Evan intended to find the truth—and the killer—one way or another

Rowen was next on the madman’s kill list and Evan understood what the message he’d left behind meant. He didn’t like bringing Rowen along, but he couldn’t, especially now, risk letting her out of his sight for even one second.

Six people were dead and the one and only clue any of the murders yielded was the tattoo found on the victims.

The rain had started to fall once more. A storm had descended, bringing with it wrathful and ominous thunder along with the accompanying jagged bolts of vengeful lightning. Dark amassed in the sky, providing relief from the sun for him, but giving Boston the dismal look of a city grieving for its loss. The city looked murky, depressed…and eerily crying out for justice.

A city under siege by unknown sinister forces.

Urban Sensation
Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and with the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing full-time and in 1998 her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345 or visit her Web site at www.debrawebb.com to find out exciting news about her next book.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Rowen O’Connor—Boston homicide detective. Rowen O’Connor has six dead bodies, all drained of their blood, and not a single clue as to a perpetrator—at least not a human one. The last thing she needs in her life right now is the man who broke her heart.

Evan Hunter—Former FBI agent. Evan Hunter went into seclusion three years ago after an explosion almost killed him. But this dark, brooding man is not the same one Rowen once knew.

Bernard Cost—Medical Examiner. Dr. Cost hasn’t been able to help Rowen’s case. Maybe he isn’t looking closely enough.

Bart Koppel—Chief of Homicide. Koppel just wants this case solved but he wants Rowen to keep quiet about the “V” word. He appears more concerned with the politics of the case than with finding the killer.

Viktor Azariel—Self-proclaimed vampire who lives in a fifteenth-century castle he had moved all the way from England. He is connected to at least two of the victims.

Merv Gant—Rowen’s partner. She trusts him with her life, but she can’t tell him her secrets.

Lenny Doherty—Boston homicide detective. Rowen’s team got Doherty by default. He seems reliable enough, if not overly ambitious.

Jeff Finch—Boston homicide detective. The new guy. Rowen isn’t sure she trusts Finch. He’s an unknown variable.

Gateway—A shadow operation under the FBI’s umbrella that investigates so-called psychic phenomena. Most of the original members are retired or dead…except for one who is unaccounted for…. He could be anyone, anywhere.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

Vibrations shattered through his brain. Pain followed in their path, exploding in the very cells of gray matter, inhibiting his ability to concentrate on anything but the horrendous agony.

Evan Hunter felt his way through the darkness until he reached the door. The misery writhed inside him…building with each step he took. He prayed for death, even when he knew it would not come. Too easy, he’d decided long ago.

Whatever his sins, God had apparently concluded that he deserved this ceaseless torture.

Not even sleep provided relief anymore.

Only silence…only distance. And the mind-numbing drugs his doctor had prescribed, which he now refused to take.

Nausea roiled, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as a second onslaught of tremors in the air set off its usual chain reaction of physical suffering. His entire body seized, shuddered with the intensity before he wrested back some semblance of control.

He jerked open the door and blinked against the invading glare of the night. He grunted at the burn searing his retinas before he squeezed his eyes shut. Where were his shades? He’d forgotten about the full moon. Forgotten about the clear night sky and all its punishingly bright stars.

“Mr. Hunter?” a voice whispered.

Evan resisted the instinctive urge to open his eyes again—couldn’t handle any more exposure just now. No need to look. He would have recognized the voice and the scent of his visitor even if he hadn’t gotten that fleeting glimpse of his silhouette in the moonlight before closing his eyes.

“I…I have your supplies, sir,” the man croaked.

Evan didn’t speak, just stepped back for Marty Kenzie to scurry inside far enough to leave the two bags of supplies on a table a mere four steps from the door.

“Payment is there,” Evan told him, his voice low, guttural from the pain, as he groped in his pocket for his protective eyewear. The sound of skin rasping along cotton fabric echoed harshly against his eardrums. His fingers curled around the shades, dragged them from his pocket and slid them onto his face. With that barrier in place, he risked opening his eyes once more.

His hand shaking with trepidation, young Marty Kenzie picked up the envelope containing the money for the food, as well as payment for services rendered. That same uneasiness incited his heart to pound so hard in his thin chest that Evan worried for the boy’s well-being. When he had shoved the envelope into his pocket, Marty worked up the courage to turn around, to allow his anxious gaze to settle on his employer.

