Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  “Yes.” Marsh inclined his head to Agent Walker who’d retrieved his files and stood, hesitating as if he was reluctant to leave.

  “I’ll need to interview her again tomorrow.” Tiredness etched his features like decomposition degraded a corpse.

  Marsh knew the guy was a good cop but right now Josephine was his priority. “She’ll be ready.” Ready to help nail the bastard who attacked her so many years ago and who might also have killed her mother.

  Chapter Seven

  ________________

  There was pain in her chest. It expanded and grew. Crippled. Ripped. All these years, she’d tried not to hate her mother for abandoning her, for leaving her behind with an abusive father. But maybe, rather than leaving, her mother had been murdered and dumped, and no one had cared enough to look.

  She couldn’t bear it.

  Warm safe arms engulfed her. Heat and strength cradled her in a protective cocoon as tears dripped down her face and off her chin. Why hadn’t someone asked questions?

  Her father had drunk himself into oblivion and blamed her. And Josie had stupidly believed him. She’d seen her mother with another man and had decided with childish certainty it was her fault. She’d driven her mother away because she’d never been good enough.

  It was classic. Classic and stupid and self defeating. Nine years old. Nine years old and responsible for everything that happened in the world—a belief confirmed when she’d been punished by the man with the big knife.

  I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound… She hadn’t made a sound. The bastard had murdered her mother and she’d never made a sound.

  She stuffed her fist over her mouth, still trying to quiet the sobs that wouldn’t stop. She didn’t break down, she didn’t break. Ever. But right now there was nothing she could do but weep for her mother and the little girl she’d been. Warm hands rubbed her back. Strong arms held her upright. Finally the tears slowed and she remembered exactly who the arms belonged to.

  She gripped the soft cotton of Marsh’s shirt. Her throat felt raw. “If he killed her…I need to know. I need to get this bastard.”

  His eyes glittered as he ran his hands down her arms, supporting her at the elbows. “We’ll get him.” His voice was firm, the undertone urging her to believe in him—in the system. But would he do whatever it took? Or would he play it by the rules like Vincent?

  “I need a gun.”

  “I hired you one. His name is Vincent Brandt.”

  By the book.

  Counting on Marsh and Vince felt like juggling hand grenades—not good for her mental health, but she wasn’t dumb enough to take on this predator without all the help she could get. She just wished she could defend herself. She moved away from him. The sun had set and the apartment was clothed in deep shadows that reminded her too much of that long ago night. She turned on a lamp. There was an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach; more than grief, more than fear, more than hatred. She was a loner. She didn’t work well with others. It wasn’t what she was used to.

  “What if he kills you and Vince?” Unexpected pain sliced into her at the thought. The words revealed too much weakness so she gave them a twist. “And I’m left with him and he has all the weapons? I’ll have nothing to defend myself with.”

  “If he’s shooting at me or Vince, or any other law enforcement personnel for that matter, you run like hell, scream like crazy and get yourself to a safe place.”

  Marsh drew a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “You must be the only guy left in the world who carries handkerchiefs.” She sniffed, knowing she’d never win this argument. No way would Marsh trust her with a gun. Frankly she didn’t blame him. She wiped her face, blew her nose and then pocketed the white linen in her pants. “I like that about you.”

  “Well, at least that’s something.” His smile crinkled the corners of his eyes but it didn’t hide the sadness. Or the regret.

  They hadn’t done well together because she didn’t know how to act like a normal person. She’d never been normal. She was damaged and insecure. Had grown up trying to survive. Something in his gaze made her wish things were different, that she was different. She held her breath, but he looked away as if suddenly uncomfortable. A thought struck her and she looked down, concentrating on her hands. Marsh was dating someone. She’d forgotten.

  “You should go. I’ll be okay tonight. I’ll lock myself in and promise not to open the door for anyone. Go back to your girlfriend. I’m sure she’s missing you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marsh’s brows pinched as his frown deepened. Then his expression cleared and humor lit his eyes, making them gleam wickedly. “Ah, my date from last night?”

