The Prey (32 page)

She breathed deeply and tried to roll away from him.

“Not so fast.” John cleared his throat. If Rowan thought she was going back to her bed she had another thing coming.

He scrambled to the center of the bed, bringing Rowan with him, covering their naked, sweat-coated bodies with the sheet. He didn’t remember ditching his sweats or pulling her nightshirt off. Maybe she had.

He relished the closeness they’d shared, but felt her pull away shortly after, as if closing herself off from the warm afterglow. As if it were just about sex.

It wasn’t just about sex. And it hadn’t been since the first night they made love. Was it only three days ago?

He kissed her forehead, felt her tense up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, much too quickly. She kissed his throat. Already he knew her M.O. She was trying to distract him to avoid talking. Avoid his questions.

Not this time. “Tell me.”

She didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then, with a voice as soft and quiet as a spring breeze, she whispered, “Everyone I care about dies.”

His heart clenched. He wanted desperately to reassure her, but she wouldn’t buy it. Not after what she’d been through in her life.

He would have to prove it to her. “Bobby will be caught.”

She shrugged into his body, but her skin grew cold to the touch. He’d said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Rowan, I—”

“No, you’re right. He
will
be caught. It’s just a matter of time. And death.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that.”

She didn’t say anything and he forced her to look at him. The tears swimming in her eyes threw him.

He’d never let anything happen to her. He’d die first.

That was the crux of the problem. She knew it.

“You have to let me do my job, Rowan.”

She nodded, then turned away. When he pulled her close, spooning her body into his, she didn’t resist. Her compliance wasn’t a reassurance. If anything, it worried him even more.

The morning of Michael’s funeral was overcast, perfect for the mood but unusual for southern California. One of those odd coincidences that made Rowan think there might be a God and that sometimes He did care.

Then she remembered that God had been absent when Michael was murdered.

She stayed in the back of the church during the funeral. Quinn and Colleen flanked her, and several security teams were positioned both within and outside the church and in Tess’s apartment, where the mourners would gather after.

John sat with his sister in the front pew, his arm around her small shoulders, his head bent close to hers.

Rowan didn’t think Bobby would try anything here. Not only were there Feds all over, Michael had been a cop and dozens of uniformed officers were in attendance to pay their respects.

It was all Rowan could do to keep her emotions under control. She felt such an outsider.

John gave the eulogy.

“Michael is my brother,” he began. “And I love him.”

Tears silently streamed down Rowan’s face.

“Michael was born a cop. He was a damn good one. When he left the force to open shop with me, the L.A.P.D. lost a good man. Honorable and steadfast. Michael believed in justice and the firm line between right and wrong.

“But the Michael you might not have known was a man I called Mickey, my brother and best friend. He loved to fish and could sit still for hours waiting for a bite. When I’d fidget and break a line in my haste, Mickey would shake his head and say, ‘Patience.’ He’d laugh because he always caught the biggest fish.”

Rowan stayed for John, but didn’t hear any more of his stories about Michael. She hated funerals, hated saying goodbye to good people. John’s bravery shone through. Standing and speaking about his dead brother must have split his heart.

She had Quinn and Colleen take her back to Malibu as soon as the funeral ended. She caught John’s eye as she was leaving and he frowned. She turned away, tears in her eyes. That couldn’t be a good sign.

She didn’t do relationships well. What was going on between her and John? She had no idea, but deep down sensed it wouldn’t last. How could it? John’s brother was dead because of her. His sister was in danger because of her. While John made his own decisions regarding the situations he placed himself in, his life was in jeopardy because of her.

Bobby was going to come for her. She had to make sure he hurt no one else.

Bobby MacIntosh looked downright debonair Wednesday night, if he said so himself.

The mirror reflected a tall, sandy-haired cowboy complete with faded jeans, crisp new button-down shirt, and a bolo tie with a turquoise clasp set in silver. Yes, mighty handsome. Reckon on having some fun tonight, he thought with a smile.

