Raven's Cove - Jenna Ryan

by Intrigue Romance

  Colleen could surely decipher the raven’s-feather references, Jasmine suspected, if not the implications of what they portended.

  Holding tight to Boris’s collar, Jasmine waited until her emergency lights kicked in.

  Rain pounded the roof and windows like ferocious fists. As if galvanized by them, her thoughts took off in two directions.

  The first led her back more than a year and a half to a night much like this one. On that night, a dark-haired, dark-eyed man had appeared at her safe house, a stranger who had simultaneously terrified and fascinated her.

  The second took her back six weeks, to Captain Ballard’s funeral. Once again, the man had appeared in the night. Maybe he’d appeared out of it. Either way, she’d turned and there he’d been, standing behind her, more familiar this time, but no less dangerous and certainly no less fascinating.

  His name was Rogan. Just that, no more. Ballard had assured her he was a cop. Not the sort you could pin down to any one division or captain—or any one city or state, for that matter. Rogan went where required as required and stayed until the job he’d been sent to do was done. Then, poof, back into the night.

  Not that Jasmine didn’t appreciate his mysterious qualities. She was, after all, the head of acquisitions at Salem’s Museum of Early American Artifacts and Antiquities, or Witch House, as it was more commonly known, since almost every piece there had a witch-related story attached to it.

  More than once she’d considered working a figure of Rogan into an exhibit. Hypnotic, haunting man, dressed in black, surrounded by swirling shadows. She’d highlight his incredible eyes, give him a murky past and a vaguely occult ancestor. Any female viewing him was bound to be as mesmerized as she’d been when she’d met him.

  Intriguing though it was, the idea shattered with the next blast of wind.

  Good, because she really didn’t want to think about Rogan or the circumstances of their first meeting. That would lead her back to the conversation she’d just had with her ex, which would lead her to Rogan, and on and on.

  Determined to break the cycle, she went to the fridge for a soft drink. She was debating her choices when Boris growled.

  Bumping the door closed with her hip, Jasmine surveyed the darker shadows. “Please tell me that wasn’t a threatening sound.”

  The dog gave a sharp bark.

  She listened, but heard nothing above the storm. Until…

  On the heels of the thunder, and courtesy of a lull in the wind, she caught a faint sound, like a swish of leather.

  Now, that wasn’t part of the storm. There was someone behind her.

  Fighting a spurt of panic, she ducked sideways. But the intruder was faster and apparently more intuitive. Before she could evade him, a hand came down on her mouth, and she was hauled back against a man’s strong, hard body.

  Chapter Two

  Jasmine knew who it was before he lowered his mouth to the side of her head. Using both hands, she reached up and snatched Rogan’s palm away.

  “Quiet,” he warned in a deceptively soft voice.

  She used temper to beat down fear. “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”

  She kept the question to a hiss, but even that must have been too loud, because he covered her mouth again. “Look out the window, Jasmine.”

  Her gaze shot to the rain-washed glass. Lightning forked down somewhere in the vicinity of Witch House. The trees were listing, and… Her eyes widened. The neighbors’ lights were on!

  A shiver skated along her spine. Her blood ran cold, but she didn’t move, wouldn’t let herself react.

  “No sound.” Rogan’s breath was warm and undeniably sensual in her ear.

  Eyes fixed on the lights, Jasmine nodded.

  He removed his hand, but kept her close. Beside them, Boris stood absolutely still.

  Jasmine waited, breath held. Until her vision began to blur, then she let it out. Slowly, deliberately and with Daniel’s words repeating in her head.

  Something bad’s going on…

  Did Rogan agree? Stupid question. He was here. And Rogan never did anything without a very good reason.

  Of course knowing that wasn’t exactly reassuring. Neither was the silence that vibrated beneath the storm.

  Thunder rolled again. Rogan motioned for Boris to move. Since he’d trained the dog, Boris responded instantly. Although, Jasmine noted, he never actually left her side.

  “Worked your magic on him, too, huh?” In the barely there light, she caught the gleam of amusement in Rogan’s eyes—a split second before they shifted to a distant window.

  He nudged her toward the kitchen island, handed her a gun. “I’m going to trust you haven’t forgotten how to use it.”

  She would have responded if there’d been any point. Or time. Because he was gone with the last word.

  Alert and ready to protect, Boris assumed a ferocious stance between his mistress and the tall pane of glass.

  Her heart was hammering, Jasmine realized, almost louder than the thunder. But she had to think past her fear, reason it out.

  Daniel said people were dying. People connected to Malcolm Wainwright’s trial.

  Was it possible Wainwright had survived that helicopter crash three months ago? Or was someone within his tattered organization championing his cause? Whatever the case, Daniel had been unnerved enough to break the rules and contact her, Rogan was hunting a shadow on her side porch—and all hell was going to break loose again, she just knew it.

  Braced for the worst, she adjusted her grip on the gun. A moment later, she heard a commotion outside. It ended with a thump on the back wall. There was a yelp—not Rogan—followed by a second thump.

  Lightning illuminated two men through the window. One of them booted the door with his foot.

  “Open up, Jasmine,” Rogan told her.