  Was it only last night since her safe narrow little world had shattered? It felt like a million years ago. Jealousy stirred low in her breast, unfamiliar and ugly. “Did you have the best-sex-ever with her too?”

  Whoa, where the hell had that come from? And why did she feel so angry with a man who was doing so much to help her? She was an idiot.

  “Lynn’s eighteen and hot as hell.” Marsh moved toward her in a way that made her jealousy morph into unease. There was grace in his movements, banked heat in his gaze.

  “And I thought you were too old for me.” She eyed him apprehensively, but forced herself to remain still. On many levels he made her feel safe—all except one. Her awareness of him as a man scared the crap out of her. He stepped closer. Suddenly she was brought up short by the wooden mantel against her shoulders and the realization she’d been backing away.

  “I am too old for you.” The wicked gleam turned molten as he glanced down at her lips. He lowered his head, slowly. She watched, fascinated, powerless to move because she wanted him to kiss her. And for all her faults she’d never been a hypocrite, so she rose onto tiptoes and braced her hands on his wide shoulders. Surprise radiated through suddenly taut muscles. Her soft, hesitant lips met a warm, hard mouth. She closed her eyes and let herself kiss him. Savored the careful exploration, the sweet hesitancy. It was so unexpectedly gentle, so foreign and so heady.

  He placed his hands on the small of her back, brought her flush against him, every point of contact cycloning excitement through her body like an electric shock. Her breasts tingled, nipples grew aching and tight. She ran her hands through his hair, wondering why every sensation was heightened just because he touched her.

  His lips released hers, cruised her neck, her ear. Shivers danced along her skin, heat thrumming along her veins like liquid craving. He lifted her off the ground and she wrapped her legs around his hips, his erection rubbing against her center, feeling so amazing she wanted even closer. He braced her against the wall. The unrelenting hardness at her back felt good against her spine. Solid and reliable while the rest of her world crashed around her. He stroked her and sensations exploded between her legs, making her muscles clench and her breath gasp.

  “I want you. I always want you even though you drive me crazy.” His breath blistered her ear, his hand rough on her breast, playing with her nipples, making her damp. Making her tremble with desire. He ground against her and she wished he was inside her, filling her as she cascaded over that inexplicable edge, lights flashing, sirens blazing, crying out with astonishment.

  It was as spectacular as she remembered. She closed her eyes to absorb the pleasure, but the image of her mother being fucked against a wall drove all the passion from her mind and she shoved away from him.

  “Oh, god.” Nausea whirled through her. Whore. Slut. She stumbled toward the bedroom.

  Marsh grabbed her arm and swung her round. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m like her.” She wiped her hand over her mouth, trying to rub away the memory. “Just like my mother.”

  “You’re normal.” Frustration roughened his voice. “Sex is normal.”

  But she wasn’t. She pulled away and he released her, anger glowing in the depths of his eyes.

  “You hav
e a girlfriend,” she whispered.

  “No, and the fact I let you think I do shows how low I’ve sunk. I don’t usually play games, Josephine. I’m not that kind of guy.” He dragged his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. “My mother is trying to set me up and marry me off to any woman who’ll have me. I do not have a girlfriend. The whole time we were out I felt like her goddamned father.” He looked so pissed her heart clenched. The thought of him getting married—being permanently unavailable gutted her. And she didn’t want anything to do with him—remember?

  “I haven’t been with anyone since you…since we…had sex. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.” There was a raw honesty in his tone that froze her to the spot.

  “That was six months ago.”

  His smile was pained. “I know. I can’t get you out of my head.”