He was meeting Sadie in thirty minutes and escorting her to a lovely dinner, then a little roll in the hay in businessman Rex Barker’s hotel room. Sadie wasn’t
just
a prostitute. She was a
high-class call girl
. The kind of girl wealthy businessmen took out for dinner and drinks, to business conventions and the theater and art exhibits.

And, when you’re smart, you get a referral from a regular customer. Of course, sometimes you have to make it up as you go along. Being an ex-con helped in this case, though Bobby didn’t use his real name. He’d called other ex-cons and eventually learned of an escort service that fit his needs. As an added bonus, he used the name of a prominent federal judge as a referral.

Smart, very smart.

He finished preparing his briefcase—a scalpel, medical scissors, garbage bags, scarves, and nipple clasps. My my my, when he’d read how Rowan’s villain killed his victims he was shocked that she could come up with something so twisted.

He was giddy with anticipation.

He closed his briefcase and left the hotel room.

Tonight, he’d be on a flight back to Los Angeles. By Friday, Rowan—
Lily
—would be all his.

He couldn’t wait to strangle the bitch.

Susannah Darlene Pierce, Sadie to her clients, learned early on to use her looks to get what she wanted. When her stepfather stole her virginity at age fourteen, she could have buried her head in the sand and bemoaned the fates.

Instead, she took matters into her own hands. Starting with her beloved stepfather.

No one knew who set Stuart Price up on embezzlement charges. No one except Sadie, of course. She figured five years in prison and a quarter million in restitution to his clients would buy her the time to get out of the Bible Belt and make it in Hollywood.

She never did make it to Hollywood.

In Dallas, she met Bridget Carter, a beautiful brunette with designer clothes Sadie coveted, a million-dollar house in a ritzy part of town, and the poise of a starlet. Bridget explained Life to Sadie, and Sadie got it.

Control. Power. Security.

Being an escort afforded her control over men she’d always desired but never knew how to get. What did a seventeen-year-old high school dropout from Arkansas know about the power of womanhood? Because that was what being an escort—or call girl, or hooker, or prostitute—meant. Power.

Bridget taught her everything from dressing properly to manners to safety to culture—an escort should know about current events, but always agree with her man. An escort should know all about popular music, art, and theater in order to blend into society. And Sadie ate it up. That’s why she was double-majoring in art history and business. Art history for fun, business for—well, business.

At $250 an hour, four hours minimum, Sadie worked only two nights a week and made more money each month than her waitress-mom saw all year. And had her mama stood up for her when she told her about the rape, maybe Sadie would have sent her enough so she wouldn’t have to work twelve-hour days, six days a week.

But her mama called her a whore and didn’t believe her. So Sadie had no qualms about keeping all her whore-tainted money to herself.

Now, five years later, going to college, escorting old men part-time, and living in a beautiful condo, Sadie had it made. She figured three more years and she’d retire with enough money that she wouldn’t have to work if she didn’t want to. Bridget, who was over forty, was training her to take over the business, and Sadie thought that might be a fine way to retire. Fifteen percent of her girls’ business, taking clients only when she wanted to, living in a mansion and being married to a successful businessman. Yep, what a life!

She normally didn’t work Wednesdays, but Bridget had called and said Judge Vernon Watson had recommended her to a friend who was visiting on business and would only be in town tonight. Sadie liked Vern, who paid her $1,500 once a month for nothing more than dinner and a show, then a blow job in his chambers. Because Vern had recommended Mr. Barker, she agreed to work.

Rule Number One: Never let your client know where you live. So Sadie met him in the bar of his hotel, the Adam’s Mark, an exclusive hotel near downtown.

She couldn’t help but be surprised—Vern was well into his sixties, but his friend was only about forty. And he dressed like a northerner thought a cowboy would dress. But he was pleasant looking—not drop-dead gorgeous, but nice looking—and younger than most of her clients.

She smiled and extended her hand. “Mr. Barker, I’m Sadie Pierce.”

He smiled in return, took her hand, and kissed it. “The pleasure’s all mine,” he said with a slight drawl, though it wasn’t a Texas accent.

