Whose blood?
Moving slowly, as if he knew he’d won, the monster lifted the portfolio from her shaky grasp and laid it carefully against the wall beneath the mailboxes. She couldn’t move; just lay there petrified as memories bombarded her.
The predator tilted his head, considering her as if she were already cut and bleeding. He clenched the handle of the knife, strong fingers squeezing the weapon possessively. For all her big mouth and fighting pride she could not move. Because he’d created her all those years ago. He’d created her and now he was back to destroy her.
Without hurry he flicked open the buttons on her coat. Lifted her sweater up and over her breasts and terror welded her to the spot. He cut the material of her bra with a jerk of his wrist.
Nausea threatened, but she forced it back. Cold air flicked over her skin. I can’t survive this twice. The memory of pain crawled over her body like hives. She told her limbs to work, to move, but they wouldn’t obey.
Is this what I’ve been waiting for? For him to come back and finish the job? She flinched as his finger traced a faded scar.
What did he think of his ancient handiwork?
He lifted the knife. She watched as he trailed its razor edge along a furrow of shiny, white scar tissue. From her hipbone, up across her stomach, slowly, over her ribs, bump, bump, bump. She held her breath. The flat edge of the knife stroked her nipple, and horror, not desire, had it puckering.
His mouth was hidden by the mask but Josie knew he was smiling. Tears formed. Bile burned the lining of her throat. Their eyes locked and she clenched her fists in frustrated rage as he turned the knife upright and let the weight bear down into her chest. Blood pearled. Pain burst along her nerves with excruciating clarity.
Sucking in a gasp, she braced herself. “You promised if I didn’t make a sound you wouldn’t kill me.” Her voice was ragged, air stroking her vocal chords with the sensitivity of barbed wire.
Time suspended between them like a big fat spider on a whisper of silk. The light in his eyes darkened. “You just made a sound.”
She whacked the flat of her hand as hard as she could against his ear and grabbed at his knife-hand, pushing it away from her body. She sank her teeth into his wrist, narrowly avoiding getting a knife in the face. His pulse beat solidly against her lips as she clamped her jaws together until she tasted blood. She didn’t let go.
Her other hand clawed at his eye, her legs finally working as they scrambled for purchase on the slick tile. His body fell against her hip, his breath hot and violent against her cheek. Gouging her sharp fingernails into his eye socket, she scratched at the smooth hard shell of his eyeball. Blood filled her mouth, the taste of him bitter and repugnant on her tongue. Her stomach twisted but she didn’t ease up. If she did, he would kill her.
With a furious roar, he fell back. Scrambling to her feet, Josie grabbed her portfolio from against the wall and held it in front of her again as a last desperate defense. The predator rubbed his hand over eyes that glowed with malevolence.
In her nightmares he was immortal, unstoppable. In reality, he was just another fucking asshole who liked to hurt people. And God help her, right now he wanted to hurt her.
* * *
Aesthetically, the 17th Century Dutch painting with its fake De Hooch signature left Special Agent in Charge Marshall Hayes colder than a witch’s tit, but even so his chest tightened and his heart rate stepped up a gear. It was only 7:30 PM but the place was packed for the grand opening of yet another trendy New York art gallery. The party atmosphere and chattering crowd faded as he took a closer look. Someone jostled his elbow, someone else brushed his ass. He ignored everything except the painting.
It had been stolen a month before the infamous Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum robbery and the two might be linked. The theft had been kept under wraps because the owner didn’t want to look like a moron for hanging artwork worth a fortune on his lounge wall with nothing but an aging German shepherd for security. It wasn’t even listed on the National Stolen Art File or Interpol.
So maybe after so many years the thieves had figured the painting was finally safe to fence. Or maybe the thief died and the painting had passed into the hands of a legitimate collector. Marsh didn’t know, but it was his business to find out.
