Assuming she stuck around...
Visions of her sneaking away in the middle of the night made his heart stutter. It was exactly the sort of sneaky thing that she’d do. Disappear, without a word.
Well, hell. What the heck could he do about it? Except maybe disable the Jeep?
Eliza had invaded his senses and Nat didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.
She was beautiful, but it wasn’t just that. Fiercely independent and violently passionate she seemed held together by nothing more than dogged determination and pure bloody-mindedness. And he couldn’t get over the aching vulnerability that shone in her eyes when she lost her defenses.
And he’d scared her.
Nat rested his chin on the smooth wooden rails of the fence that ran along the back of the horse barn. Eliza was the best goddamned thing that had happened to him in a long time, but he had absolutely nothing to offer her.
She’d been violated and hurt. Now she was on the run from the mob.
Christ.
At least she was safe here.
He grabbed the rail, hoisted himself up to sit on the fence and stare up at the moon. An owl hooted nearby. The stars were bright against the inky night sky; the moon glowed like a big, fat, silver coin.
A wolf called out from the hills, a long, drawn out cry. The sound raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck, its loneliness echoed within his heart. Nat looked back at the cottage—dark now, shrouded in complete and utter blackness. The wolf howled again, its loneliness tangible. Only silence answered, silence pierced with longing.
***
Vermont, April 13th
“Where is she?” Marsh leaned over Josephine, clutched the arm of the sofa, rapidly losing patience. Gravelly tones flowed from the stereo, accompanied by the log fire that crackled and spat in the big stone fireplace. Her chin lifted. Her bottom lip stuck out at a mutinous angle.
“Shit.” Marsh dropped his head with a slump and moved away from her. “Exactly how long are you going to sulk for, princess?” He worked hard to keep his voice level and controlled, forced his concentration to remain on the job at hand.
And gave up.
Rubbing the back of his neck where tension had knotted the muscles into painful bands, he slouched down on the leather couch, stared into the bright orange flames of the fire. It was dark outside, pitch black as only a forest can be. The nearest cabin was miles away, across the lake, hidden by trees. He’d been waiting for her to give him the slip for the last forty-eight hours, but so far she hadn’t budged an inch.
And I’m stuck babysitting the female from hell.
He watched as she got up and padded barefoot across the hardwood floor to the wet bar. He noted the delicate arches of her feet and the cute toenails painted different colors. Figured. She poured two drinks, fussed over the ice bucket and dropped a cube on the floor. It skittered under the table and Marsh averted his eyes from her backside as she bent down to pick it up.
She straightened and carried a glass of whisky over to him, placing it mutely on the table beside him. Then she went and sat back down, sipping a glass of lemonade.
Why was she being nice to him now?
She’d called a cell phone the other day but hadn’t gotten a reply. The number had been registered to a Jane Smith, but Marsh was convinced it was Elizabeth’s. They were tracking and tracing calls, but so far nothing. Maybe they’d get lucky.
And the way things were going—maybe not.
The names Josephine had called him when she realized he’d drugged her had boggled even his experienced mind—and he’d been in the Navy. Luckily she didn’t suspect about the tracking device.
He tapped his index finger against the crystal tumbler. He wasn’t going to allow Josephine Maxwell to psyche him out. She hadn’t spoken since yesterday morning, after he’d refused to let her attend either her father’s, or Marion Harper’s, funeral. He couldn’t blame her for being upset, but wasn’t about to sacrifice her on a sentimental whim.
But now her silence was beginning to irritate him, the childish stunt grating on his nerves like a constantly plucked violin string. However, if she realized he was rattled, she’d never speak to him again.
Steve Dancer, his technician, had bought clothes and supplies. Now Josie was decked out in a utilitarian navy-blue cabled sweater and soft cotton leggings. Dancer brought her a pair of boots, but she’d said she preferred the ugly old black Doc Martins she’d had with her. Everything Dancer had picked up had been black or navy as per bureau mandate, but Marsh had to admit the dark color suited her.