“Thank you, sir,” he murmured.

Evan said nothing to that.

Marty crossed the four steps back to the door as swiftly as he dared, careful to keep his gaze on that single, narrow route of escape. He was afraid of Evan…of who and what he was. But he kept coming back because Evan paid him more than anyone else had or would.

“Marty.”

The young man stalled in the doorway. His posture screamed of just how badly he wanted to keep going…to flee for his life. The terror that had been mounting since he’d stepped up onto the rustic porch made his limbs tremble.

“Yes, sir?” Marty offered quietly without turning around.

“Next time, only knock once.”

Marty nodded, then rushed away, careful not to step too heavily…cautiously avoiding the boards he knew from experience squeaked beneath his underweight frame. He flung himself into the old car he hoped to be able to replace once he finished his masters and started his career in architecture. He remembered in the nick of time not to slam the car door. Sweat had by now risen on his skin, forming a film that heightened the anxiety already radiating through him.

Evan closed and bolted the door, blocking out the world, before his courier could start the engine of his vehicle or turn on the headlights.

Impatient to satisfy the questions haunting his every thought, conscious as well as unconscious, he moved to the side table and fished through the bags, his hands rustling loudly against brown paper until he found what he wanted.

Evan took the Boston Reporter Marty Kenzie had found at one of the large chain bookstores in Richmond and relocated to the chair where he spent most of his unstructured time. Magazines and newspapers lay in organized stacks around his reading area. All delivered by Marty or his predecessor. Here, this deep in the mountains, there was no home delivery of newspapers or even any mail. No telephone. Wouldn’t have been any electricity had Evan not invested a small fortune in the local utilities company for installation of the service. The cost was of no consequence. He had little use for his money now.

He sat down and clicked on the reading lamp occupying a prominent position on the table near his chair. The lamp was adjustable and equipped with a special nonglare, low-wattage bulb. Its twin resided on a similar table next to his bed. There were no other lights in the house.

He unfolded the paper, anticipation making his hands tremble the way Marty’s had moments ago, as he read the headlines his dreams had already forecast.

Vampires In Boston. Third Victim Discovered. Police Baffled.

Evan read on, his jaw set against the anger brewing deep in his gut. When his eyes found her name in bold black print, fury roared through him, tripping that internal alarm that warned of the misery that would follow. But he didn’t care. She was in danger. He had sensed as much for weeks, had dreamed of her fate more than once.

Now he had proof that his concerns were not just nightmares brought on by dwelling in the past. The danger was real. It was happening now.

There was only one way to alter her fate.

Risk his own.

Chapter One

As luck would have it, the abysmal rain had finally stopped. Only about four or five hours too late to save the situation that was likely unsalvageable from the moment another young life had ended in Detective Rowen O’Connor’s jurisdiction.

The proverbial ethnic cocktail of dozens of nationalities, Boston’s South End sprawled adjacent to and south of Back Bay. Three- and four-story stooped red-brick row houses dotted the short streets running perpendicular to the main thoroughfares. What had once been tired lodging houses in a shabby backwater neighborhood separated by railroad tracks from the more desirable northern half of Boston had slowly been reclaimed and revitalized by cunning developers with visions of grandeur.

Progress, however well-intentioned and welcome, had not saved the life of Carlotta Simpson.

The crush of darkness and the urgency of time in combination with the elements had forced Boston PD to set up low-heat floodlights around the body, lighting the gruesome details for all to see. The young woman lay facedown in an awkward death sprawl. She wore the black slacks and tee that sported the logo of the Southie pub where she had waitressed five nights per week during the past eighteen months. The sixty bucks she’d earned in tips on last night’s shift were still in her purse, along with her driver’s license, a Filene’s Basement credit card and various other feminine accessories such as lip gloss, mints and a hairbrush.

Homicide Detective Rowen O’Connor stared up at the buildings on either side of the alley where the victim’s body lay and considered how sad it was that she’d been so very close to safety and yet so far away. Only yards from the place she’d called home for two years.

The buildings on this block had yet to be renovated in the latest rebirth efforts. Most were badly in need of too many repairs to list and gave off a sense of aging gloom that would only worsen as dawn approached.

