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Maybe the Reporter was right.
Maybe Boston had itself a vampire.
A thirsty one at that.
WHEN THE BODY had been taken away and the crime scene secured for a second evidence sweep in the light of day, Rowen peeled off the latex gloves and shoe covers and shoved them into the pocket of her blazer. A fog had lifted and the dawn had come, swathed in a chilling, morose gray that had more to do with her mood than it did with the climate.
She climbed into her car and headed to One Schroeder Plaza, the main headquarters of Boston’s police department. There was time to check her messages and make some calls before the preliminary report from the autopsy would be ready. This case had priority status. Any new victims would be pushed to the front of the line. The powers that be were waiting, holding their collective breaths, for some sort of verdict. For any indication of a reasonable explanation that didn’t include sidebars to the Reporter’s melodramatic suggestions. Just what the city needed this close to Halloween.
So far, the murders had all taken place in one area and had since become known as the South End Murders. Not exactly original, but better than some others suggested at the station. It was bad enough that a smart-ass reporter had tossed out the idea of vampires to the general public. Having anyone in Homicide mention it, even as a joke, was not good at all. Especially since the reporter couldn’t have made the obvious connection if someone hadn’t leaked the cause of death.
Daylight crept over the city, the sun bleaching some of the gray, as Rowen reached Columbus Avenue. But she still felt shrouded in darkness, gripped in the choke hold of uncertainty.
Though she ignored the haunting feeling when working a case, the moment she was alone, her mind no longer focused on the scene or on a related report, she felt it…stronger than ever. It was more than the sensation of being watched. Far more intimate, somehow. As if her own shadow was in a peculiar manner “following” her.
Rowen shuddered and kicked the disturbing concept out of her head.
She had bigger problems to worry about.
“Damn.”
She cringed, felt like smacking her forehead with the heel of her hand. She’d left home in such a hurry this morning she couldn’t remember if she’d put out any Kibbles for Princess. Definitely hadn’t taken her out for a potty walk. Coming home to a puddle or worse was not among her favorite things to do. And letting the animal go all day, and possibly part of the night if an emergency came up, without food was unconscionable.
Thinking of her spoiled and pampered Maltese made Rowen smile no matter how irritating the domineering animal could be. She’d had the arrogant little piece of white fluff for two years, having rescued the dog after its original owner had been murdered and no one else had wanted a pet. Especially one who wore a genuine rhinestone collar and sported pink toenails.
The elderly woman’s body hadn’t been found for two days and Princess had stayed right beside her master the entire time, not leaving her side to drink or eat even though both bowls had been full and waiting. Now that was loyalty. Everyone should have someone or thing that cared that much. She supposed that was how she ended up taking the prissy pooch home. Rowen was tired of being alone.
According to the dog’s registration papers and the veterinarian who’d provided her health care, she was almost five years old now.
Rowen loved her like a child.
Her smile faltered. Memories she’d thought she had laid to rest three years ago filtered into her mind as if she’d flipped that switch with the mere mention of children. She forced the thoughts away, refused to loiter in that part of her past.
There was plenty of time for finding the right life partner and starting a family. It wasn’t as if thirty-one was that old. But on mornings like this one, she felt a hundred.
After parking she made her way along the slender cobblestone byway to the eighteenth-century row house she called home. Rowen had inherited the brownstone, once the home to servants of the wealthier Beacon Hill residents, from her grandmother, who was purported to have been a direct descendant of one of those servants. Rowen’s family was immensely proud of its heritage, however lacking it was in the historically privileged blue blood of the area. Her mother would say, “Who needed blue blood when you had greenbacks?” Her mother’s marriage to Rowen’s father, a rich Irishman, had infused the family with a healthy dose of financial security if not a royal lineage.
A genuine smile slanted across Rowen’s lips. This was Boston, after all, the city that gave new meaning to the phrase melting pot.
The steep cobbled alley that led to her front door was lit at night by gas lamps and embellished year round with overflowing flower boxes. From pansies in the spring to mums in the fall, there was always something blooming. She even managed to keep a cluster of spindly flowers alive in her own planters.
Despite 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 pivotal instant, the full weight of her fury broadsided her with the force of a runaway dump truck. Evan was alive. He looked whole, at least as far as she could tell with him wearing dark glasses and a long black coat that almost reached the floor.
A part of her wondered vaguely why he was dressed that way…it wasn’t that cold outside.
Before any sort of reason could penetrate her mounting confusion, another, more powerful emotion regained control.
He was alive and, apparently, well and he hadn’t called. Hadn’t bothered to let her know that he’d simply decided not to come back.
For weeks and months, she’d grieved him. And then she’d gotten angry, made herself as well as those around her seriously miserable. Eventually she’d gotten over him. Filed away every single memory associated with him.