  She stared at him. She couldn’t get him out of her head either. It wasn’t only sex although that was confusing enough. She wasn’t some shy miss, but this was unfamiliar territory. Complete with forbidden fruit. Bottom line was she was clueless about sex. Sure, she’d seen it in movies and during biology class and god help her, she’d drugged Marsh and seduced him, never thinking she’d enjoy what they did. But it seemed so long ago, the pleasure he’d stirred inside her moments ago was so fresh, so…incredible. She wanted it again—to repeat it and try to learn how to be a normal woman. But one way or another, sex had been her mother’s downfall and it had cost Josie her childhood. And sex was all there could ever be between a girl like her and the ultra-conservative federal agent.

  If sex was dangerous, relationships were warzones.

  Marsh turned and walked up to the front door. For one awful moment she thought he was leaving, but he flicked the locks and the deadbolt. Relief surged through her and it wasn’t all to do with evading a serial killer. She watched him stroll down the stairs, graceful as a tiger, charming as the devil, wishing like hell she was good and mad, and could deal with him. Instead his eyes were on her body with that look again and she reacted with a sharp inhalation.

  They needed a distraction.

  “Food.” She dove for the kitchen.

  “This isn’t finished, Josephine.” His voice was soft and warm, sending tingles running down her spine.

  It was definitely finished.

  His laughter chased her and she foolishly thought it was over until he followed her into the kitchen, where she was digging into the bottom of a cupboard, searching for a sieve. She glanced over her shoulder. Marsh loosened the knot of his tie and shrugged out of his suit jacket, slinging it over his arm.

  Sinful. Gorgeous. Suave and strong. The words didn’t begin to describe how the look of him affected her. And when he wasn’t being an arrogant bastard she actually liked SAC Marshall Hayes. And that scared her more than the idea of them screwing like rabbits.

  “What are you doing?” He arched a single dark brow, his eyes roving her ass like he couldn’t help himself.

  Ignoring an answering pull, she dragged her hair back from her eyes, spotted the white handle of the sieve and grabbed it, straightened up.

  “Baking a cake.” She glared when his mouth dropped open in surprise. “What?”

  “I didn’t think you even knew how to boil an egg.”

  Opening a drawer to find measuring cups, she paused for a moment and took a breath, rather than just reacting. Time to confront this thing. “That’s because we don’t know each other very well, do we?”

  “We know each other better than you want to admit.”

  Turning to face him, she was rocked by the full force of his gaze.

  “I know you’ve got a bitch of a temper, which hides a whole arsenal of insecurity.” His voice was soft and made her shiver. “I know you fight dirty especially when frightened.” He took a step closer and she wanted to bolt. “I know you make a funny little sound in your throat when you come.”

  Blushing furiously, she looked away. He was the only person on the planet who knew that about her.

  “I know you were a brave little kid who overcame a hell of a childhood to go on to become a successful artist.” He paused and she looked up, unable not to. “And I know you’re true and loyal to those you love.”

  His image of her rocked her. She was bitchy, and abrasive, and had spent most of her life running away from her reality. She didn’t know how he saw any good beneath the surface she showed the world.

  He took another step bringing him within arm’s length, trailed his index finger gently down her forehead, sweeping her nose and coming to rest on her lower lip, which trembled.

  “I know I want you.”

  Rattled beneath his perceptive gaze, she fought the pathetic sensation that invaded her limbs. She couldn’t afford to let this man in. She’d never survive losing him too. “Even if I don’t want you for anything but protection from a madman?” She narrowed her eyes against the intensity of his gaze.

  “What if I said I don’t want you for anything but sex?” he countered, then tipped her chin up. “But then I’d be lying and I promised I’d stop doing that when it came to you.”

  The thump of her heart against her ribs was so violent, she was sure he could hear it. Shoving past him, she crashed out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. So much for not running away, so much for facing her fears. There was no laughter, no joy. Only bleak knowledge that Marshall Hayes was more dangerous to her soul than any knife wielding maniac.

