“I don’t drink.”
“Have a Pimms, dear.” Looking slightly merry, Bea smiled and raised her brimming glass.
Avoiding Bea’s hopeful gaze, Josie cleared the lump in her throat. “I don’t drink alcohol, but I’ll have water, please.” She sent Marsh a forced smile, knowing she wasn’t conforming to whatever the hell his family wanted, but unable to pretend to be something she wasn’t.
Marsh went to get her some water. He’d been ominously quiet. His parents exchanged a look.
Josie took the glass from Marsh’s grip, and thanked him with a smile. His expression didn’t change. Guarded. Wary.
“What do you do, my dear?” The general asked.
“When I’m not being stalked by a serial killer, you mean?” Josie smiled over-brightly and the Hayeses swapped startled looks. There was no way she was pretending to be here as their son’s date. Sure it was easier that way, but Josie had never gone with easy. There would be no happy ending for her and Marsh. It wasn’t fair to pretend otherwise. What they had was hot and dangerous and would burn out the moment they caught the killer, or he caught them. “I’m an artist.”
Bea’s smile was delighted. The general took a swig of his scotch.
“And what about your family, Josephine? What do they do?” the general asked.
Vetting her…
She didn’t want to hurt Marsh’s parents, but they couldn’t go on believing this was some family introduction to the future Mrs. Hayes. She knew they wanted him married but she wasn’t that girl. The fact that a tiny portion of her brain wished she was pissed her off.
Marsh paced the floor near a window that faced onto the street. She had no idea what he was thinking. He certainly wasn’t helping her out.
“My father was a factory worker who spent most of his life on disability and my mother was a school secretary who disappeared—now believed murdered—after having a fling with a visiting African missionary.”
The fire crackled and Bea pressed a shocked hand to her mouth. Marsh turned to watch, but she could not read the light in his eyes. “The FBI thinks my mom was the first victim of this maniac who’s after me now.” The coldness of the water was soothing against the lining of her throat. “The only person who cared for me growing up was a woman named Marion. Because of my actions, she was tortured and killed last spring.”
Appalled by the tears that grew hot in her eyes, she stared at Marsh in shocked realization that she’d never even remotely gotten over Marion’s death. She hadn’t even begun to forgive herself. “Her ashes are upstairs in my knapsack because I still can’t bear the thought of losing her.” She slipped the glass onto the nearest table afraid she’d drop it and it’d shatter, splintering into a thousand pieces like her composure. “I’d better go—”
“No.” Bea rose and held both hands out toward her. Tears filled her eyes and Josie froze, unable to bear the empathy in the older woman’s gaze. Marsh’s mother should be turning her nose up about now—adopted or not, it was clear that Josie was totally unsuitable for their beloved son.
“Forgive us.” Marsh’s mother swallowed and blinked away the tears. “We should never have probed—it isn’t as if our family hasn’t experienced great loss, but I’m sure Marsh has told you all about it.”
Josie swung overstretched eyes to Marsh who’d never told her a thing about his family. She’d never asked. He looked at the floor, mouth twisted before looking back with carefully shuttered eyes.
His mother stared off into the fire, sadness palpable as rain on the window. The general coughed. Marsh walked up beside her, took her hand, her fingers chilled against his heat of his skin. He led her across the room toward a photograph hanging on the wall between two casement windows. She’d thought it was a photograph of Marsh when she’d glanced at it earlier. Now she realized the uniform was different—Army, not Navy.
“My brother, Robert,” Marsh spoke quietly. His voice was carefully level. “He died in Iraq.”
Josie stared at the photograph of the blisteringly handsome young man, a man so like Marsh her heart gave a squeeze.
Beatrice Hayes began to cry, softly. Jacob handed her a handkerchief and the action made Josie’s gaze flick to Marsh, who tightened his lips into what most people would think was a smile. She knew better. It was a flare of pain.
