Crimes of Passion

by Toni Anderson

  Uri had fulfilled his contract only yards from a bunch of law enforcement personnel and no one had even noticed. Marsh flexed his fists. His breath curled up in a cloud of vapor and floated away like a wraith. Uri was famed for his ingenuity, discretion, and high prices; a regular high-flyer on America’s Most Wanted list. But the FBI couldn’t catch him and Marsh had to wonder if there was a reason behind that. Did the FBI use Uri for their own purposes? Uri had known where DeLattio was going to be before DeLattio had even known. How had that happened? Leak? Or insider information?

  Marsh had a horrible suspicion he knew.

  Sidling away from the sheriff and deputies who stood around talking loudly, excited by the day’s happenings, Marsh ambled toward the pasture where a couple of chestnut horses grazed. Just a man taking some time to recoup after a long night. He lit a cigarette, tilted his head back and expelled the first lungful of smoke up into the air. Like he hadn’t a care in the world.

  But his mind was racing. He climbed the fence and slowly began scanning the siding of the big orange barn. His feet sank into the grass, morning dew soaking his pant legs and seeping into his expensive shoes. His toes curled against the sensation of wet sock.

  One of the horses trotted over, head held high, white nose outstretched. Marsh stroked the soft velvet whiskers as his other hand rubbed across the wood of the barn, brushed away some flakes of paint and moved on. The horse followed, curious and affable, seemingly eager for human companionship.

  The local sheriff was running the show and Marsh had no desire to take over the investigation.

  Cut and dried, wasn’t it? We shot the bastard. Didn’t we?

  Sheriff Talbot had never heard of Peter Uri and Marsh hadn’t enlightened him. Marsh walked along the side of the barn, the horse following two paces behind. Half buried in the dirt a soft glint of copper caught his eye, reflecting the oblique rays of sunshine. The bullet that had traversed DeLattio’s brain.

  Marsh lived his life following every nuance of the law. Chain of evidence was a major part of that process. Stooping to tie his shoelace, he surreptitiously bagged the bullet and placed it in his pocket. Maybe the mob had hired Uri. Maybe DeLattio’s source inside the FBI had worked more than one angle and had gotten the address in Stone Creek faster than he and Dancer had, and surreptitiously passed it on to Peter Uri.

  But then again maybe not.

  Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned to see Josephine padding across the field toward him, tracking a second line through the sodden grass. Silently he cursed. He didn’t need this. Inside his jacket pockets his hands curled into fists and the muscles around his mouth tightened.

  Last night, when Elizabeth had told him over the phone that DeLattio had kidnapped Josephine, he’d gagged. It had been Marsh’s fault Josephine had been taken. His fault. His stomach had twisted until it was dry.

  And when DeLattio had been lying defeated in the mud and muck, the sheer relief of knowing Josephine was safe had blurred his instincts and given DeLattio the split-second he’d needed to pull the other gun. Everything had happened in slow motion and Eliza had nearly lost her life because of his incompetence.

  Narrowing his eyes he fought his reaction to the woman who’d caused him more grief than a thousand stolen Mona Lisa’s. Josephine sure as hell hadn’t turned to him afterward the shooting. She’d given him a look that could sour milk and retreated behind her ice-princess façade.

  He smiled at her, but inside he felt empty.

  “I bet you think you’re pretty clever getting here before me.” Dressed in black leggings and a red sweater that rose to her chin, her fingers gripped each other in an intricate web.

  “Sure, I wake up every morning thinking just that.” He put a glint in his eye to suggest one morning in particular.

  She swerved away, avoided his gaze like a car avoiding a head-on collision.

  He provoked her some more, a defense mechanism as old as apples. “You should have told me you were a virgin, Josephine. I would have taken it easier on you.”

  Her gaze swung back to his, embarrassment and indignation on full beam. “What do you mean easier on me?”