She’d vehemently denied knowing where Elizabeth was or what her plans were. They’d made the switch and disappeared, end of story.
Marsh didn’t believe her.
“If we don’t find Elizabeth soon, the mob will.” He stared trance-like into the blaze, defeat settling over him like a blanket. But this wasn’t just about him losing. This was about life and death. And Josephine was playing games.
He sipped his Scotch then put it back down on the side table.
She watched him, always.
“Why are you so sure they’ll find her?” She tossed her fine blonde hair over one shoulder. “You can’t.”
He blinked. Suppressed a smile. At least she was talking to him again.
“You. You’re the weak link.” He carried on staring at the fire, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I can’t lock you up forever.” Marsh ignored her smirk. “And as soon as you resurface, people are going to start to ask questions.” He turned and studied the perfect bone-structure. “You have the kind of face people never forget.”
He wouldn’t forget it. She was engraved on his conscience like an etching. And he wanted her, and that aggravated the shit out of him. “Why do you hate me so much, anyway?” Marsh asked her, his curiosity piqued. “I’ve never done anything to you.”
Josie sat quietly and for a moment he thought she was going to resume her silence. “You recruited her, didn’t you?” she said finally.
“Yeah.” Confused he raked his hands through his short hair. “But she wanted to do it. I didn’t force her or—”
“Of course she wanted to do it! Her parents were blown to bits by terrorists when she was a child. What kid wouldn’t want to get a chance to get back at the bad guys?”
“She wanted to do it,” Marsh repeated.
“It was like recruiting Peter Pan or Ariel—”
“She wasn’t a kid when I took her on,” Marsh cut in.
“I’m not talking about her age,” Josie snapped, sounding frustrated. She blew a strand of hair out of her mouth. “She was an innocent. You took that from her.”
Maybe she was right. Christ, maybe that was why he felt so damn responsible for Elizabeth. No, he’d have felt the same way about any of the agents on his team.
“Why’d ya do it anyway? Why her? So you could sleep with her?”
What the...? “I don’t sleep with colleagues.” Marsh refused to get angry. She was trying to rile him and he wanted to know why.
“You should have gotten someone mean, someone who knew the rules of the street. Someone who knew what happened when you crossed a wise guy.”
“Like you, you mean,” Marsh smiled a cruel smile. Josephine thought she was so goddamned tough. “Elizabeth was a trained agent, but she was never supposed to get mixed up with the mob. She was supposed to investigate art fraud, not go undercover for OCU.”
“Surprised you with that one didn’t she?” Josie sipped her lemonade, still watching him closely. “More guts than brains.”
“She’s a smart girl, but obviously not smart enough.” Marsh felt cornered and pissed off. When had this become about him? “It was her innocence that appealed to me. I needed someone clean, someone fresh.”
“You needed a devil in sheep’s clothing.” Josie looked him in the eye. “You should have recruited me.”
Marsh laughed. “No way.” He looked away. “I would never have recruited you.”
�
��Why not?” she asked.
He’d already told her, but she hadn’t been listening. He didn’t sleep with colleagues—and he wanted to sleep with Josephine Maxwell so much it was starting to hurt.
He’d brought her out to his family’s cottage in rural Vermont. There were no neighbors to speak of and his parents were cruising halfway around the world. No witnesses, no innocent bystanders to get caught in the crossfire should the mob track her down.
From here she’d have a better chance of a clean escape, and he’d have a better chance of following her without a mob guy spotting her first.
But for all his lax security, for all his open doors, Josephine Maxwell hadn’t budged an inch and he’d been forced into close confines with a woman who drove him crazy in more ways than one. He had sworn to protect her, whether she wanted his protection or not, but she was as stubborn as a two-headed mule. And while he appreciated the bond of friendship and loyalty the two women shared, it forced him to do something he’d rather avoid.