Anticipation tingled over his skin. The suckers who’d opened this gallery had probably been taken for a lot of money. Unless they were involved…
Music beat through the air with the low throb of sex. Cameras exploded in the background like emergency flares. Marsh looked across the room. Gloria Faraday, one of the owners, was air-kissing some woman wearing thin silk on a cold New York night. He vaguely recognized the new arrival from billboards. Some cat-walk model who’d been outed in the tabloids for drug addiction and had just got out of rehab.
His mind wandered to another woman with a waif-like figure, big blue eyes and a Titanic attitude problem. He forced the image away. He was working, dammit.
A nipple peeked out of the model’s halter-top, a quick flash of scandal sure to make tomorrow’s gossip pages. With carefully staged embarrassment, she slipped the silk back in place and moved away from the cameras. Maybe sensing his gaze, she tilted her head and met his eyes. He didn’t smile, but didn’t look away either. She swept him with a look that switched to interested in a heartbeat.
Marsh turned away, irritated with his own lack of interest in an undeniably attractive woman. And okay, it wasn’t a lack of interest in beautiful women that bothered him, more his obsession with one particular female. His teeth locked as he pushed Josephine out of his mind and reminded himself once again he was on the job—kind of.
The owners, Philip and Gloria Faraday, were British nationals, recently moved from Paris. He didn’t know much about them—yet. Not even if they were husband and wife, siblings or a couple of hustlers looking for fresh marks in the Big Apple.
Gloria looked early forties, but it was hard to tell exactly in the era of cosmetic age reduction. She wore thick makeup and a garish print blouse that clashed and repelled the eye. Philip looked younger, dressed down in designer jeans and a long-sleeved gray tee. He sported a salt-and-pepper crew cut and dark glasses even though it was dark outside. Pretentious ass.
Philip slipped through a discreetly hidden door, probably a storage area or maybe where they kept the cash register in a place too up-market for price tags.
The Faradays owned galleries in London, Paris, Barcelona, Nairobi, Sydney & Tokyo, and now it seemed they’d decided to head west. Total Mastery NY was a nicely put together concept. Old masters mixed with contemporary artwork to update the classic look. Crusty old portraits hung above funky metallic vases, exquisitely carved side-tables complimenting the paintings and ceramics. A classy place. Persuading the clientele you really could buy good taste.
Marsh caught Steve Dancer’s eye through the crowd. He nodded to his tech who returned the look with a familiar light of excitement in his eyes. Game on.
“What do you think of it?” The woman at his side stood on tiptoe and raised her voice over the noise of the crowd.
Damn. He’d forgotten about her.
Lynn Richards was beautiful, charming and well-bred—apparently all the ingredients for a perfect wife. And sexually she did as much for him as the portrait. Her mother had told him that the girl was eager to attend the opening and she knew he was going, so would he take her? Lynn provided good cover so he’d agreed, but she seemed to think they were on a date which made him feel like a goddamn pedophile. He did not date children.
She dug her nails harder into his bicep and he winced. He twisted slightly, loosening the girl’s talons without making it obvious. But she clung.
He smiled but it was grim at the edges; hell, he felt grim at the edges. “What do you think?” he countered, willing the girl to get an opinion of her own and stop trying to please other people. Why else would she be out with a man old enough to be her father? Although, damned if he knew what it said about a man in his po
sition that he’d ended up manipulated by his own mother. Just thinking about it made his jaw clench in frustration.
If his elder brother had made it out of the Middle East alive no one would give a damn whether or not Marsh got married and produced an heir to the family fortune. But Robert had died in the Iraqi desert and a giant piece of Marsh’s heart had died alongside him on the battlefield. His parents had been shattered.
Marsh’s suggestion to leave everything to the dog-pound hadn’t gone over well. He loved his mother. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, except get married to some debutante. How in God’s name did he explain that being drugged, handcuffed to a bed and having sex with a woman who hated his guts had been the best experience of his life? One that had altered him forever and made every other encounter pale into insignificance?
A tortured laugh escaped unbidden.