  “Do you think it counts as date rape?” Marsh mused, taking a step towards her. He couldn’t explain the pleasure of seeing her jaw drop or her cheeks pale, but he got a weird kind of satisfaction from pissing her off. Better that than indifference, or pity.

  She gritted her teeth. “You were like a dog after a bitch.”

  “Oh, yeah, I remember that vaguely—the bitch part anyway.” He grinned as her fury bubbled to the surface and exploded.

  “You’re an arrogant bastard. No wonder I can’t stand you.” Her voice rang out in the clear morning, made the sheriff and his deputies glance over. Marsh flinched, masked his expression before she spotted any weakness.

  “So, are you going to arrest me?” She was breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling in short sharp jerks. She held her wrists together, veins upward, in front of her and he was sorely tempted to cuff her. He took a stride toward her, but she backed off a couple of steps.

  Not as confident as she appeared then...or maybe she really did hate him.

  “Mr. By-the-Book.” Her pale blue eyes glittered in an expression of disgust. “That’s why Elizabeth didn’t turn to you after the rape. You’d have never...” She clamped her lips shut, seemed to realize she’d said too much.

  “Yeah?” The question was lazy, like honey in a jar. “Never what?” He walked up to her until he was so close he could have touched her. He leaned down so his lips hovered near her ear. She stood her ground, but her pupils dilated in alarm.

  Keeping his voice low he said, “Never realized that Elizabeth hired an assassin to kill DeLattio? Never figure out that she lured DeLattio here to his death?”

  “She didn’t lure that bastard here.” Josephine’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “She didn’t know where it would happen.”

  He laughed, a harsh bitter sound that had her mouth opening and shutting like a stressed fish. Her surprise didn’t last long. The expression on her face turned stubborn, the way it had before she’d given him the silent treatment for twenty-four hours straight. “You can’t prove anything anyway.”

  “Dream on little girl.” He tweaked her nose and brushed past her, moving away from her scent and her beauty. He might want her, but she’d never want him and he wasn’t going to put himself through that misery. Turning around he walked backward, away from the only woman he’d ever truly desired. “Let me know if you’re pregnant.”

  Her face drained of color, even her lips turned milky.

  “I want to know.” He stopped and watched her until she nodded, and then he turned away. Josephine Maxwell was a mistake he never intended to repeat. Vaulting the gate, he signaled to Dancer who’d watched the whole exchange from the deck of the house. Marsh needed to see Elizabeth. Josephine could look after her own ass from now on.

  ***

  Eliza came to through a whirl of sensations that felt like she was floating. Was this heaven? Surely heaven wouldn’t smell so strongly of disinfectant and overcooked bed linen?

  Had to be a hospital. And a shit load of pain meds.

  A beeping noise irritated her, until she cracked her eyelid and realized it was her ECG. All of a sudden it didn’t bother her so much. Unbelievably, she was alive. Her heart pounded and she heard it echoed in the pace of the machine. Forcing herself to breathe steadily, she relaxed her fingers one at a time.

  The horror of the night before stumbled through her mind like a fast-forwarded movie. She’d thought she was dead. She’d thought she’d lost Nat. But there he was fast asleep, slumped with his head next to her arm on the bed. Rumpled and tired. His chair pulled as close to the bed as it was possible to get. Raising her hand, she ran it through his blond hair that glistened in the morning sun. She shifted uncomfortably as a thousand daggers stabbed her leg.

  She groaned, though maybe it was a whimper. Nat jerked awa
ke, nearly falling off the chair in confusion. Recovering quickly, he gave her the biggest, widest smile she’d ever seen.

  “Hi,” she croaked.

  “Hi, yourself.” He grinned back. Slowly, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “How do you feel?”

  “Like some bastard shot me in the leg and I nearly died.” She regretted the humor when she saw him pale.

  “Hey,” she grabbed his hand, rubbed the calloused palm with weak fingers, “I’m okay.”

  He looked down at their clasped hands and squeezed. “You are so much better than okay, Eliza.”

