He kissed her forehead, felt her tense up. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, much too quickly. She kissed his throat. Already he knew her M.O. She was trying to distract him to avoid talking. Avoid his questions.
Not this time. “Tell me.”
She didn’t say anything for a long minute. Then, with a voice as soft and quiet as a spring breeze, she whispered, “Everyone I care about dies.”
His heart clenched. He wanted desperately to reassure her, but she wouldn’t buy it. Not after what she’d been through in her life.
He would have to prove it to her. “Bobby will be caught.”
She shrugged into his body, but her skin grew cold to the touch. He’d said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Rowan, I-”
“No, you’re right. He will be caught. It’s just a matter of time. And death.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that.”
She didn’t say anything and he forced her to look at him. The tears swimming in her eyes threw him.
He’d never let anything happen to her. He’d die first.
That was the crux of the problem. She knew it.
“You have to let me do my job, Rowan.”
She nodded, then turned away. When he pulled her close, spooning her body into his, she didn’t resist. Her compliance wasn’t a reassurance. If anything, it worried him even more.
CHAPTER 20
The morning of Michael’s funeral was overcast, perfect for the mood but unusual for southern California. One of those odd coincidences that made Rowan think there might be a God and that sometimes He did care.
Then she remembered that God had been absent when Michael was murdered.
She stayed in the back of the church during the funeral. Quinn and Colleen flanked her, and several security teams were positioned both within and outside the church and in Tess’s apartment, where the mourners would gather after.
John sat with his sister in the front pew, his arm around her small shoulders, his head bent close to hers.
Rowan didn’t think Bobby would try anything here. Not only were there Feds all over, Michael had been a cop and dozens of uniformed officers were in attendance to pay their respects.
It was all Rowan could do to keep her emotions under control. She felt such an outsider.
John gave the eulogy.
“Michael is my brother,” he began. “And I love him.”
Tears silently streamed down Rowan’s face.
“Michael was born a cop. He was a damn good one. When he left the force to open shop with me, the L.A.P.D. lost a good man. Honorable and steadfast. Michael believed in justice and the firm line between right and wrong.
“But the Michael you might not have known was a man I called Mickey, my brother and best friend. He loved to fish and could sit still for hours waiting for a bite. When I’d fidget and break a line in my haste, Mickey would shake his head and say, ‘Patience.’ He’d laugh because he always caught the biggest fish.”
Rowan stayed for John, but didn’t hear any more of his stories about Michael. She hated funerals, hated saying goodbye to good people. John’s bravery shone through. Standing and speaking about his dead brother must have split his heart.
She had Quinn and Colleen take her back to Malibu as soon as the funeral ended. She caught John’s eye as she was leaving and he frowned. She turned away, tears in her eyes. That couldn’t be a good sign.
She didn’t do relationships well. What was going on between her and John? She had no idea, but deep down sensed it wouldn’t last. How could it? John’s brother was dead because of her. His sister was in danger because of her. While John made his own decisions regarding the situations he placed himself in, his life was in jeopardy because of her.
Bobby was going to come for her. She had to make sure he hurt no one else.
Bobby MacIntosh looked downright debonair Wednesday night, if he said so himself.
The mirror reflected a tall, sandy-haired cowboy complete with faded jeans, crisp new button-down shirt, and a bolo tie with a turquoise clasp set in silver. Yes, mighty handsome. Reckon on having some fun tonight, he thought with a smile.
He was meeting Sadie in thirty minutes and escorting her to a lovely dinner, then a little roll in the hay in businessman Rex Barker’s hotel room. Sadie wasn’t just a prostitute. She was a high-class call girl. The kind of girl wealthy businessmen took out for dinner and drinks, to business conventions and the theater and art exhibits.
And, when you’re smart, you get a referral from a regular customer. Of course, sometimes you have to make it up as you go along. Being an ex-con helped in this case, though Bobby didn’t use his real name. He’d called other ex-cons and eventually learned of an escort service that fit his needs. As an added bonus, he used the name of a prominent federal judge as a referral.
Smart, very smart.
He finished preparing his briefcase-a scalpel, medical scissors, garbage bags, scarves, and nipple clasps. My my my, when he’d read how Rowan’s villain killed his victims he was shocked that she could come up with something so twisted.
He was giddy with anticipation.
He closed his briefcase and left the hotel room.
Tonight, he’d be on a flight back to Los Angeles. By Friday, Rowan-Lily-would be all his.
He couldn’t wait to strangle the bitch.
Susannah Darlene Pierce, Sadie to her clients, learned early on to use her looks to get what she wanted. When her stepfather stole her virginity at age fourteen, she could have buried her head in the sand and bemoaned the fates.
Instead, she took matters into her own hands. Starting with her beloved stepfather.
No one knew who set Stuart Price up on embezzlement charges. No one except Sadie, of course. She figured five years in prison and a quarter million in restitution to his clients would buy her the time to get out of the Bible Belt and make it in Hollywood.
She never did make it to Hollywood.
In Dallas, she met Bridget Carter, a beautiful brunette with designer clothes Sadie coveted, a million-dollar house in a ritzy part of town, and the poise of a starlet. Bridget explained Life to Sadie, and Sadie got it.
Control. Power. Security.
Being an escort afforded her control over men she’d always desired but never knew how to get. What did a seventeen-year-old high school dropout from Arkansas know about the power of womanhood? Because that was what being an escort-or call girl, or hooker, or prostitute-meant. Power.
Bridget taught her everything from dressing properly to manners to safety to culture-an escort should know about current events, but always agree with her man. An escort should know all about popular music, art, and theater in order to blend into society. And Sadie ate it up. That’s why she was double-majoring in art history and business. Art history for fun, business for-well, business.
At $250 an hour, four hours minimum, Sadie worked only two nights a week and made more money each month than her waitress-mom saw all year. And had her mama stood up for her when she told her about the rape, maybe Sadie would have sent her enough so she wouldn’t have to work twelve-hour days, six days a week.
But her mama called her a whore and didn’t believe her. So Sadie had no qualms about keeping all her whore-tainted money to herself.
Now, five years later, going to college, escorting old men part-time, and living in a beautiful condo, Sadie had it made. She figured three more years and she’d retire with enough money that she wouldn’t have to work if she didn’t want to. Bridget, who was over forty, was training her to take over the business, and Sadie thought that might be a fine way to retire. Fifteen percent of her girls’ business, taking clients only when she wanted to, living in a mansion and being married to a successful businessman. Yep, what a life!
She normally didn’t work Wednesdays, but Bridget had called and said Judge Vernon Watson had recommended her to a friend who was visiting on business and would only be in town tonight. Sadie liked Vern, who paid her $1,500 once a month for nothing more than dinner and a show, then a blow job in his chambers. Because Vern had recommended Mr. Barker, she agreed to work.