And so, here he was, holed up with this incredibly sexy woman, about as miserable as he had ever been in his whole life. His fists tightened reflexively, thoughts hardened. She might be a hellcat, but she was on his territory now. Playing in his world, by his rules. He took another sip of Scotch and felt Josephine’s gaze follow his hand. He fought to keep from turning to face her. Didn’t want to stare at her like a lovesick puppy. Maybe the drinking bothered her because of her father, but he wasn’t about to get drunk.
Shit. Thinking about her father didn’t help. The mob was looking for this woman and they’d already killed to get the information they sought.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stand and walk toward him. He braced himself for trouble as she slowly knelt at his feet.
Every man’s sexual fantasy.
Sprawled back against the couch, he watched her with narrowed eyes.
“Kiss me,” she said, putting her hands on his knees and leaning into him.
Marsh raised an eyebrow; thankful he had the sense not to drool like an idiot. He said nothing, made no move towards her. She looked at him solemnly, her blue eyes dark with secrets. When she wasn’t spitting fire she looked as serene as the Madonna.
She licked her bottom lip and Marsh watched the progress of her pink tongue like a flare in the night sky.
“What are you up to, Josephine?”
Uncertainty flickered across her features as she started to withdraw her hands, but he caught her wrists and pulled her slowly, inexorably, towards him.
“Nothing,” she murmured, watching his lips as if she actually wanted to kiss him. Even though she was more likely to bite him. It wasn’t an idea he minded.
She didn’t pull away. And one kiss wouldn’t hurt...
“I don’t believe you,” he mouthed against her lips, “but let’s see what happens.” He kissed her gently, released her wrists and slipped his hands into hair.
The kiss was heady, like a starburst. Tentative lips met, sampled and tasted, heated and wanted more.
Josephine pulled back from him, broke the kiss and swallowed hard. “I think I may need a real drink after all.” She took the glass from his hand, the fleeting contact making his fingers tingle. He watched her take the tiniest sip.
She seemed to be building up to something, but he didn’t know what.
“I want to make love with you.” She ran her index finger around the rim of the whisky glass and watched him from beneath heavy lids.
“Yeah, right.” Marsh didn’t mask his disbelief. One minute she was pissed at him, the next he was irresistible? He breathed in and held it. Waited. Tried not to get turned on because there had to be a catch. He wasn’t stupid enough to buy it, but God, he wanted to.
“I want you to make love to me.” She passed the glass back into his hand and slid her palm along the top of his thigh. “I dare you.” Her eyes looked into his with intense concentration and her hand rested on his thigh, kneading the muscles in a smooth massage that had him as hard as rock before he could count to three.
“Drink your whisky, Mr. Special Agent, and then maybe you’ll have the nerve to seduce me.”
Marsh lifted the Scotch and swallowed it in one go. The single malt burned all the way down to his gut and he held on to the sensation, wanting to think about anything other than sex. He put the glass down on the side table and watched her, trying to decide whether or not she was serious.
Did she want a bout of sweaty sex to relieve the boredom of their stay? Did she look at him and feel her mouth go dry with desire, unable to look away? Or did she want to manipulate him in the age-old fashion of Eve? He wasn’t so easy—was he? Yesterday he wouldn’t have thought so. Today...
She knelt between his legs, her forearms pressed along his thighs, his knees brushing her torso and the soft swell of her breasts. Her lips were rosy from their kiss, slick with moisture that glimmered in the firelight.
Her hand moved higher, just a fraction, just enough for him to imagine how good it would be for her hands to be on his naked skin. And then the fire within him exploded, snapped his control and unleashed his desire. To hell with her motives. He pulled her up onto the couch beside him, laid her along its length and came down on top of her.
He trapped her face between his hands and dipped his head to kiss her, his tongue tasting the sweetness and nervousness of her mouth. She responded tentatively, returning each touch with short sweet darts that teased and fled.
It was unbearably erotic.
