the house being located in one of the city’s most esteemed neighborhoods, history would not let her forget the ghosts from the past that seemingly lurked between every brick and cobblestone. She laughed dryly as she turned the key in the modern lock that secured the ancient door. Boston possessed far too much ambitious history to be considered anything but haunted. The city was the perfect backdrop for crime novels. Gritty, with gothic architecture, and as old or older than anything that could be found in this country.
Rowen tossed her keys onto the table in the entry hall. “Princess!”
There was a time when the snobby little pooch would have met her at the door. Not anymore. She waited, ensconced atop her favorite pillow on the sofa, for her master to come attend to her every need.
Rowen paused at the archway leading to the parlor. Princess lifted her head and gazed at her mistress. “Hey—”
The rest of the greeting evaporated in Rowen’s throat.
The sensation of being watched, of not being alone was suddenly overpowering.
Instinctively, she reached for her weapon.
Princess angled her head as if to show off her pink ribbon and to say, Why haven’t you walked over here and picked me up? I’m precious and helpless.
Slipping into cop mode, Rowen wrapped her fingers around the butt of her Glock and eased into the parlor. Princess, the useless fluff, continued to sit there and stare at her master as if she’d lost her mind or, at the very least, her good sense. She didn’t even bark.
Listening for the slightest sound, Rowen stood very still for a few seconds. Maybe she’d imagined the feeling. She’d been awakened before three in the morning to go to a crime scene. It wasn’t impossible that lack of sleep had her imagining things. Especially considering vampires and other ghouls were dancing in her head, screwing with her need to form impartial conclusions.
Truth was, she hadn’t slept well in days. Six, to be exact. That’s how many it had taken for three young women and one man to end up dead, all from the same malady—a fatal blood donation.
The ancient hardwood floors creaked as she moved around the room, and she cringed at the sound. It wasn’t as if she could memorize the spots; they changed with the climate. She focused on keeping her respiration slow and even, listening intently for any noise.
Partially closed blinds permitted minimal light to filter into the rooms. Soaring ceilings and massive pieces of dark furniture merely absorbed the sparse light and did nothing in the way of reflecting it. If she ever re-decorated, light would be the dominant theme. Her grandmother might roll over in her grave, but Rowen would just have to take that chance.
She skirted her ancestor’s massive dining table and made her way as quietly as possible toward the kitchen. Gold-trimmed china winked at her from the towering cabinet. China she never touched, much less consumed a meal from. Who had time for that kind of sit-down dinner?
The back door was secure.
The brush of a shoe sole against a carpet paralyzed her.
Upstairs.
Hallway.
Rowen swallowed tightly and moved back into the entry hall. She hesitated at the bottom of the staircase and took a deep, steadying breath.
There was no way to assess in which of the four upstairs rooms the intruder had chosen to hide, and there was only one way to find out.
She moved up the staircase in five seconds flat, incredibly without hitting the first creaky spot. The hall stood empty. The window curtains at the very end shifted in the early morning breeze, drawing Rowen’s gaze there.
The intruder had entered through that window.
A flurry of anticipation shimmered along her nerve endings.
There was no doubt in her mind as to whether she had locked it or not, which meant he certainly had to have broken a pane of glass. She gritted her teeth. Antique glass. Handblown. Dammit.
Now that pissed her off. The invasion of her home was bad enough, but did the perp have to go damaging a piece of history to do it?
She took a step in that direction, her gaze sweeping from doorway to doorway, right to left and back.
“Lower your weapon.”
Rowen swiveled to face the threat that had come from the landing behind her.
Her fingers tightened on the Glock. Her aim zeroed in on the intruder.
“It’s me, Rowen.”
A fine tremor quaked through her limbs, this one not motivated by concern for her immediate safety. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and the resulting sinking sensation made her knees weak.
Evan Hunter.
She moistened her lips. Surveyed his tall frame once more just to be sure she wasn’t seeing a ghost.
Wasn’t he supposed to be dead?
“What’re you doing here?” The question came out reflecting exactly how she felt—confused, bewildered.
“We have to talk.”
She slid the safety back into the On position, then lowered her weapon as he’d requested. He didn’t appear armed and she knew this man. Or, at least, she had thought she’d known him. Her palms started to sweat as more bewildering tidbits filtered into her head. She shoved the weapon back into its holster and resisted the urge to swipe her damp hands against her thighs. She didn’t want him to know he’d affected her that way. Didn’t want to ask the questions she desperately needed answers for. Then he would fully comprehend how much his leaving had damaged her.
Suddenly, in an abrupt moment of clarity, the full impact of the situation hit her and fury obliterated all other emotion.
She stared at the man who stood maybe four feet away. Dark glasses shielded his eyes, protected his thoughts. But she would know him anywhere. And that made her all the more furious.
She had only one thing to say to him. “Get out.”
Chapter Two
It wasn’t until Rowen had uttered the words, heard them echo in the thickening air, that the reality of the situation actually hit her.
This wasn’t a dream—wasn’t her imagination.
Evan Hunter stood only a few feet away from her.
The man who’d promised her things that hurt too badly to recall even now, three years later. The man who had walked away without looking back once. The same man she’d searched for, made endless calls about, only to learn that he’d either left his position with the FBI or he was dead. No one really knew for certain. She was a cop and hadn’t even been able to find out for sure.
“I came here because you’re in danger,” he said quietly, as if those three years hadn’t passed…as if he hadn’t broken her heart beyond repair.
In that
