the wandering eye here. You’re going to get yourself in deep shit if you don’t put some distance between you and blondie.” As he said it, he realized he was doing the exact same thing.

The only difference, he thought, was he wasn’t afraid to hurt her to get to the truth. That thought didn’t sit entirely well in his conscience.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael said. “I’ve been here for the better part of a week and you waltz in and start making demands, scaring her, and-”

“Stop right there.” John pushed off from the counter and took a step toward his brother. “She’s hiding something and you’re enabling her. That ‘Danny’ she talked about, he has something to do with it. And if you don’t start thinking with your head instead of your-” he glanced below Michael’s belt “-you’ll wind up dead.”

“You know nothing about Rowan!”

“Neither do you,” John said, his voice barely audible. “And you’d better start asking questions rather than letting blondie lead you around by the nose. She’s using you, Mickey. She’s using your obvious attraction for her to avoid answering the hard questions.”

“You’re the one lusting after her. Don’t think I didn’t see how you looked at her.”

John shook his head and leaned back against the counter. “Mickey, Mickey. It’s Jessica all over again.”

“Don’t say her name!”

“Hell if I’m going to let you make the same mistake twice! You almost got yourself killed because she lied to you. Well, Rowan Smith’s closed mouth is the same damn thing as lying, and my gut tells me she knows something about this killer.” John tried to pass his brother, not wanting to fight with him, but Michael grabbed his arm and spun him around.

“Let go,” John said.

Michael squeezed tighter before dropping his arm. “Don’t push her. She’s been through hell.”

You don’t know the half of it, Mickey , John thought. John suspected Rowan Smith had been to hell and back many times. He saw it in her eyes, the eyes she shielded whenever possible because they exposed her to the world. But whereas Michael sought to protect her from reliving hell, John knew the only way to conquer evil was to face it head on.

To do that, Rowan was going to have to spill the beans. The only way she would, John suspected, was if he discovered the truth first.

“Stay out of this,” Michael warned.

“Too late.” They stared each other down. If the situation wasn’t so damn serious, John would have laughed.

The phone rang, but neither man moved to answer it. When it rang a third time, Michael grabbed the wall receiver. “Smith residence,” he said, gruff. “Who’s this?” He paused, then glanced at his watch. “She’s in the shower. We’ll be there in an hour.” He hung up.

John looked at him, eyebrow raised, but didn’t ask who was on the phone.

“That was Agent Peterson,” Michael said. “They’re ready for Rowan to review the Franklin file.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” John said and turned toward the hall.

“What are you going to do?”

John glanced over his shoulder. “I have some calls to make. I’ll watch the house for you.”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

John raised an eyebrow. What Michael was really saying was, I don’t want you here .

“I know,” John said, “but I want to.” He started down the hall to find a bathroom to shower in, then stopped and turned back to his brother.

“Mickey,” he said, “I’m sorry about the Jessica comment. That was a low blow.”

“It’s forgotten.”

John hoped his brother meant that. Their argument was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, and it bugged him. They often argued, but always came away friends. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will.” Michael grinned. “And when all this shit’s over, we can battle for Rowan Smith fair and square.”

“There’s nothing to battle.” But as John said it, he realized he had some feelings for the pretty blonde that he couldn’t reconcile with his desire to get her to talk. Where Michael often let his emotions cloud his professional judgment, John vowed not to let that happen with him.

He found the shower at the end of the hall, stripped, and stood beneath the hot, stinging spray. He couldn’t get Rowan Smith out of his mind. Her hard profile and soft eyes. The way she watched everything that went on around her without moving her head. She absorbed her surroundings, taking pains to blend in, but John always knew when she was in the room, even if he couldn’t see her.