“Seems like yesterday,” Bea sobbed gently. The general rubbed her back, the gesture both soothing and hopeless, as if he’d done it a million times before and finally realized it didn’t help.
It hurt.
“The pain never really goes away does it?” Josie forced the words out through a throat rapidly closing with emotion, “Losing someone you love…”
Beatrice held her gaze, the emotional connection like tensile steel. Her eyes seemed to reach inside Josie and soothe her heart with tender hands. She hadn’t felt this sort of comfort since Marion had died and wanted to weep.
Josie’s head snapped up.
She’d been snared by a trap so complex she’d been blindsided. The woman had drawn her into their world, into Marsh’s world and made her care, a feeling she assiduously avoided and yet it had slid into her body as effortlessly as a barbed hook.
Marsh leaned down, his breath warm against her cheek. “Welcome to my world.”
* * *
Marsh hesitated as he opened the door to Josie’s room. Shadows played across the walls, the smell of old wood overlaid by the sweet scent of a candle she’d lit beside the bed. He moved into the room. She sat fully dressed, leaning forward on a straight-back chair, elbows on knees, staring out into the empty street.
Noise was muted through the thick panes of century-old glass, sounds of downtown remote in this affluent citadel, just a murmur of wind rattling the frames.
Shocked by the fragility of her appearance, he reached for her hand, drew her carefully to her feet.
“I have to leave.” Her voice quavered, too much strain born on too fine a wire.
He held her close, pressed her head to his chest. “Stay. Stay with me.”
“I can’t. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Her body quivered against him. But despite the words she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her lips to his and he knew she wouldn’t leave him yet.
Her Last Chance: Chapter Thirteen
They were eating at the breakfast bar in the kitchen by six a.m. Marsh couldn’t believe how much he enjoyed such a mundane act. For a little while they were able to pretend they were ordinary people getting to know one another, and Josie wasn’t being targeted by a killer. Then he saw the front page of The NY News. Tension stretched up his spine and across his shoulders like a crucifix. “Damn.”
“Better watch your mouth. Your momma doesn’t approve of bad language.” Her sass dissolved when he turned the laptop toward her.
“Oh, no.”
Bright lights glared down from the kitchen ceiling, highlighting her horror as her past was exposed for the world to see. Her hands curled into fists, knuckles gleaming white a hair’s breadth beneath the surface of her skin. The NY News had gotten hold of the photograph taken after Josie’s first knife attack. The bleak black and white image of a hollow-eyed child stared out at them next to the bold caption, ‘The First Victim’. This case was about to blow wide open—a serial killer stalking NYC for the last twenty years. Front page news.
Marsh looked at the by-line. Nelson fucking Landry.
This was the reporter’s revenge for Marsh putting the lid on his investigation into Elizabeth’s disappearance last spring. Karma was a bitch. His cell rang. Dancer.
“Yo, boss.”
“Yo?” Marsh pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m a senior federal official and your boss, and all I get is Yo?”
“I’m channeling Donnie Brascoe. Yo is what you’re getting today.” Dancer whistled between sentences, clearly excited. Marsh recognized the theme tune to The Godfather. Please, God, don’t let the mob be involved in any way, although there were rumors about the Gardner robbery.
“Because I’m going deep undercover in New York City, boss man.”
Alarm bells jangled inside his mind. The pressure in his jaw started to give him a headache—these two cases were killing him. “What do you mean? I thought you were in Boston to help me interview the admiral?”
“I was going to be in Boston,” Dancer corrected, sounding way too cheery.
Marsh ground his teeth, loosened his tie as his internal temperature exploded. He was getting a very bad feeling about this. Dancer was brilliant, but he could also be a royal pain in the ass when he wanted to be. A loose cannon—the nerdy kid left unattended for too long in the computer lab who ended up hacking NASA.
Marsh glanced at Josie. He seemed to attract wild sparks.
Maybe he was attracted to their fire, their disregard for the rules that bound him.