Not exactly the breeding ground for young aspirations.

Rowen had already concluded what kind of dreams the victim had clung to when she closed her eyes at night and no longer saw the dilapidated walls surrounding her. No longer dwelled on the blisters her shoes had rubbed on her feet as she worked an extra shift at the pub, which, according to her employer, she did quite often.

The posters of the glamorous women she admired, all well-known supermodels, and stacks of fashion magazines had offered a big clue as to the secret fantasies Carlotta Simpson had sheltered behind soft brown eyes and long, brunette hair. The perfect white teeth now bared by the scowl of horror frozen on her face, the above-average height and slender size four body she had daydreamed would get her noticed and help her to break into that exciting field someday no longer mattered.

She was dead.

A next of kin hadn’t been located as yet. Her neighbors barely knew her. When not working, she attended undergraduate classes at Wellesley College and was rarely at home for much other than to sleep or change clothes. According to her employer, who seemed to know her better than anyone they’d interviewed thus far, the victim had been a good student…a nice girl in every sense of the word.

Nothing Rowen had learned offered the first clue as to why the woman might have been murdered. She had no known enemies and, from all reports, was not involved in any high-risk activities.

A woman who’d claimed to be suffering from insomnia, as well as morning sickness related to her pregnancy, had stuck her head out her bathroom window for some fresh air and saw what she perceived to be a body. She’d called 911 and the rest was documented history.

The boys in blue had assessed the dead woman’s condition, noted the similarity of her unusual injury to those in three previous murders, secured the scene and called in the homicide detective on duty. That detective, in turn, had called Rowen since she was lead investigator on the homicide case with similar victims stacking up like a cord of wood.

Rowen scanned the windows as she walked along the alley. Some lit, most dark. It was quite early, but the time wouldn’t have mattered. Urban tenants learned from the get-go that when the red and blue lights pulsed in their neighborhood, questions usually followed. So they turned out their lamps and pretended not to notice that something vile had visited their community. But that hadn’t stopped the uniforms from beating on doors. Between those interviews and what Rowen had gleaned from the victim’s employer, she had a pretty good start, considering she’d been on the scene for one hour and forty-five minutes. That small cluster of information was only the beginning for what they needed to get the job done.

With four cruisers and the medical examiner’s van fanned out as an additional layer of security against intrusion, passage on this Roxbury end of Massachusetts Avenue had been narrowed to one lane. The reporters who’d arrived hadn’t helped. At least two news vans had made it to the scene before Rowen. Soon the first of morning rush hour traffic would funnel into the cool October morning and the blockage would soon escalate into a serious traffic problem. One that would earn Boston PD more bad press in the media, as well as numerous complaints called into the mayor’s office. Bostonians did not like being put out…not even for murder.

Admittedly, this city was much more suited to walking or bicycling or use of the T, the public transit system. Driving could prove trying, if not downright nerve-racking, considering the downtown streets still followed the path of their forerunners—cattle trails. Traffic was hell and most drivers were impatient, Rowen included.

But walking at night, especially late at night, was not a good idea in certain areas.

Carlotta Simpson had learned that lesson the hard way.

In the victim’s apartment, designated as a part of the secondary crime scene, there were no signs of forced entry and all appeared to be in order. The pub where she worked would also fall under that umbrella. Those two locations were the last places the victim had been seen alive before ending up dead in this depressing alley.

After a sweep by the crime scene techs, the apartment had been sealed until someone who knew Carlotta could be located. An individual or individuals who had been in her apartment fairly often would more likely notice if anything were missing or out of place. Otherwise, there wasn’t much chance Rowen would glean anything from the victim’s personal belongings other than what she already had. She could hope that some note or phone number found in the apartment or a description of a patron the victim had encountered at her workplace would lead to whoever had killed her, but the chances weren’t that good.

Police tape hung on either end of the alley, marking the area as the official primary crime scene and serving as a second level of deterrence for curious onlookers, including the press corps gathering force with each passing minute.

Blasts of white light exploded over and over from a camera’s flash, disrupting the darkness that reigned over the alleyway beyond the well-lit vicinity where the body remained waiting for the next leg of its final journey. The vivid slashes of light reminded Rowen of the lightning the storm had displayed earlier that evening when she’d still been at home in bed and trying to sleep. She watched for a moment as the techs worked quickly to process and document every aspect of the scene before turning it over to the medical examiner.