  She hesitated, couldn’t help it.

  “Jasmine.”

  Lowering the gun, she stood, crossed the floor and twisted the lock.

  A square-built man in a soggy raincoat stumbled in, with Rogan close behind.

  Bending slightly, she peered up into a familiar face. “Gunther?”

  “Ya, it’s me.”

  She recognized his German accent at once.

  “You’re the shadow?” Her gaze moved to Rogan. “He’s the shadow?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “Uh…hmm.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” He pushed the man ahead so he could clear and close the door. “I found him prowling around your cut power line.”

  A baffled Gunther appealed to Jasmine. “My mother sent me over to check on you. All your lights went out at the same time, and then she saw someone near your side wall. I went where she said and found your line had been cut.”

  “You wouldn’t think I’d be surprised at this point.” Giving her neighbor’s shoulder an encouraging pat, Jasmine straightened. “Rogan, Gunther planted my front garden for me. He shovels my sidewalk and driveway every time it snows, and he took care of Boris while I was in San Diego six weeks ago. He didn’t cut the power.”

  Rogan studied the man by emergency light. “Can you describe the person your mother saw?”

  Gunther moved a thick shoulder. “She said he walked like a man.” He slanted his interrogator a doubtful look. “He was wearing black.”

  “Do you have beer?” Rogan asked Jasmine.

  “Heineken.” She offered him a bland smile. “It’s Gunther’s favorite. In the fridge, second shelf. You can have one, too.”

  He said nothing, but didn’t take his eyes off Gunther as he opened the refrigerator door.

  Boris’s thumping tail seemed like a positive sign, so while Rogan tossed Gunther a beer and undertook the required question-and-answer session, she located a pair of battery lamps. Less than five minutes later, Gunther and his beer were gone, a headache was brewing in her temples and her mind was swinging like an overwound pendulum.

  She didn’t hear him approach, but knew as she had earlier
when Rogan came to stand behind her.

  She relaxed her muscles and didn’t respond to the hand he ran along her arm. “You look good, love.”

  There was no way to read his tone or his mood. But his eyes—now, those occasionally told a tale.

  Blanking her expression, she turned. And immediately wanted to sigh. He had such a devastating half grin. No wonder she’d fallen into the clichéd trap and had sex with him after Ballard’s funeral.

  Hot, crazed sex, she amended, fingering the thin silver chain around her neck.

  “Pretty sure I look the same as I did at the memorial service.”

  “You looked sad then.” His gaze lowered and rose in a single seductive sweep. “You don’t now.”

  “Good to know I still wear terror well.”

  The touch of his fingers and thumb on her chin cautioned her to put some distance between them—as she should have done six weeks ago. Instead, she trapped his wrist. “Daniel called me tonight. We were cut off, but he’s in trouble.”

  “I know.”

  Did he now? Her elevated brows posed the obvious question.

  The half smile lingered. “Your ex-husband’s not the only one who sees and hears. People are dying. Wainwright’s the common denominator.”

  “Wainwright’s dead. Ballard was convinced of it.”

  “So was I, until…” He slid his thumb along the curve of her jaw. “Dead or alive’s not the point. Finding the person responsible for the homicides is. And to answer your next question, yes, everyone who’s died was murdered.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “You want lies?”

  “What I want seems to be something I can’t have.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Was his mouth moving closer? As it tended to around him, curiosity chased away good sense. She ran her own finger down the side of his throat to the shadowy hollow at the base. “Pulse rate’s up a little, Rogan.”

  “I’d be surprised if not. What do you want?”

  “Peace. Stability. Maybe a hit of amnesia so I can stop seeing dead people whenever my sleeping mind decides a nightmare’s in order.”

  “Was it so bad that you can’t let it go?”

  “Two police officers were killed, and a third is presumed dead, all because they were watching out for me.”

  “It was their job to watch out for you.”

  Theirs, his and that of at least four other officers. Jasmine supposed she should be grateful the death toll hadn’t been higher.

  “Wainwright saw you as a way to stop Daniel from testifying against him. You were a victim of circumstance. Fortunately, when the trial dust settled, he wound up behind bars.”

  “And you don’t think there might have been a phoenix within the ashes of his organization ready to rise up and take over?”

  “There’s always a phoenix, but Wainwright’s South American drug connection’s been severed, so all’s as well as it can be for the moment.”

  A sudden urge to laugh tickled her throat. Had to be hysteria, she decided, and, tipping her head, regarded him through her lashes.

  Rogan had eyes that could weave a spell with a look, great hands and an even better mouth. She’d let herself fall under his spell at the safe house and again after the funeral. So why, with two mistakes to her credit, couldn’t she walk away and be done with him?

  “I can hear your mind working, Jasmine. You’re thinking a trip to Antarctica would be a good idea about now.”

  Since a similar thought actually had drifted through the back of her mind, she smiled. “Any chance of that happening?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.” She stared past him to the streaming window. “I can’t help feeling responsible for the officers who died. I should have gone to the safe house when Captain Ballard suggested it. Instead, a team of cops trailed after me day and night.”

  “No one died tailing you.”

  “Could have, though.”

