“You don’t have to fight a losing battle. Stay here and help Mickey.”

“Speaking of Mickey-” John changed the subject. Tess wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. She didn’t know the evil people did to others. To people they knew, as well as to total strangers.

Focus on the case at hand. “Think he’s getting too close?” It wouldn’t be the first time, but Michael was a good cop. Yes, he’d let his personal feelings interfere on occasion, but he’d never screwed up on the job.

She nodded. “Just like with Jessica.”

John remembered Rowan Smith’s picture on the back of her book, primarily because it was so unusual for a novelist. Instead of a close-up, or half body shot, she stood in the distance, leaning against a pine tree of some sort, snow on the ground and branches above her head. It wasn’t even a front shot, but her profile: aristocratic, elegant, defiant.

Most people wouldn’t be able to recognize her from the picture; she was dressed all in white, with long hair so blonde it looked as white as the snow in the background. It hung smooth and silky down her back. The picture conveyed an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of separation.

“I’m worried about him,” Tess said.

John took her hand and squeezed, shaking his head. “Mickey’s a big boy. He’s a good bodyguard. He knows what he’s doing.”

“I’m not talking about his professional abilities. I’m talking about his personal involvement in this case.”

“It’s kind of quick to make that kind of assessment, don’t you think?” Even as John objected, he guessed that his sister’s instincts were correct. Michael jumped feet first with women. Ever since Missy Sue Carmichael, the senior who took his brother’s virginity when he was fifteen. Then Brenda the following year, Tammy, Maria… hell, John couldn’t keep track of all the women Michael had fallen in love with over the years.

Tess looked at him, her little nose scrunched up in disbelief. “Right, John.”

Yeah, Tess knew Michael as well as he did. “Don’t worry about him, Tessie. He can take care of himself.”

“Maybe, but I just feel that this case is different somehow. Higher stakes.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” John promised.

After thirty minutes of ultra-polite, frustrating, and tension-filled conversation with Special Agent Quinn Peterson and Rowan, Michael left the room, closing himself off in the den. He had calls to make.

The good news was the FBI had reviewed the security procedures Michael implemented and the L.A. field office was assigning two more agents though Rowan had argued against it. Tomorrow they would interview Rowan’s Malibu neighbors. Four of the dozen or so houses on this stretch of beach were vacant, either vacation rentals or closed up while their owners lived in another of their homes. The FBI was alerting each property management company to watch those houses closely and notify the Bureau if anything looked amiss.

Teams would be dispatched as needed, but resources being thin they couldn’t commit to full surveillance-only one around-the-clock team, aside from Peterson and his partner. But the FBI was working closely with local law enforcement to help coordinate information and offered priority use of their lab facilities at Quantico.

Peterson had brought a box packed with copies of Rowan’s case files. She had kept reaching for it, obviously antsy to get started, making no secret that she thought Peterson should go.

Michael had sensed there’d been something more than a professional relationship between Rowan and this FBI agent; Rowan’s invisible shield had gone back up. Michael’s efforts to get inside her mind, understand her, coax her to bring down her defenses, were stymied once Quinn Peterson showed up. Michael felt a bolt of jealousy, but quickly tamped down that emotion.

He couldn’t let himself get emotionally involved with another vulnerable woman. Not that Rowan was vulnerable in the traditional sense-he greatly admired her strength and focus. But she needed him, and Michael was well aware of his past with women who needed him. Two sides within him battled, and he was determined to stay his distance.

But he had to admit he was intrigued by Rowan. She was unlike any other woman he’d ever met.

In the den, Michael picked up the phone and dialed a friend with the L.A. Bureau of the FBI. “Tony, it’s Michael Flynn.”

“Hey, long time. What’s up?”

“I need some information.” He told the agent about the case and asked him to look into Rowan’s FBI background, on the Q-T. Though the Feds were already working the investigation, Michael wanted to know everything they did.

Tony whistled softly. “You’re asking me to get involved in the affairs of upper management. I’m just in bank fraud.”

“You’re the only one I know over there. Can’t you see what you can find out?”

Tony paused. “I’ll try, but don’t count on it. Why don’t you ask your brother? He has better connections, and they’re probably in Washington.”

“John’s out of the country.” Besides, Michael didn’t want to bring him in. He’d ask for his brother’s help if he really needed it, but not a minute before. John would take over. Like he always did.

“Hmm. Okay, Mick, I’ll see what I can come up with for ya. But seriously, I doubt I’ll get anything without raising a helluva lot of red flags.”

“Thanks, Tony, I appreciate whatever you can dig up.” He hung up. Tony was right about one thing: John had valuable contacts. It would be prudent to bring him in, but Michael preferred not to ask his brother for help.

Still, after the florist… he should call him, if only for advice. He picked up the phone and dialed John’s home number, knowing he wasn’t there but would check his messages. “John, it’s Michael,” he said into the answering machine. “Call me when you get back to town. I want your opinion on a new case I’m working.”

Well, he should be back in L.A. in a couple of days, Michael thought. He’d talk to him then.

The phone rang as soon as Michael hung up, and he let the answering machine get it. “Rowan, call me.” Pause. Click.

A male voice, concerned.

Michael frowned. Could be harmless, maybe an old college friend or a former colleague from the Bureau. Or not.

Was Rowan keeping something secret? Something that could get her killed?

Michael made another call.

Rowan closed the double doors of the den and breathed deeply. She’d finally convinced Quinn to leave, and she’d then asked Michael for a few minutes alone to unwind.

Seeing Quinn had brought back a flood of memories, both good and bad. They’d become friends while she trained at the FBI Academy in Quantico. For Rowan, friends were rare. She’d never deluded herself-Quinn made a point to befriend both her and Olivia because he was involved with their roommate, Miranda Moore. It wasn’t exactly protocol for a field-rated agent to be romantically attached to a trainee, so making sure she and Olivia liked him enough to keep the secret was a priority.

But Rowan certainly wouldn’t forgive him for taking from Miranda the one thing that mattered most to her: her dreams. After everything Miranda had been through-Rowan shook her head. It wasn’t fair, and it was all Quinn’s fault.

Rowan had been so caught up in her memories she missed the message the first time. She pressed rewind, play.

“Rowan, call me.” Pause. Click.

Peter.

She dialed the number in Boston, her hand shaking so badly she had to hang up and redial. It was after eleven on the East Coast.

On the third ring, a quiet voice answered. “Saint John’s.”

“Father O’Brien, please,” Rowan asked quietly. She glanced at the den door. It was closed.

A minute later, her brother’s familiar voice answered. “This is Father O’Brien. How may I help you?”

Tears she hadn’t realized she’d been holding back flowed freely. “Peter, it’s me.”