Josie met his gaze head on, crystal blue eyes reflecting a soul-deep wound. He wanted to hold her, to wrap her up in safety. “Spill it, Steve, before I sign your transfer papers to Fargo.”
“Fargo wouldn’t be so bad—”
“D.C. then…” The thought of all those politicians would freak him out more than chainsaws and permafrost.
“Something about this case isn’t adding up,” Dancer said softly.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“So I figured I’d dig deeper—”
“What did you come up with?” Normally, patience was his strong suit, but right now…nothing was making sense. His focus was being pulled in a million different directions and the only thing he really wanted to do was put a smile on Josie’s face and make it stay there.
“Nothing yet, but Pru Duvall phoned the office last night, just before I was supposed to catch my flight. She invited me to lunch today.”
Marsh closed his eyes. “Do not get involved with that woman Dancer, I mean it—”
“So I agreed to have lunch with her—”
“For fuck’s sake.”
His mother came into the brightly lit kitchen. He turned his back on her astonished expression. There was a reason he didn’t bring his work home.
“It’s lunch, boss.”
“I don’t trust her, Steve. Do not meet her without back up—even for lunch.” Marsh’s fingers cramped from his death grip on the phone. Pain speared through his skull as his senses finally overloaded. Blindly, he stood up and reached for aspirin in the kitchen cupboard.
“I don’t know why you do what you do, Marshall,” his mother whispered and shook her head as she stirred a silver spoon through milky tea in a porcelain mug.
Mentally Marsh counted to ten. In Latin.
“Come on, boss. She’s a middle-aged politician’s wife. What harm can she do to a razor-sharp, intelligent, specially trained, and armed, FBI agent?”
“I can think of a few things.”
Dancer was silent for a moment. “Don’t you trust me?”
Marsh sighed, tucked the phone into the crook of his neck as he filled a glass of water and swallowed two tablets. He needed to de-stress or work out. He needed to solve this damn case—which he was beginning to think was more a personal feud between two wealthy families—so he could get on with the job of finding the killer whose main aim in life was to slice and dice the woman he loved.
And wasn’t that a hell of an epiphany to have while his brain pounded and his mother coaxed a smile out of Josie who was paler than skimmed milk.
“I trust you, Dancer. It’s Mrs. D I don’t trust.” Marsh sighed, decision already made. They needed to get this off their desks. “I still want you to report in, before and after.”
“Want me to order a SWAT team too, just in case? They could join us for lunch? Even SWAT guys gotta eat.”
Remembering the feral look on Pru’s face when she’d stared at Dancer the other morning, it wasn’t such a bad idea.
“I’ll be good. I promise.” Dancer’s cell reception was breaking up.
“Watch your back.”
He ended the call and threw the phone down onto the countertop where it landed with a clatter. Blowing out a harsh breath he walked around the counter and wrapped his arms around Josie’s waist. Ignored his mother. Ignored the initial stiffness of Josie’s frame, dipping his face into her hair as he waited for his headache to recede.
Nothing else really mattered anymore except keeping her safe.
* * *
They sat silently for some time. He was working. Josie was reading the news on his parents’ laptop. His mother had left them to go supervise the lunch menu for a group of her cronies.
“Why do you do it?” The curiosity in Josie’s tone cut through his concentration.
He looked up, met vibrant eyes and wondered what it would be like to look at her every single day of his life. He shook his head as though to shake the thought loose. Now wasn’t the time to think about the future. They had to survive the present. “Why do I do what?”
“This.” She waved a hand over the FBI badge that sat in its case on the kitchen counter. Gingerly, she picked up the smooth black leather case and flipped it open so the golden shield flashed. “You obviously don’t need the money.”
