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:
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