The M.E., Dr. Bernard Cost, a man of about sixty who had been summoned from bed at half past four in the morning, hovered close by, waiting to assume control of the body. Rowen hadn’t talked to him just yet. She didn’t want to color his perspective by discussing what she had concluded after one glance at the victim.

This case in particular required unshakable objectivity.

Rowen blinked to clear the spots the camera flashes had caused from her vision and resumed her search of the scene. Using her police-issue flashlight, she covered the entire length of the alley once more, moving the light from side to side, carefully scanning for blood or any damned thing else that might be related to the murder. She’d performed this walk-through examination twice already, once before the techs were allowed on site.

As lead investigator, it was her job to get a feel for the scene and organize an approach for collecting evidence. She’d had to look at the big picture and determine how best to conduct the necessary business that would facilitate speedy justice for the victim. Then there had been a second sweep with the aid of the floodlights, and now, one last painstaking scrutiny just to be sure she hadn’t missed anything while hyped with the adrenaline of discovery.

She clenched her jaw and restrained the anger ramming against the wall of detachment she’d erected from the moment she received the call.

This one was just like the last one.

And the two before that.

No evidence. Not a single footprint or cigarette butt or drop of blood. No shell casing, no murder weapon. No witnesses. Nothing. The M.E. would have no better luck when he processed the body. Whoever had done this knew how to cover his tracks. There wouldn’t even be the first latent print or indication of trauma. Not one damned thing.

It was as if the perp first hypnotized his victims and then sucked ’em dry.

Rowen shuddered inwardly and evicted the concept from her brain. She would not let the press hoopla color her thinking.

When Dr. Cost moved into position near the body, Rowen set aside the infuriating reality of what this fourth murder meant and headed back in that direction. She had to do this right. No matter that she wanted to scream in frustration. How could this keep happening?

“Morning, Doc,” she said, infusing her tone with a calm she in no way felt and wishing she had a cup of coffee…anything containing caffeine. She’d left the house without taking the time to brew a pot. The urgency she’d experienced upon arriving at the crime scene had morphed into anger and now into a disheartening blend of frustration and defeat.

She dropped into a crouch a few feet away from the M.E., allowing him plenty of elbow room. Though the crime scene was Rowen’s domain, the M.E. had legal authority over the body. Since he was the expert, Rowen had no problem whatsoever with those boundaries. She liked boundaries. They kept her out of trouble.

Cost grunted his usual greeting. Once he dove into his initial assessment, he paid little heed to anything or anyone else around him. He palpated the deceased woman’s scalp, then the neck, and downward, checking for broken bones or other readily assessable evidence of trauma. He tested the right arm.

“No rig in the larger muscles yet,” he commented for Rowen’s benefit.

Though the smaller muscles of her face were already affected, indicating at least a couple hours since death, the lack of rigor mortis in the muscles of the arms signified the victim had not been dead for much longer than three or four hours, tops. As Rowen watched, the doc removed a syringe from his kit and withdrew vitreous fluid from the victim’s eyeball. Rowen swallowed back the bitter taste that rose in her throat but refused to look away. She needed to see all of this, to mentally document every step.

The fluid removed would provide postmortem potassium levels, which would convey an additional estimate of time of death. Core body temperature would be checked at the morgue, Rowen presumed, where the doctor could take a closer look before inserting the thermometer. Even with the floodlights, this alley was no place to look for signs of sexual assault. Removing clothing or inserting thermometers could eliminate or contaminate evidence. Dr. Cost opted not to take the risk.

The M.E. glanced at Rowen’s gloved hands. “Help me turn her over.” A trace sheet had already been laid in place for wrapping the body.

Rowen obliged, subconsciously registering the non-human coolness of the woman’s skin. A layer of latex on her hands and paper covers on her shoes were automatics for Rowen. She never took chances with her crime scenes. Though they offered little in the way of armor shielding against the horror of death.

