Then why did the hair stand up on the back of his neck?
“It’s clear, but we should get back,” John said.
Rowan was on all fours, panting heavily. He put his hand out for her, but she didn’t take it.
“What the fuck?” he said. “We need to get going. You’re a sitting duck out here.”
“Let. Him.” She sank down into the sand, her head buried in her arms.
“What are you talking about?” He reached down and used his strength to haul her to her feet. She’d lost her glasses in the fall, and her eyes swam with tears. She staggered, unable to get her footing, and fell against him, pushing him back at the same time.
“Let me go,” she whispered, trying to free her arm.
She had little strength. He easily held on to her. But he let her go. She fell back into the sand, her legs like noodles. “Just leave me. He’ll come. You can watch from my deck and when he comes, kill him. There’s a sniper rifle in my closet.”
What in the world was she talking about? Using herself as bait? If Rowan died, he’d lose someone else. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let her die.
He stared at her face, red from exertion and half covered with sand from her fall. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the ocean, tears spilling from her eyes. Her breath was still coming out ragged, her cheeks hollow.
He didn’t want to think about her pain. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d been doing when Michael died. How he’d manipulated his brother, sending him to his death.
How he had loved being wrapped in Rowan’s arms, holding her, being in her.
This was neither the time nor the place for a relationship, or even just sex. But Rowan had no one. He wouldn’t let her offer herself up to the murderer like a sacrificial lamb.
He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the house. When she didn’t so much as protest to being cradled like a baby, he knew she was not herself.
He hadn’t given any thought as to how she felt about Michael’s murder. It slowly dawned on him that she was as agonized as he. But Michael wasn’t her brother, her best friend. He’d only been her bodyguard.
Still, in her mind, she was responsible for whomever the bastard killed. John should have made that connection sooner, but he’d been so wrapped up in getting her to tell him the truth, and then in grieving over Michael.
Rowan was in pain, too.
He put her on the couch, but she wouldn’t look at him, just lay on her back staring at the ceiling. He watched her work to control her emotions, to bring down the shield she’d erected so well.
She was exhausted from his pushing her on the run, on top of little sleep. Had she eaten? He doubted it. He hadn’t been able to eat yesterday. He’d only had a couple of sips of soup, and only because he’d forced Tess to eat something.
He left her and went to the kitchen to pour himself more coffee. What was he going to do? He could barely keep himself together; how was he going to keep Rowan together?
Focus. Dammit, he could focus. All those months-years-tracking Pomera and his operatives. After Denny died, infiltrating the drug gang and slowly, painstakingly, taking the dealers down one by one. Focus. Perseverance. Patience.
He would do it. For Michael.
Which meant he needed Rowan and whatever information was trapped in her brain, information she didn’t know was important. And he wouldn’t be able to get anything out of her if she made herself sick from guilt.
Food was nothing more than fuel-a good thing, because John couldn’t cook. He toasted some wheat bread and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He assumed Rowan liked peanut butter and jelly because it was in the house. He poured her coffee and brought it out to the living room.
She wasn’t there.
“Shit.” He went to the den and sure enough she stood in the corner, looking out the front windows through partially opened venetian blinds.
“He’s been watching me.”
She spoke without turning around, her voice soft, gravelly.
“How do you know?”
“At first, a feeling. I didn’t realize it before, but every so often I’d feel prickly. A tingling in my spine, but I didn’t notice anyone paying undue attention to me.” She shook her head, looked down at her feet. “He’s been here, John. In my house.”
“What?” His body tensed, instantly on alert.
She finally glanced at him over her shoulder before turning to her bookshelf. In that moment, her face exposed all the tumultuous emotions she usually kept in check. “He took one of my books. I know it was him. I told Quinn; he had the house dusted, but so far, nothing.
“I don’t know if I can get through this, John.”
He strained to hear her. He put the sandwich and coffee on the desk and stood behind her.
“You will.” He shuddered at the thought that Michael’s killer had been in Rowan’s house. Had he broken in while she slept upstairs? When? How long had he been stalking her before devising this vicious, cruel way to torment her?
“I’m not as strong as you think. I quit the FBI because I was weak.”
“You quit because you had to take a break. Everyone needs a break, especially doing what we do. Surrounded by evil. Fighting evil and not always winning.”
She turned and looked at him, her eyes surprisingly blank. What was she really thinking? Had she given up?
“You never gave up,” she said. “You never gave up fighting for Denny.”
“That’s different.”
She nodded slowly. “Don Quixote and windmills. I’m another windmill, John. Go back to your sister. She needs you. The FBI isn’t going to leave me unprotected.”
She wanted him to leave? “No,” he said. “I’m here until the end.”
She stared at him, her face firm, a slight frown pulling down the corners of her lips. “I can’t live with another death on my conscience.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.” He took her by the shoulders. He didn’t mean to shake her so hard, just give her a little jolt so she’d know he was serious. But her head jerked forward and he saw some of the fire back in her eyes.
Good. She needed to know he meant business.
“Rowan, I am here until the end. He killed my brother. He’s killed six other innocent people. He’s tormenting you. I will not rest until he’s dead.” He’d meant captured, but didn’t correct himself.
“Or you are,” she whispered as she pulled away from him. She paused by the desk where the sandwich and coffee sat. She looked at the food for a long time, but didn’t touch it. She crossed to the door. “I just talked to Roger. I asked him to send over all the files of my mother’s murder and Dani’s. He told me he’d already done it.” She looked at him, not accusing, but knowing. “When do we leave?”
He should have told her. “I was going to tell you.”
She nodded, didn’t say anything.
“Two hours. Peterson’s putting the files together as they get them from Washington.”
“I’ll be in my room.” She walked out.
Damn. What had just happened? What was she thinking? She had to know he would protect her to the end.
She dreamed.
Powerless to stop the dream, it played in her mind, almost soothing, a lullaby. She stood outside her Colorado cabin, the A-frame she considered home. Peace and joy. Home. Alone at last. Death and violence and blood a distant memory.
It was light when she stood outside the cabin, but when she finally went inside it was dark. None of the lights worked, but she heard someone upstairs. Downstairs. Intruders? Her heart pounded.
Rowan, it’s me.
Michael? She said his name out loud. Michael, you’re dead.
He laughed and she couldn’t help but smile. Dead men didn’t laugh. They didn’t talk and make her feel like everything was going to be all right.
It was all just a nightmare. Everything. None of it happened. No one is out to get you. You’re going to be okay.