  “You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Warning eyes shot to his. “This isn’t about me, and you know it. The men who were killed had families. Call it what you like, I feel the weight of their deaths every day.”

  “So if a lunatic came into Witch House and shot you, you’d expect your boss to bear the burden?”

  “The only burden he’d bear is if the shooter missed me and hit one of the artifacts.”

  “Sounds like you need a new employer.”

  “It’s crossed my mind.” She would have moved out of range then if he hadn’t trapped her arm.

  “We’re not done yet.”

  She glanced first at his hand, then at his shadowed face. “We are, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not getting involved with you again.”

  A trace of amusement appeared. “I’d say mutual attraction is the least of our problems.”

  “My problems, Rogan.”

  “Makes them mine by default. You’re connected to Daniel and through him to Wainwright’s trial. People far less directly involved are dead. Your power line was cut. …”

  “And you’re in my home. The how and why of which you still haven’t explained. You can’t possibly have known Daniel would phone me tonight, or that my power would go out before the call ended.”

  “Put my appearance down to fortunate timing. I actually planned to wait until tomorrow to show up.”

  “Have I mentioned you’re a little scary sometimes?”

  He drew her in so smoothly she didn’t even realize her feet were moving.

  The word danger became a red glare in her head, but she made no effort to resist. Why bother? She wasn’t foolish enough to pretend there’d never been anything between them. She just wished she could identify it and make it go away.

  With his eyes locked on hers, Rogan lowered his mouth to within an inch of hers. The fingers he slid under her hair wrapped around the back of her neck. Then a smile grazed his lips.

  “What?” she asked when he held her there unmoving. “Please don’t tell me you hear something outside.”

  “Not outside. In. Your cell phone’s ringing.”

  “It’s probably Daniel.” She kept her tone calm and her expression neutral. “If you want me to answer, you’ll have to let me go.”

  She breathed out when he released her and headed for the living room.

  “Jasmine Ellis.”

  She anticipated a burst of static. When it didn’t materialize, she regarded the screen. No number, no caller name. Switching to speaker, and aware that Rogan was behind her again, she tried for a different angle in case the storm was affecting the reception.

  “Melvin, is that you?” The silence stretched out. She was about to disconnect, when an artificial male voice reached her.

  “Hello, sweet Jasmine. This is your nemesis, your fate. Open your front door and see the feathery token I’ve left for you. A large bird told me it means death. But not yet. First, you’re going to suffer. As I suffered. Before I died. …”

  Chapter Three

  Rogan had spent too much of his adult life wading through the muddy back roads of the criminal psyche to dismiss any possibility, but no matter how he worked it, he couldn’t see Wainwright employing this kind of scare tactic. Not that he was prepared to view Jasmine as a victim, but obviously someone did. Unfortunately, the someone who best fit the caller profile was a should-be-dead drug lord with a weighty ax to grind.

  Wainwright had been old school all the way. Murder for necessity, no problem. Murder for pleasure? About as probable as the odds that he’d survived that helicopter crash.

  So what did that leave?

  Pulling on a glove, Rogan picked up and examined the long black feather they’d found taped to Jasmine’s front door. Courtesy of a raven, he imagined.

  According to local Maine legend, one feather warned, three equaled death. Or so Daniel’s contact had said.

  Straddling a dining room chair, Rogan contemplated both token and tale. Then swore. Trust Daniel Corey to
drag Jasmine not only back into his miserable life, but also into a witch’s brew of omens, legends and death.

  Police protocol dictated that both the feather and the tape used to secure it to her door be checked for prints, but he knew there wouldn’t be any. Just as surely, the cell phone from which the threatening call had been placed would turn up in a trash can or not at all.

  Anyone capable of committing seven murders—more than Daniel realized—in the month and a half since Gus Ballard’s funeral wasn’t going to be easily identified. Nor was he likely to hang around Jasmine’s condo.

  After the call, Rogan had left Jasmine at Gunther’s place and conducted a thorough search of the neighborhood. He’d come up empty, but then he hadn’t expected to find the guy cowering in the bushes, waiting to be flushed out.

  A sound from the bedroom where Jasmine was packing diverted him. His gaze moved past the upheld feather to the half-closed door.

  It didn’t matter how much time went by, he could always bring her face to mind. She’d been haunting him for weeks. Longer, if he was honest with himself.

  She was a beauty, no doubt about it, inside, outside and every other place. Long hair, as dark as the feather he held, green eyes just a shade deeper than emerald, sleek yet curvy body—the list went on. She was thoughtful, smart and kind. And if he’d been any of those things, he’d have sent someone else to Salem to check on her.

  As if a breaker tripped in his head, he switched back to cop mode and visualized the seven corpses he’d viewed recently. Factor in Jasmine’s threat, and a sense of something more twisted than mere criminal vengeance began to snake through his belly.

  The storm wind bore down hard on the roof. While Jasmine continued tossing God knew what into a case for the night, he zeroed in on her ex-husband’s location as it related to the message she’d received. … Rather, he would have if she hadn’t emerged from the bedroom pulling a large suitcase and carrying a second overstuffed bag.

  His eyes rose to her face. “You’re joking, right? I said pack for a night, not a month.”