He couldn’t. He couldn’t know her, know her past, know her thoughts. That was ridiculous, she told herself as she turned toward the side door.
“Dani has nothing to do with this. It was a case closed long ago. Roger promised me the Franklin files would be here today, and after the brunette pigtails-” her voice cracked and she mentally berated herself. “It’s another connection to the Franklin case.”
She didn’t, couldn’t look at him. She’d already said more than she intended. How did he make her do that? She couldn’t remember saying Dani’s name out loud for years. A virtual lifetime.
“Wait,” John said, lightly laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll go first.”
She hated being the protected woman, but allowed John to leave the house, check the perimeter, and come back. “Clear. Where are you running?”
“Beach,” was all she said.
He nodded. “I like the water, too.”
“Navy?”
“Army.”
She cocked her head. “You’re no Army boy. Unless-you were with Delta.” She made the statement as if she knew it was fact.
He raised an eyebrow. “I was.”
She smiled as if she were in on a joke he wasn’t. “Ten miles,” she said and walked out the door.
She set the pace and John stayed a half-length behind her. Instantly, she knew John was far more experienced than his brother. When Michael ran with her, he watched her. John didn’t. He watched the beach, the ocean, the houses. Constantly looking for a sniper, a small boat, a low-flying plane.
Much like her.
Two peas in a pod, she realized as she started the final lap. With Michael, she’d run the beach twice. With John, she ran it three times. She wasn’t going to cut him any slack and suspected he wouldn’t appreciate it if she did.
She tried to forget him as they ran, but it proved impossible. John’s presence overpowered her, and she couldn’t focus on self-preservation. He’d brought up Dani and wouldn’t be as easily put off as Michael.
Michael. She felt a pang of guilt. He’d wanted to kiss her yesterday, and she couldn’t return those feelings. He was kind, smart, attractive-but she didn’t feel the pull. She’d learned to care for him in these few short days, but not in the way he seemed to want.
She cared for him like she cared for Peter. Like a brother.
John would not be put off for long by her refusal to talk, even though there was nothing in her childhood or Dani’s murder that had anything to do with what was happening today. Everyone involved back then was dead. Except her. And Peter. Even Roger agreed it was foolish to bring it up.
But John would probably call in every favor in Washington to find out what made Rowan Smith tick. And she would have to do everything she could to stop him from getting the answers he wanted. If it all came out, she didn’t know if she could rebuild her life again. Already, her past threatened her present. She had to make it stop, but didn’t know how.
As she rounded the far side of the beach, her lungs burned, her skin tingled, and her hair whipped her face as the ocean breeze slapped her cheek. She never felt so alive as she did when she ran. Especially here, by the ocean. If she didn’t love her cabin in the woods so much she’d consider moving to the coast.
She dismissed that thought as soon as it popped into her mind. Too many people. And she hated the house she leased-too bright, too white, too open.
But the beach: She could be at peace here. She’d been told that up the coast, north of San Francisco, there were some secluded oceanfront homes. Too cold to swim, but she didn’t need to swim. She just needed the stinging salt air, the vast churning ocean, the flat wet beach. The colder the better. Being cold meant being alive.
She’d started up the wooden stairs that led from the beach to the deck of her house when John reached out and grabbed her arm, spinning her around. They stood face-to-face, she one step above him.
John breathed hard, which pleased Rowan. So did she, but she hadn’t slowed during the entire run. Endurance was key.
A thin layer of perspiration affixed his T-shirt to his chest, outlining every subtle, well-toned muscle. His face was blank, but his dark green eyes flashed. Anger? Frustration?
Longing?
She blinked, and the sensation was gone. John frowned at her, and she noticed his lips-full, kissable lips. His entire face spoke of subtle masculinity, a man comfortable with himself, a man who knew his place in the world-and it wasn’t at the bottom. A dimple dented his otherwise square jaw, and he hadn’t shaved. His whiskers were damn sexy.
She turned her eyes to his again and wished she hadn’t. Again, she sensed he saw her innermost thoughts.
She involuntarily swallowed.
“You think you’re in control,” he said, voice low and gruff, as rough as the stubble on his cheeks. He leaned forward, his chest still heaving from their ten-mile run. “I will find out what you’re hiding. And dammit, Rowan, if it’s some stupid FBI game that’s going to get my family hurt, you’ll pay.”
Rowan kept her face blank, but felt the steam of anger and fear rise with her words. “None of my secrets have anything to do with this.” As she said it, she feared she was wrong. How else did the murderer know about the pigtails?
Coincidence. Had to be.
That was why she’d quit after the Franklin murders. Those damn pigtails haunted her sleep. She couldn’t see clearly, couldn’t investigate a crime that had hit too close to home. Couldn’t be impartial. So she’d left.
John’s eyes narrowed, and Rowan averted her head to escape his gaze. His hand shot out and held her in place. She karate-chopped his arm and he winced, loosening his hold just enough so she could jerk her arm away from him. “Don’t touch me,” she said through clenched teeth.
He put his hands up in a “hands-off” gesture and motioned for her to get behind him. Reluctantly, she did, but pulled out her gun, her heartbeat steadying as she held the cold metal in both hands. Her gun grounded her, made it a job. John glanced at her weapon, nodding almost imperceptibly, a hint of a smile.
She frowned when he turned his back to her and led the way up the stairs. What was with John Flynn?
When Rowan stepped in through the side door, the first thing she saw was Michael leaning against the counter, steaming coffee mug in hand. His casual stance belied his stern expression, but when he glanced at Rowan, his eyes warmed.
Guilt sank heavily in her gut. “Excuse me,” she said, brushing past John. When her arm accidentally touched his chest, she jerked as if burned.
But the heat was from within.
Brief eye contact told Rowan that John felt the same zing, and they frowned at each other. Without another word, she went down the hall and upstairs.
John absently rubbed his arm, not from pain but from a deep need to make contact with Rowan again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Michael demanded as soon as Rowan had left the kitchen.
John glanced at his brother, crossed over to the fridge, opened it, and took out a water bottle. He drained it, then tossed the empty plastic container into the trash.
“She’s in good shape,” John said as he folded his arms in front of him. “Gotta admire that.”
Michael slammed his mug on the granite countertop and took a step toward his brother, fists clenched. “Don’t think for a minute that you’re taking over this case,” he said, jaw set.
John put his hands up. “Hey, I’m only here to help. It’s your gig.”
“I saw how you looked at her.”
“Whoa, brother. It’s not me who has the wandering eye here. You’re going to get yourself in deep shit if you don’t put some distance between you and blondie.” As he said it, he realized he was doing the exact same thing.
The only difference, he thought, was he wasn’t afraid to hurt her to get to the truth. That thought didn’t sit entirely well in his conscience.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Michael said. “I’ve been here for the better part of a week and you waltz in and start making demands, scaring her, and-”