Allison Brennan - The Prey

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?