She’d always harbored extreme fear when it came to dying, significantly more than what most people considered normal. The panic she felt at times bordered on outright phobia. Those who knew her struggle—they were few, only her closest friends and family—couldn’t understand her need to go into homicide. Rowen deemed it her little way of doing all she could to stop those who committed the worst of crimes against others. And maybe to prove she could not only face the inevitable but could wage a sort of battle against it.

Cost shook his head slowly, a heavy sigh splintering his quiet ruminations as he considered the victim. “Nothing. I see nothing, Detective, that is going to separate this victim from the others.”

Rowen’s apprehension amped up another notch as she watched him bag the vic’s hands. “But you can’t be certain just yet.” She needed to hear something different but she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

“Look at her, Rowen.” He gestured to the grayish white skin that was strangely lacking in the usual lividity or marbling effect caused by blood pooling in the veins. “And if that isn’t enough, there is no outward indication of trauma other than this.” He pointed to the small marks on the victim’s throat, in the area of the body’s most prominent blood-carrying vessel.

“The same as the other three,” he stated unnecessarily and gave a small shrug. “I’ll do all I can. But I can’t find evidence if it isn’t there. At this point, I would say the victim died of extreme blood loss. End of story. Just like the others.” He looked over at Rowen then; his entire visage grim. “The only question is, how?”

And there it was. The riddle for which she had no solution. The one thing she and Cost knew for certain was that, in the other three murders and most likely in this one, the vast majority of the victim’s blood had been drained in a manner similar to how one siphons fuel from a gas tank with a hose. Only, they didn’t have a hose. They had no murder weapon whatsoever.

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?

She nodded. “Vampires.”

A frown marred her forehead, as if she’d only just thought of how his appearance and his sensitivity to light played into portrayals of the widely fictionalized and glamorized subject. Her heart skipped a beat before taking off into a faster rhythm, one influenced by the adrenaline filtering into her veins. He could feel her trepidation.

“But you understand that’s not the case,” he suggested in hopes of moving her past the topic.

She stared at him a moment, her responses slowed by her lack of sleep during the past few days. She needed to rest. But she wouldn’t. She was on the case now. Rowen O’Connor was as relentless as she was meticulous.

“Do I?” she asked, countering his suggestion. She gave a little shrug. “You have no idea how I feel. You don’t know me anymore, Hunter.”

On that score, she was very wrong. He sensed her bitterness, the pain she felt at seeing him. But he could not allow those emotions to interfere with what had to be done. That she called him by his surname told him just how deep the cut went even if her physical reactions hadn’t.

He wanted to reach out…to touch her, but he did not dare. She looked so fragile, so very vulnerable. The hasty bun into which she’d arranged her waist-length hair upon getting this morning’s call had started to fall, allowing golden brown strands to drape around her shoulders. Her matching brown eyes, the color of melted caramel, looked tired, the smudges beneath testimony to her lack of sleep.

The fatigue in her slender frame vibrated beyond the confines of the tailored suit she wore. She needed him, whether she understood that just yet or not.

He could not fail. He’d risked far too much already simply coming here. Considering her bitterness toward him, his only hope for winning her over was shock value. He had only a small window of opportunity to prove just how much he knew. He had to make her listen.

“A whole new dimension will be added to this case today,” he warned. “You must be prepared for the harsh focus that will come your way almost immediately. But more treacherous is the danger to you personally. You mustn’t get so caught up in the fray that your attention falters from protecting yourself. Words can’t hurt you, but there are other things that can and will if you are not very, very careful, Rowen.”

Her confusion increased as disbelief was heaped into the mixture. She didn’t want to believe he’d come here to help her. Yet on some level, she knew he was telling the truth. That tiny crack in her armor left her open to having faith in him once more…gave credence to who he was when she wanted to continue despising him. Evan hated using his intimate knowledge of her for leverage, but it was, unfortunately, necessary. He, better than anyone, understood her deepest fears.

The full reality of how little regard she had for him now pierced him. The tender feelings she’d cherished were no more. When the right time came, he would tell her that she needn’t waste so much energy loathing him for he already despised himself enough for the both of them.

“I have to go soon.” He didn’t explain the admission, simply made the statement. But he knew his limitations. The medicine would begin to wear off any minute now. Getting caught in all this—he considered the sights and sounds of the town he had once treasured simply because this is where Rowen was—would be suicide. Taking another dose this soon wouldn’t be a good idea, either. “You should turn this case over to someone else, Rowen. Now. Today.”