He straightened the cuffs of his tailored jacket and exhaled until his diaphragm collided with his stomach. He was tired of fighting about it.
“I like it.” Lynn flashed him a hesitant smile.
He jumped. Crap. He’d forgotten about her again and she was so damn polite she made his head ache.
“But I’m not really into art.” Lynn clung to his arm like a limpet-mine.
Looking into her innocent young eyes, Marsh struggled not to feel like an annoyed parent. Christ. “Then why did you want to attend tonight?”
A flash of guilt and annoyance moved across her features. Dammit, he could almost see their mothers clacking like hens as they plotted his matrimonial downfall. How do I get into this shit?
His jacket gaped and her startled gaze flew to his holster, carefully concealed beneath the dark wool.
Exasperated, he put his hands on her shoulders, held her gaze. “Lynn, you know I’m with the FBI, right?”
Eyes as wide as cue balls, she nodded, and he wanted to ask what the hell she was doing with a man she didn’t know, who she couldn’t possibly have anything in common with and who obviously scared the crap out of her?
She was a teenager, so what was his excuse?
Sighing with resignation, he looked for Dancer through the thickening crowd and told himself he wasn’t searching for another face, another blonde…just because he was in New York City. Dancer was propping up a wall, soaking up sparkling champagne within a ring of women all vying for his attention.
Women. Not children.
Lynn followed his gaze and her eyes lit on Special Agent Dancer with a flicker of interest. Maybe Marsh should introduce them and she could fall head-over-heels in love with his agent, they could get married and have babies.
The idea brought an unexpected pang of envy curling through his gut. Not for Lynn. For someone else. He squashed the thoughts.
He caught Dancer’s gaze and jerked his head toward the back room. Watch Philip Faraday. With stolen property on the premises no artwork was leaving this building until provenance was proven for each and every piece. They’d decide later whether the Faradays faced criminal charges for handling and trying to sell stolen goods.
Marsh looked around the gathered celebrities and reporters and braced himself for a general explosion of hysteria. The situation had goatfuck written all over it. Unfortunately his undercover people hadn’t been able to wrangle an early viewing and he hadn’t wanted to tip the Faradays’ hand by telling them the FBI wanted to go over their inventory prior to tonight’s big opening.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Marshall Hayes.” A low hearty rumble called out behind him. “You still chasing bad guys?”
Marsh recognized the voice before he turned to face the newcomer. Just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse…
“Brook.” He schooled his features into flat lines of polite indifference. “I heard you were back in the country.”
Brook Duvall was the former United States Ambassador to Australia and a newly elected senator with an eye on the next presidential campaign. The prematurely gray-haired politician practiced his perfect smile, but Marsh recognized the shrewd gleam in his eyes.
They’d trained together at the US Naval Academy nearly two decades before. Duvall had been in his final year when Marsh was a sophomore. He’d been a political animal even back then, unashamedly using his contacts and influence to cushion his term in the Navy and launch his career using any leverage he could find.
Marsh had been guarded about his family connections until Duvall had outed him during a training exercise along the intracoastal. Marsh had worked his balls off to gain the respect of the men under his command and had to redouble the effort once they’d found out he had a five-star Army general for a father.
They shook hands, the senator’s still cold from being outside and Marsh suddenly let go of his tension. His grudge was a little too insubstantial to hold on to after all these years.
“This is my wife, Pru.” Duvall drew forward a beautifully put together twin-set and pearls lady. A pale looking aide hovered behind them, wringing his hands and holding his cell phone like a cherished baby.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” Marsh took Pru Duvall’s hand and introduced Lynn to them both, not missing the obvious leer of appreciation lighting the politician’s gaze or the way his fingers lingered on Lynn’s that fraction too long.
Pru smiled and took Lynn’s hand, sliced a look at Marsh that clearly said he should know better than to date a girl too young to drink liquor. “I believe I went to school with your mother, Lynn.” Ouch.