She didn’t think twice as he took her arm and led her to the front of the hotel, where he hailed a taxi.

Conversation at dinner was typical, a little on the quiet side. Barker seemed to be people-watching, noticing everyone who came in. While that would annoy most dates, it didn’t bother Sadie. She, after all, was paid to cater to his needs.

In the taxi, he said, “I know I promised you a show, Miss Sadie, but you are just so dang beautiful I was wondering if you’d mind if we just went back to my room.”

He was actually kind of cute when he asked. As if she would mind. That was her job, one she performed quite well.

“Not at all, Mr. Barker.”

It was odd how he never told her to call him Rex. All her dates had her address them by their first name. It made the men believe she was there because she enjoyed their company, not because they were paying her. But he wasn’t a regular, and he probably hadn’t hired an escort often.

In his room, she asked to freshen up. “Right through the bedroom,” he told her. “What can I fix you to drink?”

Rule Number Two: Never drink alcohol while working.

“Perrier or mineral water, whatever you have.”

“Wine? Something stronger?”

“Sweetheart, you’re man enough to turn me on without an artificial stimulant.” Always make them seem like they are in charge.

He seemed unsure, so she smiled, leaned up, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Three minutes and I’ll be ready for whatever you have planned.”

He smiled. A trickle of fear slid down her spine. She blinked, and whatever it was she’d seen or sensed was gone.

She ignored Rule Number Three: Trust your instincts.

Winking at him, she turned and waltzed into the bathroom.

After taking care of business, she pulled her makeup from her small purse and noticed that the message light was flashing on her phone. Normally she’d ignore her messages while working, but the caller ID showed Bridget’s number—three messages, all from her. Sadie hoped nothing was wrong as she punched in her password and listened.

“Please please please, Sadie, get out as soon as you can. I don’t trust this guy. I just talked to the judge and he didn’t recommend anyone. I’m sorry I didn’t check it out first, but I just assumed—it’s all my fault. I’m so worried—remember that warning from the cops I told you about?” She paused, breathless. “Just tell him your mother died and you have to go and he’ll get a full refund. Okay? Please call me as soon as you can.
Please
.”

Sadie’s heart beat frantically. She’d never heard Bridget so scared. Bridget, the classiest, calmest, most proper woman she knew.

She glanced at her surroundings. Bathroom. No way out. She was on the edge of panic as she shakingly put her phone back. Would the lie work? She didn’t see any other way. She couldn’t very well just walk out.

But he’d
lied
about Vern. They’d even talked about the judge over dinner, and Barker made it sound like they were close friends. That really burned Sadie. Some men—like her stepfather and this bastard Barker—thought they could manipulate women into doing what they wanted because women were stupid.

Sadie was anything but stupid.

Temper up, ready to tell
Mr. Barker
—if that was in fact his name—that the gig was up and she was leaving, she swung open the bathroom door and strode across the bedroom into the living room of the suite. “Mr. Barker? I’m sorry, but—”

A big hand clamped down around her mouth and she struggled. “You were taking a little too long in there,” a voice low and rough said in her ear, sounding nothing like the semi-drawl Barker had used earlier.

She struggled, realizing she very well might be in a fight for her life. The warning about some serial killer who might be coming after prostitutes flashed in the back of her mind.

She’d never thought it would happen to her.

Some of her escorts got a little rough, and she had no qualms about using her self-defense skills on them. But this was different. Barker used raw strength to subdue her.

Cold metal brushed against her wrist and she heard a “click” as handcuffs locked into place on one wrist. Her instincts screamed, “No!” She couldn’t let him gain control.

She fought back. Drawing on all her self-defense training, she used his strength against him. She kicked back and up, right into his balls, and he screamed. He pushed her down on the floor. As she stumbled, trying to get up, he pounced on her.

“Bitch!” He slapped her.

She struggled and he grabbed her arm with the handcuffs dangling from the wrist. From the corner of her eye she saw the floor lamp. She reached for it—her fingers brushed the base, but she wasn’t close enough to grab it.