The Prey (4 page)

He turned to another worn page in the book. Though he had the passage memorized, he liked to look at the words. They gave him an almost giddy sense of pleasure, as if he were leaning over her shoulder as she typed them into her computer.

Casa Blanca lilies, carnations, roses, moluccella, snapdragons and gypsophila, all in pure white, framed the funeral wreath, soft trailing plumosus lending a green backdrop, making the white even brighter. The fragrant flowers, so alive, should never have hung next to the closed casket, a casket that held the dead, dismembered body of a life taken too soon.

“May I help you?”

He turned, smiling at the young clerk who leaned forward to wait on him. Under thirty and blonde. Thankfully, there was no other description of her in the book. Even though there were hundreds of florist shops in Los Angeles, it might have been difficult to get both the setting and the victim just right had there been more detail. It had taken him six months to track down a waitress named Doreen Rodriguez in Denver.

And he had a flight to Portland in less than two hours.

“Yes, I’d like to purchase a funeral wreath.” He watched as the other customers left the store, chatting, ignorant. They had no idea they’d brushed shoulders with a god. Energized by his duplicity, he smiled at the pretty clerk.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the pretty young woman said. Her name badge read Christine.

Doreen hadn’t been much of a loss. In fact, she hadn’t put up much of a fight, but he wasn’t about to tell his next victim that small tidbit.

Closing the book, he described the flowers he wanted in the wreath. Christine attempted to make suggestions, showing him other exquisite arrangements, flowing greenery, and explaining that wreaths had become passé. He politely demurred. “This is what she would want,” he explained.

“I understand.” The florist smiled warmly, with just the right hint of sympathy in her pretty blue eyes.

A shame he would have to kill her.

“Have you been threatened?”

They sat at the dining room table, Annette providing most of the details, but Michael still had many unanswered questions. He glanced at Rowan, but couldn’t get a fix on her. She’d put on small wire-rim glasses with a gray coating so he couldn’t see her eyes. They weren’t sunglasses, but had the same shielding effect. She sat at the far end of the table, looking out the window.

“Not directly,” Rowan said in time. Summarizing what the police had told her yesterday, she was careful to leave out the detail about her book being left at the scene. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she said, glancing at him. “What exactly would you do to protect me?” Her condescending tone irritated him.

Of course, she had been a Fed. All Feds thought they knew best, Michael thought with derision. Still, she needed protection. Some lunatic had used her book as a blueprint for murder. The killer might have his own agenda, or he might be coming for her. Increasing security around this place was a good start.

It didn’t hurt that a high-profile case could really help his business take off, either.

“I was a cop for nearly fifteen years and have been in private security for two. I’m more than capable of watching your back,” he told her. It was quite a nice back to watch, he thought. The whole package was attractive.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Rowan said, her posture rigid. “What can you do for me that I can’t do for myself?”

Was she being deliberately obtuse? She had to know what a bodyguard was for. “You’ve worked for the FBI. You know damn well what I’d be doing. Answering your door. Escorting you when you leave the house. Locking down at night and if the guy shows, getting you to a safe place. What more do you want to know?”

Rowan arched an eyebrow and seemed about to say something when the doorbell rang. She stood, and Michael glared at her.

“I would imagine answering the door falls under my job description,” he said.

She nodded, taking the Glock out of the shoulder holster she wore over her white T-shirt.

Annette looked almost excited, and Tess took out her own little snub-nosed .38.

Rowan couldn’t help but smile at Tess Flynn’s firearm. “Cute gun,” she said before she could stop herself from being bitchy.

Michael disappeared down the hall to the foyer. He’d been a cop for fifteen years, probably joined the academy right out of high school. He had that beat-cop bravado, a slight arrogant swagger, the rigid stance. His body crackled with suppressed energy, but he had laugh lines around his green eyes and his hair was too long to be a regulation cut. He almost had a rebel appearance. She couldn’t help but wonder why he’d left the force so young. He wouldn’t get full retirement benefits, something very important to most people in law enforcement.

That was something she intended to look into.