For the hell of it, Marsh slipped his arm lightly around Lynn’s shoulders and watched the frost build on the face of a potential future First Lady. His smile was all teeth. Hers was all lipstick.
But when Lynn melted into him like chocolate on a warm day a pang of regret shot through his conscience.
“You still with the FBI, Marshall?” Brook eyed Lynn’s cleavage, which Marsh hadn’t noticed until that moment. Right now the swell of her breast was pressed up against his shoulder holster, chafing his skin and interfering with access to his weapon.
If Josephine Maxwell knew she’d turned him into a eunuch she’d laugh her freaking ass off.
“Are you boys doing anything to track down this serial killer attacking women in Manhattan?” Pru’s voice was sharp, striking him from a different angle.
“I’m sure the boys are doing everything they can to apprehend the killer, Mrs. Duvall.” Marsh produced his diplomatic smile. “I’m Special Agent in Charge of the Forgeries and Fine Arts Division. We track stolen artwork.”
“Sounds dangerous.” Pru Duvall snorted derisively.
“Art fraud can be a cover for mobsters and terrorist money laundering schemes.” Marsh resisted reciting his arrest record and military career.
Brook leaned closer and asked in a rough whisper, “So what are you doing here, Marshall?”
Marsh smelled enough bourbon on the senator’s breath to ignite flames and rocked back on his heels. The aide tapped Brook on the shoulder and pointed to a nearby photographer who patiently cradled his camera. Brook and Pru posed for a photograph insisting Lynn and Marsh join them for the shot. Then, instead of moving away and working the room, Brook turned back to him and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Is this place a front for the mob?” The laugh was hearty and cordial and drew peoples’ attention to their intimate little group.
“Not that I’m aware of.” Yet. Marsh wished to hell he’d come alone. Or forced his way in early, before the gallery opened. But he’d had nothing to go on except an unsubstantiated rumor from an unreliable source. Rumors were a given in the art world. Who’d have thought it might lead to the biggest break they’d had in a decade?
He let go of Lynn, ashamed of himself for giving her the wrong idea. His attention focused on Gloria Faraday who, with a satisfied smile, was tottering her way through the crowd toward his painting. The painting that might be a possible Vermeer worth millions; the painting stolen from Admiral Chambers, an old friend of his father’s, back in nineteen-ninety.
She reache
d up to pin a tiny gold heart on the plaque, but Marsh caught her wrist before she got there. The superfine bones shifted within his grasp.
“Sorry, ma’am. You can’t sell this picture.”
“I beg your pardon?” Judging from the volume, Gloria’s outrage was genuine.
Marsh displayed his shield.
“Special Agent in Charge Hayes with the FBI. This painting is believed to be stolen.” Suddenly, Steve Dancer was beside him, herding people away. “If I need to,” Marsh continued in a quiet voice, “I’ll get a warrant to remove the painting, but if you cooperate—”
“Whaaat!” Gloria shrieked. The blood drained from her face as she looked around the staring faces of the elite crowd and wobbled slightly in her designer heels.
“Have a seat.” Dancer maneuvered the woman into a nearby chair before she passed out.
Lynn edged away from Marsh, her cheeks flushing bright scarlet, clearly embarrassed to be associated with a public scene. That should put paid to any attempt at a second date.
Pru put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and patted her gently. “We’ll take you home, dear.” She raised a razor-thin brow at Marsh, her smile glinting with victory. “Looks like your brave FBI agent will be busy for the next little while.”
One side of Marsh’s lips quirked with irritated amusement. Sparring with Pru Duvall was better than dealing with a naïve teenager and a hell of a lot preferable to dealing with Gloria Faraday who was now crying loudly, make-up tracking down her pasty cheeks.
Prudence leaned close to his ear, perfume thick and cloying, her gaze resting on Gloria’s ashen face.
“Better watch out, Special Agent in Charge Hayes. She looks dangerous.” Then she was gone, shepherding Lynn out of a side door.
Her Last Chance: Chapter Two
Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors Page 172