The idea that he would show up now—for whatever reason—was like a blast of the harsh wintry New England wind that swirled and snapped and stung as it slapped you in the face.
“I said, get out of my house.”
The realization that he had broken into her home and had the audacity to stand here and toss warnings at her as if he were her assigned guardian angel made her want to shoot him on the spot. Just then, she could likely do that and not feel an inkling of remorse. Might even be able to cop a temporary insanity plea.
“Think about it, Rowen,” he said. She’d always loved the way he said her name, with an emphasis on the second syllable—very French. “How do you suppose I gained access to your home? You’re not safe here. You must—”
She held up her hands and slashed them back and forth as if she could somehow erase his words, as well as his presence. She cursed herself for the weakness the resonance of his voice could evoke. He had no right to even utter her name…not now…not after what he’d done. “Don’t you dare come here after all this time, you bastard, and pretend to care what happens to me.”
The anger and hurt that filled her tone was undeniable. She hated, absolutely hated, that he would know with that statement just how badly his leaving had injured her. “I don’t know why you came back but I want you out of here. Now. Or I will call a unit to pick you up. Breaking and entering is still against the law, Hunter.”
As if she hadn’t spoken at all he moved closer. “Listen to me, Rowen,” he murmured. “That’s all I ask. Then if you still want to throw me out, I won’t resist. Just five minutes.”
She squared her shoulders and glared at him, her lips trembling in spite of her best efforts. “You don’t deserve five minutes.”
“I know what you think,” he offered, that deep, rich timbre playing havoc with her senses, quelling her anger faster than she could reignite it. “I can’t change what you think of me, but I had to come and warn you. You are in grave danger.” He inclined his head as if to look beyond her to the open window. “You’ll have to excuse my tactics, but I needed you to understand just how vulnerable you are.”
She couldn’t take this any longer. Fury driving her, she snatched the concealing eyewear from his face and forced him to look directly at her.
He squinted those pale gray eyes, held up his hand to shield them, then turned away from her, as if the dim light sifting in from the window more than a dozen yards behind her was too much to bear.
A whole new barrage of questions flooded into her brain all at once. “What’s happened to you?”
It wasn’t until he’d reached up to block the light that she noticed he wore gloves. Why? It was only October. Sure, the mornings could be chilly, but not that chilly.
And then what was wrong with the whole picture he presented meshed fully with her senses. His hair was far longer than before, but restrained in a ponytail. He wore all black—heavy, concealing black, including the gloves. His face looked pale…and weary.
Hunter took the glasses from her hand and slid them back into place before she could analyze anything about his eyes other than the redness that spoke of too little sleep or too much alcohol. “I didn’t come here to talk about me.” He settled his gaze back on her. At least, she presumed he did; the glasses once again concealed his eyes.
This was too much. Way too much. She scrubbed her hands over her face, rubbed her own eyes, then smoothed a hand over her damp hair. She needed coffee. She needed to think. She had four unsolved murders on her plate right now and she didn’t need to have to deal with this, too. But she knew him…too well. There was no fighting him when he’d made up his mind about something.
Resigned to her fate, she crossed her arms defiantly. “What do you want?”
“Coffee?” The tilt of his lips could hardly be labeled a smile.
She sighed, feeling a new surge of defeat despite her challenging stance. He was here. A cup of coffee couldn’t hurt. She could use one herself. Her gaze performed a tour of him once more. Some part of her, too weak or stupid to know better, needed to understand what had brought about this change in his appearance…in his manner. She shouldn’t care…and yet she did.
“One cup of coffee.”
He acknowledged the condition with a single nod of his dark head, then stepped aside and she led the way down the stairs. The idea that he was right behind her had goose bumps skittering over her skin. She hated that he could still do that to her. It was so damned unfair.
When they reached the entry hall Princess finally decided to bother to get up and greet the intruder.
She sniffed and yapped once. When she didn’t get the desired response, she followed her mistress into the kitchen to see what would happen next.
Once Rowen got the coffee brewing, she tossed a scoop of gourmet Kibbles into the polka-dot ceramic dog food bowl and added fresh bottled water to its twin. The dog refused to drink tap water. How was that for spoiled?
When the smell of her favorite blend of coffee had filled the air, she topped off two cups, both black. She remembered that he had taken his coffee straight up, the same as she did. It bugged the hell out of her that she could remember so much about him.
She set the cup in front of him at the small table in her cozy kitchen.
Rowen almost never ate in the dining room. Not in the past three years, anyway. She preferred the warmth and earthiness of the whitewashed cabinets and butcher-block counters. Who wanted to go to the trouble of setting a table when preparing dinner for one? That, she reminded herself, in no way diminished the fact that she was over Evan Hunter on that level. She didn’t need him. Sure, he still possessed the power to make her body tremble, but there were other men out there. She simply hadn’t had time to pursue a personal relationship lately.