  ***

  He looked at the dead girl on the bed. Wrists and ankles bound. Blonde hair splayed across the dark sheets, almost gold in this light. Blue eyes, fading from bright and terrified to opaque and lifeless. Decomposing before his eyes. For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.

  It was her own fault.

  “I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound…” Only the child had remained silent. But she wasn’t a child any longer. A shiver ran through his flesh as he remembered the scars. Perfect silver marks against pale white skin.

  His.

  The same way this pathetic creature was his.

  Blood soaked the mattress. It spattered him too. He stepped out of his coveralls and stuffed them in a black garbage bag that he’d incinerate. The knife handle was solid in his hand. Weighty. Familiar. Latex gloves made his palms sweat. A necessary evil. Duct tape quieted her screams. Another concession to the neighbors.

  Killing in the city was more difficult than killing in the great outdoors, but even though he missed the thrill of the noise they made when he cut them, he had no intention of getting caught. Once he’d finished what he’d started all those years ago, once he’d completed the circle, he’d move on. He’d change his identity and stop for a while. Experiment with other ways to calm the bloodlust.

  The scars on his chest itched. He couldn’t stop forever. God knew he’d tried.

  Memories of violence ricocheted inside his head like a hammer smashing a steel drum. The tightness in his chest made breathing difficult. Only boys and women scream. It’s time to be a man. He opened his eyes wide so he could see his power, not remember his weakness. He was a man now, not a child. It was his turn to dominate and control.

  He started to shake. It was too soon to have done this again, but the rush was too hot, too intense to fight for long. The drums grew louder. He craved the domination, despised the weakness.

  He looked down at the girl’s bloody perfection and breathed deep, trying to calm the fierce contractions of his heart. He was the last thing she’d seen on this earth and the knowledge filled him with power that no one could ever take away. He eyed the area of flesh he’d skinned. She’d had a tattoo marring her body. She was his canvas. His work, and she’d been tainted by graffiti. Not a masterpiece, not even close. But she’d served her purpose and now it was time to get out. He picked up the garbage and stroked her face one last time. Maybe once he killed the child he could move on from the past. He’d destroy it all if he had to.

  ***


  A Queen Anne desk and matching chair were positioned before the window overlooking Gramercy Park. Light streamed through the sheer drapes, casting a soft almost spiritual glow over the room. Marsh squinted against the brightness. Josephine wasn’t talking to him. He forced himself to relax his jaw, hoping to alleviate the headache that drilled his temples. It had been a long night on a hard couch, staring up at a dull ceiling while trying not to think about the woman in the next room.

  Fresh peonies and gardenia sat in a fat crystal globe adding an overpowering scent to the picture-perfect room. A Degas sketch hung over the Adam’s fireplace. Elegant. Expensive. The décor reminded him of a thousand other sitting rooms of a thousand other society matrons whom he’d visited over the years, including his own mother’s.

  Leaning against a damask-covered settee he tried to picture Pru Duvall in this setting and failed. Somehow the image didn’t jive. Despite her Southern hauteur and classy pedigree, the hard edge of her personality made her more suited for chrome, marble and splintered glass.

  With his expensive suit and highly polished Italian shoes, god help him, he fit right in. Adjusting the strap on his holster allowed him at least the illusion he was something more than society dead weight. The memory of a sulking Josephine sipping coffee and staring silently out of her loft window flashed through his mind. They came from totally different worlds but he didn’t care. He’d almost lost her a few days ago. Tragedy had brought them together but this time he was determined to work things out. Somehow.

  So how the hell did I manage to screw up last night so badly?

  Pru strode in, followed by the aide he’d seen at the opening. Marsh stood as Dancer straightened from where he’d been examining a Meissen snake-handle-vase.

  Marsh flicked an uneasy gaze at his agent. Please, don’t bug a US Senator and his wife.

  “Marshall Hayes.” The crackle in Pru’s voice was husky. “You turn up in the most unexpected places. If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d taken a fancy to me.”