The Prey Read Online Free PDF Page B

card on the table as if it had burned her, heart pounding. Her stomach threatened to rebel against the coffee and banana that had comprised her breakfast three hours before.
    Michael leaned over to read the message. “What does it mean?”
    Rowan hoped she was wrong, but feared she wasn’t. “Call the police. He’s going to kill again. If he hasn’t already.”
     
     
    By the time the police left hours later, along with Annette and Tess, Rowan was exhausted. Michael didn’t say anything when she retired to the den. The police would trace the flowers, but Rowan seemed resigned to the fact that someone had already died. The rancor she’d displayed earlier at Michael’s presence was gone; she just closed up emotionally and told him to do what he needed to do.
    Michael checked the security system and perimeter, then all windows and doors. Secure.
    Long past dark, Michael’s stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Though the contents of Rowan’s kitchen were sparse, he found some pasta—not fresh, but it would suffice. While the water boiled, he went through the pantry, pulling out basic spaghetti sauce, a jar of sliced mushrooms, a can of olives, and diced tomatoes.
    He enjoyed the peace of cooking, especially in a gourmet kitchen like this. While everything simmered, he opened cabinets until he found a bottle of good red wine. He nodded at the vintage. Good stuff. He couldn’t drink on the job, but maybe a glass would relax Rowan Smith.
    “Glad you approve,” Rowan said from the doorway.
    Michael was startled she’d gotten the drop on him. He usually knew when he was being watched. “I thought you might want a glass to relax.”
    She nodded, slid onto one of the two bar stools. He opened the wine, poured her a glass, and handed it to her.
    “Thanks,” she said with a half-smile.
    “It’s your wine.”
    “For giving me time alone.” The small eyeglasses she’d been wearing earlier were gone and he tried not to stare into her pretty blue-gray eyes. They were so expressive, even with her blank face and rigid posture. Right now they told him she was tired but thinking—probably running through every case she’d ever worked.
    “You didn’t have much by way of food, so I improvised,” he said as he checked on the meal.
    “Food tends to go bad. I buy what I need when I need it.”
    “Spoken like a true bachelorette.”
    “Not all of us are the marrying type.”
    “I suppose not.” Michael went back to the stove and stirred his sauce. He’d thought about marrying on more than one occasion. Most recently, Jessica. The thought of her brought waves of anger and deep sadness. You’d think that after two years he’d be over it.
    “Everything okay?” Rowan asked.
    Damn, he didn’t think he wore his emotions on his sleeve. Then again, she’d been a cop and was used to reading body language.
    “Fine.” He kept his voice light and his back to her as he strained the rotelle, tossed everything together, and dished up two plates. By the time he slid a plate in front of Rowan, he’d forced all thoughts of Jessica from his mind.
    “Normally, I would have bread and salad to go with this, but there wasn’t any.” He tried to make light of her bare cupboards.
    “It smells wonderful.”
    “Thanks.”
    They ate in companionable silence, side by side at the counter. When they were done, Michael started cleaning, but she touched his arm. “You cooked; I’ll clean.”
    Rowan cleaned up with quick, non-superfluous movements. He had a million questions to ask her, but decided to take it slow. There was far more to Rowan Smith than a pretty face and the ability to tell a scary story. In the few hours he’d known her, he realized she was an exceptionally private woman.
    She was smart, competent, and had an intriguing past. FBI agent turned crime writer. Quiet and reserved, she seemed to have energy bottled up, simmering under her skin. An interesting contrast. He wanted to know why