  Emotions squeezed her throat and she blinked back the tears that wanted to flow. Good tears this time.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” he said, suddenly serious.

  “What is it?”

  He picked up the control that raised and lowered her bed. Pressed the button that gently raised her legs higher. “Nurse showed me how to do this. Said it would be good for you once you woke up.” He looked out of the windows towards the nurses’ station, guilt written in every line of his forehead. “I was supposed to call them when you woke up...” He shrugged and pressed the button again.

  She could feel the cast tugging on the stitches, nothing major, just an odd dislocated feeling that should have been painful. Her eyes moved up her cast. Bold black letters were printed upside down in a vertical line so she could read them.

  Marry me? It said.

  She grinned. “Me?”

  Nat blew his breath up across his face in a long exasperated sigh. “Yeah, you. Who else?”

  “I...” she blinked, bit her lip, didn’t know what to say. She looked down at the white cotton sheets, spread her hand on top of it and swallowed. “I haven’t told you everything—”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I bought the land.”

  “I figured that out already. And the loan?” He raised his eyebrows and looked anything but angry.

  She nodded. “I’ve got the money.”

  “Good, about time this family had some good fortune.” He smiled down at her, looking like a man who didn’t give a damn what reasons she came up with.

  “And I’ve done some bad things.”

  Nat sat down, took her hand and massaged the tight knuckles.

  “Eliza, I love you. You’ve been through hell. We’ve all done things we’re sorry for.”

  She’d been proud of herself for not blowing DeLattio’s brains out, but she wasn’t sure who’d killed him in the end. Her assassin? Maybe.

  Could she forgive herself for that? She thought of Josie and Nat and how DeLattio had dipped his evil into their world. She could live with it. They were both alive, so she could live with it.

  She opened her lips to speak, but Nat put two fingers across them. “Remember I told you before it didn’t matter what you’d done, or what you were running from? I meant it. I love you. I want to marry you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Nat threw back his head and laughed so hard even the nurses outside the room heard him. They came rushing in to check everything was all right.

  “Yes,” Eliza said, peering over the nurses’ heads as they hustled him out of the room so they could check her out.

  “Yes!” she shouted.

  EPILOGUE

  Three days later Juliette Morgan died. The redhead’s face was plastered all over the news for about a day, inextricably linked in death to Andrew DeLattio.

  Eliza had watched the news dispassionately. She didn’t mourn her past.

  Marsh had been to see her, wordlessly slipping her the spurious remains of a bullet. She knew what it cost him, that simple action. The bullet might have pointed to her, or it might not have, she didn’t know for sure and hoped she never found out. Kissing him soundly on the cheek, she sent him back to Boston and stuffed the bullet in the garbage.

  She wasn’t ever going back.

  Josie stayed at the ranch, looking more tired and skinny than Eliza had ever seen her. Josie swore DeLattio hadn’t touched her, more than the quick fumble, but Eliza knew something was bothering her. Eliza resolved to get them both some counseling. It was way past time.

  The doctors had told her she was stuck here, maybe for weeks. They were weaning her off pain meds and making her walk a few steps every hour. Nat stayed with her for hours at a time, reading, making her laugh, and mentally spending her money. She couldn’t remember ever enjoying her wealth so much and counted her blessings in more than dollars.

  Life was good. Nat was great.

  Life was great.

  Outside the window of the ICU, she spotted Sarah carrying Tabitha in her arms. Cal, Ryan, Josie and Ezra followed in their wake with flowers, chocolates, Just Married balloons and a bottle of champagne.

  They came in, rowdily, noisily. Ryan shoved Nat’s legs off the bed, waking him up from an afternoon nap. Nat jabbed him in the stomach, grabbed his niece, giving her a big squeeze. Then Tabitha climbed into bed besides Eliza and began flicking channels with the TV remote.

  Happy tears gathered in Eliza’s eyes as she watched her new family admire her gleaming gold band.

  Nat leaned over and kissed her softly on the mouth and whispered, “I love you,” into her ear.