Rowen stood there, staring at him. His final words had rendered her speechless and immobile for what felt like an eternity. How could he possibly be aware of all these things? The man she had known three years ago had been in the business of investigating psychic phenomena. It was his job. But, above all else, he was a scientist, one employed by the FBI. The Gateway program—scientific investigation of the paranormal. To listen to him now made her feel as if the words were coming from a stranger. All of it was so very un-Hunter like.

Had he lost his mind? He, of all people, knew she couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away from a case once she’d started. Changing investigators midstream would only set things back, slow down the race to nail the bastard taking innocent lives. No way would she let that happen as long as the choice was hers.

The idea that Evan Hunter had somehow developed a mental disorder from the stress associated with his work crossed her mind. That would certainly explain a lot, she decided as she surveyed him once more.

This definitely was not the man she had known, the man she’d fallen head over heels in love with. The same one who had, without a second thought, shattered her foolish heart.

Outrage solidified her courage. “Thank you for your insights, Hunter. I’ll take your suggestions under advisement. But—” now or never, she had to do this “—I hope you’ll understand when I say I have work to do. Thanks for dropping by.”

He hesitated, didn’t want to give up on whatever the hell he was trying to prove. But she couldn’t deal with another moment of this. Just being in the same room with him made her ache in places she’d thought long healed.

For an entire year, she’d accepted that she was over Evan Hunter. That he was dead.

Determined to be rid of him, she put her hand to his shoulder to encourage him along. He visibly flinched. The realization that he would draw away at her touch ripped open a whole new wound. Why the hell would he show up here like this and then recoil at her touch?

“Just go,” she demanded. Whatever his motivation for a personal appearance, she wasn’t getting dragged into it. End of story.

Thankfully, he appeared to recognize when he was beaten and moved toward the door. His warnings kept swirling around in her head, popping up from different angles, making her wonder if he could know things she didn’t.

But how was that possible?

She shook off the ridiculous concept.

Maybe, she contemplated, he was still working for the FBI.

She hesitated before opening the door, allowed her gaze to move back to his face. “If the Bureau wants in on this case, they should just say so. This kind of tactic is pointless.” Proud of herself for saying the last without her voice quavering, she opened the door and waited for him to get the hell out of her house.

He didn’t do so immediately, which made her want to haul out her Glock and force the issue.

“Remember what I said, Rowen,” he reminded softly. “You must be very careful.”

He walked out. Rowen watched him stride down the cobble-stoned alleyway, the sun glinting off his shiny black hair. He looked exactly like the kind of man who might have haunted these narrow streets two or three hundred years ago. The only things missing in the picture he made were the darkness and the swirling fog around his long legs. The very two items that had likely cloaked his movements as he’d entered her home via illegal means before dawn.

She shuddered and closed the door.

As if on cue, her body started to shake with the receding adrenaline.

Evan Hunter was alive.

She took two or three long, deep breaths to slow her racing heart, to calm her frazzled nerves. Why had he come back?

His warning echoed inside her. How could he know so much about her case unless he was still involved with the FBI on some level? He couldn’t. Maybe his team was investigating the murders.

But the Feds had claimed he was no longer in their service when she’d tried to find him three years ago.

She laughed dryly, bemused at the twinge of surprise the thought provoked. Why on earth was she surprised? Lies were often used as effective tools in law enforcement, from cover profiles to interrogation techniques. She’d used them herself on numerous occasions.

But this had been personal and she wasn’t about to forgive Evan Hunter…no matter how good his motivation for dropping off the face of the planet.

And if the Feds were involved in her case, they’d damned well better get on board and fess up.

The chief had a contact or two. Maybe he could determine if the Bureau was snooping around in any capacity. She glanced at her watch. Dammit. She was late.

She had a date at the morgue.

The click-click-click of doggy toenails announced the arrival of Princess. She looked expectantly at Rowen.

Okay, she had a date at the morgue after she took Princess for a walk.

Life was all about priorities.

She thought about Carlotta Simpson and her decision, despite the threatening weather, to walk home at such an ungodly hour, thereby saving herself the fare. Death was about priorities, as well. The difference was, you didn’t get a chance to regret your decisions.

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