The Prey by Allison Brennan Page B

on sight when the first police officer arrived at the Boston death house.
    He stood. “Has anyone been to see him recently?”
    Milt blinked. “Actually, yes.”
    “I need to see the security logs.”
    An hour later, Roger left with copies of visitor logs from May 10 and September 23 of last year, and the promise that Milt would order up the security tapes from those days and send them to FBI headquarters immediately.
    In twenty-three years, no one had visited Robert MacIntosh until last year, when Bob Smith came in twice.
    Who the hell was Bob Smith?
     
CHAPTER 8
     
    Rowan woke early with another pounding headache. She reached under her pillow and pulled out her Glock, pausing as she stared at it. She almost didn’t remember switching her gun’s storage spot from her nightstand to her pillow.
    She didn’t bother to change—she’d slept in sweats and a T-shirt. She simply pulled her arms out of the sleeves and slipped on a sports bra, then pushed her arms through again. It was a trick her few lovers admired, which should have told her they were too easily impressed.
    She went into the bathroom and brushed her hair, pulling it into a hasty ponytail for her morning run. She tried to avoid the hollow-eyed woman in the mirror, but couldn’t.
    She’d never paid attention to her looks. Her ex-boyfriend Eric Hamilton had told her she was beautiful, like a sculpted goddess. She brushed off his compliment as a line, not interested in a man who paid more attention to her looks than her brain. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in relationships. Before Eric, she’d been involved with a few men, none of them in the Bureau, none of them serious. Sex and coffee, nothing more.
    How could she get close to anyone when everyone she loved died? How could she share her past when she couldn’t even think about it, except in nightmares?
    Her relationship with Eric had been as close to a real one as she’d ever had, and look how pathetic that had turned out. He demanded everything from her, but still couldn’t see her for what she was. Damaged. With Eric she played a part, the role of the cool, dedicated, smart FBI agent who wasn’t afraid to confront bad guys in a dark alley. With Eric she was hot in bed, but cold in conversation. She knew it but couldn’t change it. Didn’t know if she wanted to even make the effort.
    He’d asked her to move in with him. She had refused. She couldn’t give up her independence, her privacy, her
home
. The life she had painstakingly built couldn’t be merged with that of someone who didn’t understand death and dying.
    Eric was a good agent. He was smart, cocky, competent. But Rowan never felt that he tried to understand
her
. He mainly wanted her because she seemed unattainable; when she wasn’t what he thought, or anyone he could mold, he sought comfort elsewhere.
    And his betrayal was a relief.
    In hindsight, she should have listened to Olivia. When she lived in Washington, before the Franklin murders, she and Eric had often gone out with Liv and her now ex-husband. Neither Liv nor Greg had liked Eric much. That should have told her something.
    Rowan shook her head, trying to rid her mind of the past. After brushing her teeth and drinking a cup of tepid water, she went downstairs to fetch Michael from the guest room.
    She was about to knock on his door when a voice from the far end of the hall said, “Good morning.”
    She turned to face Michael’s brother, leaning against the kitchen doorjamb, steaming cup of coffee in hand.
    He looked a little like Michael, but his green eyes were darker, his hair shorter, his body leaner. Rowan felt a not-too-familiar flutter in her stomach, confusing her. He was attractive, but it wasn’t as if she let her hormones dictate her life. She swallowed, startled by her reaction. He was too damn sexy for his own good, and he knew it.
    John Flynn was an operative. She could tell by his oh-so-casual stance. Under the seemingly at-ease posture was a man