  Life didn’t get any better than this.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Toni Anderson is a New York Times & USA Today best-selling author of Romantic Suspense. A former marine biologist, Anderson traveled the world with her work. After living in six different countries, she finally settled down in the Canadian prairies with her husband and two children. Combining her love of travel with her love of romantic suspense, Anderson writes stories based in some of the places she has been fortunate enough to visit.

  Toni donates 15% of her royalties from Edge of Survival to diabetes research—to find out why, read the book!

  She is the author of several novels including Dark Waters, Dangerous Waters, and A Cold Dark Place. Her book, The Killing Game, has been nominated for a prestigious Romance Writers of America® RITA® Award in Romantic Suspense.

  Find out more on her website:

  http://www.toniandersonauthor.com

  Or sign up to her email list to receive up-to-date information on new releases, exclusive offers and prizes.

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  TWENTY-EIGHT AND A HALF WISHES

  A ROSE GARDNER MYSTERY

  DENISE GROVER SWANK

  Copyright 2011 by Denise Grover Swank

  Cover art and design by Rebecca Curtis, Createspace, 2013

  Copy Editing by Jim Thomsen

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  In memory of Mrs. Connie Davis my high school English teacher who always expected more from me.

  And to Trace, Ross, Julia, Jenna, Ryan and

  Emma— you were always my wishes

  ONE

  It all started when I saw myself dead.

  Rain hung heavy in the air that Friday afternoon. The air conditioning of the old municipal building didn’t know how to handle it, making the office especially chilly. I’d just returned from lunch and grabbed my worn red sweater out of my drawer as I sat down at my workstation. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting a sick gray pallor over the room.

  I sucked in a breath to prepare myself for the next few hours. All that rain was bound to ruin a lot of Memorial Day Weekend plans, making the DMV customers even crabbier than their usu
al.

  “Number fifty-three,” I called out over the counter as I turned on my computer screen.

  A scruffy man in his mid-thirties approached and plopped his paperwork on the chest-high counter in a huff.

  “I need to renew my plates,” he said. Irritation made his voice scratchy.

  I looked him over as I tugged the paperwork down. Gray-tinged stubble covered his face, a sharp contrast to his shaggy dark brown hair. His light brown eyes held a menacing glare. I chided myself for my foolishness. Everyone has menacing eyes at the DMV on a Friday afternoon, even the sweetest of grandmas.

  “Let’s have a look at your paperwork,” I said as I glanced at the neatly stacked forms. “Mr. Crocker.”

  I pulled the clip off the stack and examined the documents. He had all his required papers: the license renewal form and his personal property tax receipt, but his proof of insurance was expired. I glanced up with great reluctance. Mr. Crocker had to have been in the reception area at least thirty minutes and he had the look of a man tired of waiting. He gripped his keys in his hand, like he could squeeze a glass of juice right out of them. His eyes jumped around the room as he studied all the DMV employees behind the counter, landing on one person and moving onto the next.

  Just as I was about to explain the situation, I felt the all-too-familiar tingle of a vision coming on.

  Oh, crappy doodles.

  Like a photograph in my mind, I saw me. Deader than a doornail.

  I stared at Mr. Crocker and gasped, my eyes so big I felt them drying out. My jaw dropped so far I was amazed it didn’t hit the counter. Just as the words “You’re going to kill me” began tumbling out, a black fuzziness flooded my brain.

  The next thing I knew, a buzz swept through the DMV and it wasn’t from a swarm of bees. The DMV staff and customers had crowded around me.

  I opened my eyes. My forehead throbbed where it must have smacked the Formica.

  “Rose Gardner, what in heaven’s name happened to you?” The voice of Betty, my boss, boomed in my ear. I knew I must have fainted because one minute I sat gawking at the man who was planning to murder me and the next I was practically making out with my workspace. Not that I ever made out. I was a good girl, after all—twenty-four years old and I’d never even been kissed.