But he seemed to know what he was doing regarding personal security. It was either him or Roger would send out a pair of agents. Rowan didn’t feel comfortable taking so many resources away from the Bureau. Not before they had any solid information about the killer.

She just didn’t like being under someone else’s thumb. The whole idea of a bodyguard irritated her. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, as she had told both Roger and this new guy, Michael Flynn.

She sighed, rubbed her eyes under the small glasses, resigned to the fact that it was either Michael or a former colleague. She didn’t need the lenses for seeing, but she found wearing them was a good way to observe people.

A few moments later, Michael came back into the dining room carrying a huge white and green funeral wreath.

The blood drained from her face. She’d seen the wreath before. In her mind.

The sweet, cloying smell of flowers reminded Rowan of every funeral she’d ever been to. There were too many, but she remembered each and every one of them. Who thought that the overabundance of beauty somehow made violent death more palatable? Death, premature death, could never be glossed over.

“There’s a card,” Michael said, reaching for it.

“Don’t touch it!” Rowan rushed to his side.

Michael stopped, hand in midair. “I checked out the package before I let the driver go. It’s clean.” He looked annoyed, his lips drawn into a tight line as if irritated that she had the audacity to challenge his ability.

“No, it’s not that. I recognize it.”

“The flowers?”

She nodded. “They’re exactly as I envisioned in one of my books.” Her voice sounded unsteady, just like she felt. This certainly wasn’t a good sign, and any hope there had been a mistake in delivery quickly dissipated when she carefully pulled the card out by the corner with her fingernails.

The pre-printed message at top—IN MEMORIAM—was followed by one written sentence:
Please accept my heartfelt condolences on the death of your brainchild, Doreen
. It was signed,
A Fan
.

Rowan dropped the card on the table as if it had burned her, heart pounding. Her stomach threatened to rebel against the coffee and banana that had comprised her breakfast three hours before.

Michael leaned over to read the message. “What does it mean?”

Rowan hoped she was wrong, but feared she wasn’t. “Call the police. He’s going to kill again. If he hasn’t already.”

By the time the police left hours later, along with Annette and Tess, Rowan was exhausted. Michael didn’t say anything when she retired to the den. The police would trace the flowers, but Rowan seemed resigned to the fact that someone had already died. The rancor she’d displayed earlier at Michael’s presence was gone; she just closed up emotionally and told him to do what he needed to do.

Michael checked the security system and perimeter, then all windows and doors. Secure.

Long past dark, Michael’s stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Though the contents of Rowan’s kitchen were sparse, he found some pasta—not fresh, but it would suffice. While the water boiled, he went through the pantry, pulling out basic spaghetti sauce, a jar of sliced mushrooms, a can of olives, and diced tomatoes.

He enjoyed the peace of cooking, especially in a gourmet kitchen like this. While everything simmered, he opened cabinets until he found a bottle of good red wine. He nodded at the vintage. Good stuff. He couldn’t drink on the job, but maybe a glass would relax Rowan Smith.

“Glad you approve,” Rowan said from the doorway.

Michael was startled she’d gotten the drop on him. He usually knew when he was being watched. “I thought you might want a glass to relax.”

She nodded, slid onto one of the two bar stools. He opened the wine, poured her a glass, and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” she said with a half-smile.

“It’s your wine.”

“For giving me time alone.” The small eyeglasses she’d been wearing earlier were gone and he tried not to stare into her pretty blue-gray eyes. They were so expressive, even with her blank face and rigid posture. Right now they told him she was tired but thinking—probably running through every case she’d ever worked.

“You didn’t have much by way of food, so I improvised,” he said as he checked on the meal.

“Food tends to go bad. I buy what I need when I need it.”

“Spoken like a true bachelorette.”

“Not all of us are the marrying type.”

“I suppose not.” Michael went back to the stove and stirred his sauce. He’d thought about marrying on more than one occasion. Most recently, Jessica. The thought of her brought waves of anger and deep sadness. You’d think that after two years he’d be over it.

“Everything okay?” Rowan asked.

Damn, he didn’t think he wore his emotions on his sleeve. Then again, she’d been a cop and was used to reading body language.