“What’s happened to you?” she asked again. She claimed the chair directly across from him so that she could appraise his face, or what she could see of it. His mouth remained fixed in a firm line, but the unflattering expression failed to lessen in any way the full, sculptured appearance of those tempting lips. Of all his assets, why the hell did she have to focus on that just then? She blinked and pushed aside the troubling notion.
“I developed a condition,” he said after giving the question lengthy deliberation, “that requires I shield my skin and eyes from light.”
As he spoke, she watched his mouth move, noted the angular lines of his jaw. She’d kissed his face so many times, had reveled in his sheer beauty. As hard as she’d tried not to she’d become infatuated with him even before she’d known his name. The infatuation had given way to deeper feelings as they’d dated those few weeks. Eventually, the budding relationship had moved into serious territory. Then his work had concluded and he’d had to return to Washington.
He’d promised to call…to come back every weekend. But she’d never seen or heard from him again. Not once in three years. She’d called everyone she knew to call. Had even shown up once at the address he’d given her. A neighbor had told Rowen that she’d heard Mr. Hunter died.
That moment had served as the final straw. Rowen couldn’t take anymore. She’d worked for months after that to put him behind her. It wasn’t until the past year that she’d finally felt free of his irrepressible memory. Now, here he sat in her kitchen. A new trickle of ire gave way to a stream of outrage.
She braced her hands on the cool tabletop and closed her eyes. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Rowen, you must listen to me,” he urged.
This was insane. She pushed up from her chair, the legs scraping across the old brick floor. “I’m sorry.” She backed away a step, needing the distance. “I can’t do this.”
“Rowen, wait—” He pushed to his feet, simultaneously reaching for her. The abrupt move jarred the table, sending both cups tumbling over and coffee sloshing across the table.
She tried to grab her cup but only succeeded in sending it spinning off the edge to crash on the rustic floor.
Swearing hotly, she turned to dive for a dish towel, but her attention jerked back to her guest. Those gloved hands had closed over his ears as if the sound of shattering stoneware had been too much for him. She’d jumped at the sound herself. The racket wasn’t easy on the ears, even when one was expecting it. But this. She watched as he slowly relaxed, unclenched his jaw, took a deep breath, then lowered his hands. This was an altogether different type of reaction.
Realizing that she was staring, Rowen crouched down to gather the broken pieces of stoneware, her mind whirling with more questions. What the hell had happened to him? Was he sensitive to noise, as well as light?
“Let me help you.”
He had apparently recovered enough to grab the dish towel and stoop down next to her. Her gaze lingered on him as he mopped up the mess they’d both pretty much been instrumental in making.
“Thank you.” She took the towel and the broken cup and quickly disposed of them before turning her attention back to him. He waited right where she’d left him, next to the table. She should just ask the questions throbbing in her brain. He was the one who’d shown up back in her life, not vice versa. She had a right to know, didn’t she?
No. Nothing he could possibly say would change what had happened.
She wasn’t doing this. She would not let him drag her back down that road. “I have to get to the office.” So much for coffee. She’d pick some up on the way. Right now, she just wanted out of here…away from him. “Say what you have to say and go.”
Evan, with an ache still reverberating in his skull, understood why she felt this way. He’d hurt her. Memories of what they’d shared tumbled one over the other into his mind before he could stop them, adding to his misery. He’d hurt her deeply. He wasn’t strong enough just now to fight the sentimental pull of that shared history. But he had to fight his personal feelings, had to try and make her see.
He ignored the pain that attempted to fragment his thoughts. Though the medication dulled his senses to a degree, he was still susceptible. Any unexpected sounds or sudden moves set off a shockwave of excruciating pain. He hated the way the medication left him off balance. But it was the only way he could tolerate the bombardment of sensations outside of his secluded home.
With her impatience mounting, he had no time for long drawn-out persuasion. Clearly, playing on her compassion wasn’t working. Cutting to the chase was his only remaining option.
“You have four dead bodies,” he said flatly. He had known that what he intended to propose would require a good deal more finesse, but she wasn’t going to allow him the luxury. “No motive, no evidence, no acceptable manner of death.”
Her gaze narrowed. “How do you know about the fourth one?”
He couldn’t very well tell her that the stench of death still hung on her clothes or that her fragile emotions screamed loudly of what she’d experienced that morning. A move like that would prove detrimental to his cause. He knew Rowen…knew how she processed all that she encountered. She was already on the defensive.
“I know,” was the best he could do.
Her guard moved up to the next level. Now she assessed his potential as a suspect. It was instinct. Part of what made her tick.
“What do you know about these murders?”
“I know that the Reporter is inciting panic.”
The Reporter had a reputation for just this kind of exploit. For twisting the facts and magnifying the ensuing theories. But then, didn’t all media do the same thing to one degree or another?