He studied her while she studied his badge—a badge he’d worked hard for despite his connections. She bit her lip and frowned, thinking too much as usual. In a floaty dress, teamed with tall brown suede boots and a long brown cardigan, she looked more feminine than he’d ever seen her. He’d grabbed the clothes from a nearby boutique. Just handed over her sizes and his credit card to the store clerk and asked for one of everything. Knew she’d look good regardless. The dress was casual—she wouldn’t have worn it otherwise—mismatched fabric with a little tieback thing that emphasized her small breasts and tiny waist. Everything about her looks screamed pedigreed wealth and privilege. Appearances were deceptive, and he didn’t give a shit.
His mouth went as dry as the Mohave Desert.
Realizing he was staring at her stupidly, he pressed his hand against the SIG-Sauer that rested beneath his arm. “What else am I going to do?” he ventured.
It was a non-answer and they both knew it. Marsh checked his wristwatch. Noticed Josie wore nothing on her wrists except a group of three pale freckles.
The gulf between their worlds couldn’t be more noticeable and yet Marsh didn’t give a damn about her lack of cash or family connections—it was Josie who cared, Josie who chose to carry the stigma of her upbringing and proclaim that she didn’t fit in. He needed to figure out a way to make her understand what really mattered to him; who he was beneath the badge and the bloodline.
He had several hours before he had to meet the admiral. The guy lived in an Old Colonial in Charlestown. Not only was it the scene of the crime, it was where the old bugger felt most comfortable and hopefully off his guard. He climbed to his feet, pocketed his cell phone and badge. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?” Twin lines formed between her brows as she peered up at him.
“Why I became a FBI agent.” He picked up a dark brown velvet jacket, held it out for her to slip first one arm and then the other through the thick sleeves.
He led her through the house to the Georgian arch of the front door. Vince was meeting them here at eleven thirty. His secretary, Dora, had arranged a rental car because his Beemer was still in NYC and likely to stay there for the next few days. He glanced around the elegant cobbled street. Stared back at a minuscule Smart car that sat outside, next to the curb.
“What the hell is that?” he snarled.
Josie snorted loudly and put a hand against his chest. He felt the connection all the way to his heart.
“I told her I wanted inconspicuous. That is not inconspicuous.”
“Now I wish I’d learned to drive.” Josie was actually chortling as she stepped out the front door. “I bet it’s a lot more environmenta
lly friendly than that thing you drive.”
Marsh scanned the area for reporters or killers, but Josie didn’t seem to consider anyone might follow her here. They probably wouldn’t, but they’d be hounding her when she got back to NYC, dammit.
He blinked. “What do you mean, ‘learned to drive’?”
“Well, I can drive a little, but I don’t have my license.” Josie gave him a slow broad smile that was not a good sign.
“But you drove my BMW to the airport last spring.”
“It wasn’t easy. Nearly crashed into a tree before I even got out of the drive and Logan Airport was a nightmare.” Her shoulders trembled delicately. “I used the fake ID Elizabeth set me up with to hire a car in Montana.”
His heart stopped. Great. He gritted his teeth. He was in love with the woman who broke the law without thought. She was nuts and he was about to try and explain why he’d become a FBI agent?
Maybe he was the crazy one.
It was only a couple of miles west on Huntington, past Northeastern University and along Louis Prang. The Gardner Museum. On game days you could hear the roar of the Red Sox fans less than a mile away.
“You ever heard of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?” Marsh asked Josie as she climbed out of the tin can. The material of her dress clung to her body as she stretched her arms languidly to the sky. The longer he spent with her the more trouble he was in. The lust did not abate; the longing did not die.
“Yep.” Josie wrapped her arms around herself. They strolled down the sidewalk, their footsteps ringing in perfect synchrony, ordinary lovers out for a day’s outing.
It was too early to be open to the public yet, but he’d phoned ahead and spoken to the curator. As the lead FBI agent investigating the theft, it wasn’t difficult for him to get inside. As the only son of a prominent Boston family who’d sponsored the museum since its inception in 1903, he’d have probably gotten in anyway.
A security guard Marsh knew checked them in. Entering through a small doorway, both he and Josie squinted from the abrupt change in ambient light as they passed through dimly lit corridors.
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