Still kissing her, Marsh slipped one hand down the length of her body and then dipped beneath her sweater. He caressed her breasts, brushed nipples that turned to rigid pebbles at one stroke, and moved gently around them. Teasing her with elusive touches that made her moan as she slowly began to wriggle. Subtle tremors ran through her body and built to unconscious rolling motions that grew stronger as her body strained against his hands. Incoherent pleas for more came out in breathy whispers. Watching her eyes, he rubbed the pad of his thumb across each delicate silk-covered nipple, first one and then the other. Her pupils dilated and she gasped and closed her eyes, throwing her head back and exposing her throat to his lips.
“That feels amazing.” She swallowed and he followed the reflex with his tongue.
Impatient with the clothes that hid her body, Marsh wrestled the sweater over her head, but she shook her head and grabbed the bottom edge when he started to lift her T-shirt. Frustrated, but not defeated he slid his hands beneath the cotton and unclasped her bra with a flick of his fingers and slipped it from her shoulders. She looked startled by the move, but Marsh figured she was nervous about the scars—scars she didn’t know he’d already seen.
Her curves were subtle, hidden, but all the more alluring. Bunching material in one hand he pulled the T-shirt tight across her breasts. His fingers traced the outline of her nipples through the thin cotton. He dipped his head and suckled them through the material. She groaned, her back arching off the couch and her head falling weightlessly against the cushions. Tiny sounds escaped her mouth as she breathed heavily. Marsh trailed kisses up her neck, slowly, gently, grazing her cool skin, enjoying making her shudder.
He looked up and found her watching him with shocked eyes; embarrassment and uncertainty mixed with mounting desire. She looked like a virgin in the first flush of passion.
Like hell. No woman that beautiful would make it to twenty-seven untouched and Josephine Maxwell was too tough to play the vestal virgin.
Marsh wanted to make her scream with pleasure before the night was over. He wanted to affect her the way she affected him. He slid his hands beneath the T-shirt, moved lower and outlined the waistband of her leggings with one smooth touch.
She tugged at his shirt and he pulled it over his head and flung it to the floor in an impatient move. Then her hands began to trail over his body, stroking the muscles on his back, down his chest.
“Let’s go to the bedroom,” she said unsteadily.
Oh, yeah.
He stood, tugged her hand and led the way down the corridor. His feet dragged, felt heavy, but he didn’t want to stop. The whisky had gone straight to his head.
Sinking with her onto the bed he kissed her again, needing to feel her lips against his. He nuzzled her earlobe, making her writhe as her fingernails bit into his upper arms. She breathed his name and his head whirled, discipline nearly deserting him.
After another long, drawn-out taste of her lips, he inched her leggings and panties down over smooth satiny thighs, and followed the revelation with his mouth. She tensed, but he wasn’t about to let her get away from him this time. She’d put him through hell and he was going to repay her with torture.
Tossing her clothes aside, he moved her thighs apart and lifted her hips high.
She squirmed with self-consciousness, totally exposed and vulnerable, tried to say something as he sank his tongue into the hot secrets of her sex. Her eyes blanked and she folded in shock. He slipped his finger inside her, his thumb gently rubbing the tight kernel of flesh that begged wetly against his fingers.
Marsh’s control began to slip, and his objectivity had long since flown out the window, but he didn’t give a damn. He felt light-headed with the pleasure of finally getting his hands and mouth on Josephine Maxwell. He was damned if he was backing out when she was begging him to be inside her. Her hands pulled at his hair and her hips rose off the bed with hunger.
He desired her more than he’d ever desired anything in his life. Slipping between her legs, he moved slowly against her, arousing her with his hard and ready body. She squirmed and twisted, ran her hands over his skin, then lower over his buttocks. With a muffled oath he kicked off his pants, all the while focusing his entire being on making Josephine blind with lust.
Marsh breathed hard, but still couldn’t think properly. His head felt thick and heavy, but he didn’t care. His penis pressed up against her center, every inch of him aching with need, drowning out rational thought and common sense. He kissed her mouth, mating his tongue with hers and trying to restrain the need to drive into her until she was completely ready for him. Her thighs opened, her hips arched against him.
Crimes of Passion Page 47