“Fine.” He kept his voice light and his back to her as he strained the rotelle, tossed everything together, and dished up two plates. By the time he slid a plate in front of Rowan, he’d forced all thoughts of Jessica from his mind.

“Normally, I would have bread and salad to go with this, but there wasn’t any.” He tried to make light of her bare cupboards.

“It smells wonderful.”

“Thanks.”

They ate in companionable silence, side by side at the counter. When they were done, Michael started cleaning, but she touched his arm. “You cooked; I’ll clean.”

Rowan cleaned up with quick, non-superfluous movements. He had a million questions to ask her, but decided to take it slow. There was far more to Rowan Smith than a pretty face and the ability to tell a scary story. In the few hours he’d known her, he realized she was an exceptionally private woman.

She was smart, competent, and had an intriguing past. FBI agent turned crime writer. Quiet and reserved, she seemed to have energy bottled up, simmering under her skin. An interesting contrast. He wanted to know why she’d quit what appeared to have been a promising career with the FBI. Why had she decided to write murder mysteries? What prompted her to leave Washington to move to the West Coast? Since she leased this beach house temporarily, where did she call home?

Michael would make it his mission to learn everything there was to know about Rowan Smith. For professional reasons, of course, he told himself.

After a final security check, making sure Rowan was down for the night, and settling in one of the guest rooms, he called Tess at her apartment.

“Find anything?” He’d asked her to run a background check on Rowan Smith.

“Not much.” She filled him in on the little she had learned. Rowan had resigned from the FBI four years ago. She owned a townhouse in Washington, but had lived outside Denver, Colorado, for the past three years.

Tess was right. Not much.

He lay down on the bed, one arm behind his head. “What’s your take on her?”

“The jury’s still out, Mickey. That power play with the gun this afternoon bothered me. I’m not used to having a gun pointed at my brother. I mean, when you were a cop I expected it, but didn’t like it. Now—do we really need to take this job?”

That incident had disturbed him, too. “I think she’s scared. Exceptionally private. She’s used to depending on herself and no one else.” He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and stifled a yawn. “The job’s relatively safe. Keep her secure. Here at the house or the studio. It’s not like we’ll be traveling all over the city making her a target.”

“I suppose you’re right.” She didn’t sound convinced. “I think she’s lonely.”

He considered that. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Mickey, don’t get involved.”

“I’m not. What makes you say that?”

He heard the shrug in her voice. “I know you. I know how you are with women. First Carla. Then Jessica. Rowan Smith doesn’t need a knight in shining armor to rescue her.”

“Don’t practice your amateur psychology on me, Teresa,” he warned. “I know perfectly well how to do my job. I’m not going to let a little physical attraction interfere with protecting her life.” Shit, he hadn’t meant to let on that he found Rowan sexy. Hell, who wouldn’t? He could keep it under control.

She sighed, signaling she wasn’t going to argue with him now, but the conversation wasn’t over in her mind. “I’m going to dig deeper. I put out some calls this afternoon; it might take a day or two to get feedback.”

“Don’t break any laws.”

“Who, me?” Tess laughed and hung up.

As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about Rowan Smith. She was a complex and beautiful woman, and he sensed she had a troubled past. He hoped to earn her trust so she’d share with him. At the minimum, he’d settle for what Tess could dig up.

And contrary to what his sister thought, he knew Rowan wasn’t Jessica. They were nothing alike.

Tess paced half the night, wondering what she should do with the information she’d just uncovered.

Though she respected Michael’s abilities, she remembered too well the times her brother had gotten emotionally involved with troubled women. Rowan’s very real need of protection would attract her brother like nothing else could.

Tess had many questions about Rowan’s sketchy background. Like why she quit the FBI. She wanted to know more about her cases. Rowan would be getting copies of her case files that Tess would like to go through as well. Rowan had been open about her career, but as soon as Michael’s questions turned personal, she gave short, clipped answers. There was something there, but Tess couldn’t figure out what. An ex-husband? She hadn’t found any marriage records, but that meant squat. Ex-boyfriend? A possibility.