“We don’t know that,” she countered. “Let the police continue their investigation. It could be completely unconnected to me.” She didn’t believe it, even though sometimes ex-boyfriends or violent husbands went to great lengths to cover up their crimes. Maybe that’s what had happened with Doreen Rodriguez.
“You’re obviously not thinking straight if you disagree. He’s playing you. I won’t rest until we find this bastard. I’m going to protect you whether you like it or not.”
“Roger, please don’t send anyone. You can hardly afford to, with the department stretched so thin after 9/11.” But she knew his tone left no room for negotiation. And she knew him well enough to find an acceptable alternative for both of them.
“The studio said they’d hire a security company.”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Annette O’Dell, my producer, wants to. I told her I didn’t want anyone, but-”
“You’ll take them. Right?” He wouldn’t take no for an answer, she knew.
“Yes, I will,” she said, resigned. “Tomorrow, Annette is sending over someone for me to interview.”
“They’d better be good, Ro, not some nose-picking grocery guards.”
Rowan couldn’t help but smile. “Knowing Annette, they’ll be good. And discreet. I don’t want the press digging around any more than they already are.” It was highly unlikely anyone could uncover her past. She didn’t want to have to live through that nightmare in public, even if she lived with it every day of her life.
“If you think this team is inferior, let me know and I’ll get a recommendation from the bureau chief in L.A. Agreed?”
“Fair enough.”
“I love you,” Roger said quietly. “Please be careful.”
She swallowed a sob. It would be so easy to leave everything in Roger’s capable hands and go back to Washington. Let Gracie baby her. Or better, hide away in her cabin. She missed the pine trees, the cool nights, the crisp mountain air of her Colorado home.
But she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t run when she had obligations and responsibilities. “I promise,” she said.
After Roger’s call that night, disturbing dreams had interrupted Rowan’s sleep. She’d risen early for her morning run on the wet beach, well before the sun crested the low Malibu mountains, pushing herself until she couldn’t go any farther. After showering, she holed up in the den while Annette took care of business from the dining room.
One violent murder three days ago and then nothing. The calm before the storm. She shuddered.
Rowan had been sitting at her desk in her locked den doing nothing but feeling guilty for a crime she hadn’t committed when she heard the cars arrive. No one came to the door immediately, so she looked out the blinds and saw the two security people standing there, talking, their body language showing that they were comfortable together. A team.
She’d never had that. Even with her partners in the FBI, she’d never grown close to anyone. She couldn’t. What if something happened to them?
The doorbell rang. She needed a few more minutes to compose herself. She loved Roger dearly, but talking to him last night on top of everything else had brought back black memories she needed to re-bury, at least until she was alone.
“Nice place,” Tess said.
Michael looked around, frowning. He appreciated the aesthetics, but right now he was most concerned about security. “Lots of windows. Where are the blinds?”
“The owner never put coverings on the west-facing windows.” Annette tossed her black bob with a subtle shake of the head. She was a trim and attractive woman with bright, intelligent blue eyes. “He’s quite eccentric. So it can get hot in here in the late afternoon.” The trendy producer always spoke with strong inflections. At times it was irritating.
“I thought Smith was a woman.”
“She is. The owner’s a friend of mine, an actor, who’s in Australia filming. He’s leasing the place to Rowan.”
Michael surveyed his surroundings, absorbing the layout.
Everything was blinding white and glass. The furniture, the paint, the carpets. The only color came from bright, primary-toned abstract paintings sparsely decorating the walls. Sterile, cold. He sure wouldn’t want to live here.
They stood in the large, sunken living room. Three tall windows showcased the ocean. To the right was a raised sitting area or library of sorts with a high-end entertainment center on one wall. To the left was an elevated dining room with its own picture window. All three rooms had sets of double glass doors leading to the deck.
The house was a damn fish bowl.
“What’s wrong?” Annette asked.
“We need to do something about these windows.” He motioned with his hand.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“But no one can see in. The house faces the ocean.”
Michael struggled to be polite. “True, but at night someone could be outside on this deck and see everything inside with the house lit up like a Christmas tree, and we wouldn’t even know it.” He looked around. “Where’s Ms. Smith?”
“In her office,” Annette said. “I’ll get her.”
Alone? Michael thought. Already he didn’t like the feeling of this assignment. He knew nothing about Smith except that she was a former FBI agent turned writer working on a screenplay for Annette and living in a virtual glass house. And, of course, what he’d read in the newspapers about the murder in Denver.
Michael watched the producer walk down the open hall and stop at the first set of double doors. He knew Annette and trusted her for the most part, but made a mental note to have Tess do a little clandestine research on the producer and her company. While he’d never heard of committing murder for publicity, he had been privy to some illegal stunts to bring attention to a fledgling star or poorly reviewed movie.
“Rowan?” Annette said through the door. “The security people are here.”
A muffled response.
Annette turned to Michael with a half-smile. “She’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“Look, she can’t be alone. If someone is trying to kill her, she needs to be within sight at all times.” He passed Annette and rapped loudly on the door. “Ms. Smith, this is Michael Flynn. Please come out.”
“I said five minutes!” she called from behind the door.
“Now. You’re not safe in there.”
He heard her laugh, followed by the distinct sound of a round being chambered. His heart raced. Was she alone? He tried the door. Locked. Then one knob slowly turned. He stood back against the wall. The door opened slightly and he waited for her to emerge. When she didn’t, he scooted along the wall, pushed the door in all the way.
In the middle of the den stood a tall blonde with eyes the color of the ocean. Her face was blank, emotionless, her long hair clasped in the back.
She had a gun pointed at his chest. “Bang, you’re dead.”
“Put the damn gun down! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Protecting myself.”
Michael whirled on his heel and started for the door. “Tess, let’s go.”
“Michael,” Tess said, biting her lip.
“Now.” To say he was furious was an understatement. He would tolerate no one pulling a gun on him. Was she crazy?
“Please, Michael.” Annette laid a manicured hand on his arm. “Rowan’s upset. Just listen. She needs you.”
Michael looked from Annette to the blonde emerging from the den, arms crossed, holding a Glock casually in one hand, pointed down. Her body rippled with tension, belying her casual posture. While too skinny, he noted well-toned muscles under the short sleeves of her shirt. Pale, but still a beautiful woman. Her face was as blank as when she’d pointed that damn gun at him. But her stormy eyes stopped him from walking out the door. He finally understood the phrase “eyes are windows to the soul.” Rowan Smith’s eyes told him she was scared but strong, troubled but defiant. A captivating combination.