Marsh watched him glance and squint over at Josephine. Then the guy turned the page of the newspaper, fighting with a brisk breeze that whistled through the streets, flattened the page against his knee. He glanced up again. Then Marsh realized the guy was looking at the photograph of him and Josephine in the newspaper.
People didn’t forget a face like that.
Marsh dismissed him. On the far side of the park, behind the Arch, Marsh spotted Walker and Nicholl in a Lincoln town car parked along The Row. Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. They were staking her out to see if she led them anywhere. She was a freaking suspect. Or bait…
Suddenly she was beside him, holding out a can of cola. Accepting the drink, he pulled the tab and swallowed deeply, letting the sweet lick of sugar calm his blood.
Handing back the can, he slanted her a look that dared her to share. Josephine didn’t like to share anything. She was more closed off than Fort Knox. But she took a sip anyway, which gave him a juvenile thrill. He’d once again regressed to high school.
Avoiding his gaze, she reclaimed her spot on the bench. The pallor of her skin reminded him she hadn’t had much sleep last night and this was her second time going head-to-head with the killer. She wasn’t a rookie. The first time had scarred her for life—literally and figuratively. Who knew what yesterday’s encounter had done.
Taking out his wallet, he hunted for Agent Walker’s card and dialed his number.
“Walker.” The man answered on the first ring.
“This your idea of protective custody?” His voice was cold and clipped.
“Ms. Maxwell wouldn’t accept protective custody, sir.” Walker’s tone made Marsh stare hard at the Lincoln.
“So what are you going to do? Wait until he cuts her up before you nail him?”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.” Walker’s voice rose and Marsh heard Nicholl in the background telling his partner to back off.
But maybe the guy was right. Josephine wasn’t exactly known for her cooperation. Marsh rubbed his forehead. Walker was a good agent with several commendations in his file and Marsh was screwing with the investigation because he was personally involved and because he could.
Shit. He’d always detested people who abused power and yet look how tempting it was. He took a deep breath. Then another. The one thing Marsh believed in was the law. He needed to let the bureau do their job, while he protected Josephine.
“You’re right,” and though it cost him, “I’m sorry.”
The tension eased a little on the end of the line.
“Did you get the evidence from the old case?” he asked. “Because I can go over to Queens right now and pick it up—”
“No, sir, that won’t be necessary…”
“You got it?” Marsh heard evasion in his voice. The guy wasn’t telling him everything.
“No, sir.” Walker paused as if debating what to tell him. “The evidence disappeared. About a month ago a beat cop was murdered, his uniform stolen and someone used it to sign out the evidence on Ms. Maxwell’s old case. It was never returned.”
“What?” Marsh fisted his hand in his short hair, pulling at his scalp. This UNSUB was bold and not missing a trick. “Did you get anything from the station cameras or the log?”
Walker hesitated again, and Marsh was starting to get seriously pissed.
“The only thing we got was your name, sir.”
What the…? “I told you I examined the files six months ago,” Marsh frowned. Had he told them?
“Yes, sir, but the UNSUB signed your name when he took the file.”
Why the hell would he do that? Marsh gritted his teeth on a curse. “Maybe he checked the log to see who else checked out the evidence…”
“Maybe.” But Walker replied too quickly.
“Do I need an alibi for last night, Special Agent Walker? Because I’m pretty sure I can provide one.” Marsh didn’t have time for this shit. Turning his back on the black Lincoln, he sat on the bench next to Josephine, aware of her scent, her interested blue eyes.
“I have over two hundred people, plus my partner, plus a date, who can place me at the Total Mastery NY Gallery on West Broadway for most of last evening.”
Josephine raised a single eyebrow, but he didn’t know if it was the fact he was supplying an alibi or the fact he’d had a date that surprised her.
“Why’d you sign out the evidence six months ago?” Walker redirected his questions.
No way was Marsh exposing Elizabeth Ward, his former agent and Josephine’s best friend, to this investigation. Not when Elizabeth had sacrificed everything and finally got her life back.
“Josephine’s father was worried about her.” Marsh felt her stiffen beside him, but refused to look in her direction.
“Walter Maxwell?” Walker probed.
Marsh let his head drop back, his neck stretching as he gazed up at the thin veil of gray sky through half-naked branches. “That’s right,” Marsh replied, hearing the unspoken question, Walter Maxwell who turned up dead twenty-four hours later?
“I think we need to get a statement from you, sir.”
He was a ballsy bastard, Marsh gave him that.
“You clear it with Director Lovine and I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know.” Like hell.
Marsh usually resented the power and influence that came with his family name and fortune, but right now it saved him from dealing with a ton of bullshit that would not help solve this case. Director Brett Lovine and he had grown up together in the best schools. Though he rarely used his personal connections for his own benefit he wasn’t going to get embroiled in some screwed-up conspiracy theory while the real killer murdered more women.
Josephine tapped her fingers against a wooden slat of the bench, scraping at the flaky paint. There were no rings on her fingers; her nails were scrubbed clean and short. Wanting to calm her agitation, he placed his hand over hers and was shocked by the coldness of her flesh.
“Maybe in the meantime you could actually start looking for the UNSUB?” Marsh cut the connection and reached over to take Josephine’s other hand from where it clasped the strap of her bag. Electricity bounced crazily in his stomach from the contact. She resisted for a moment, but then she seemed to give up. She sagged against his shoulder as he rubbed her fingers between his palms until they started to warm.
Her skin was smooth as silk and despite the drugs she’d spiked him with that night six months ago, he remembered other parts were even softer. Desire shot through him. An answering awareness lit her eyes, but there were tears there too. Her eyes shone with a cauldron of emotions. Physical awareness, yes, but sadness and grief also. Elizabeth Ward’s disappearance had led to both her father and Marion Harper, the woman who’d raised her, being murdered by mobsters trying to track them down. He squeezed her fingers. No wonder she was messed up.
“My, my, what do we have here?” A deep Southern drawl rasped off Pru Duvall’s lips.
Marsh grimaced and looked up at the wannabe First Lady. What was she doing on this side of Manhattan? As far as he knew, the Duvalls had an apartment in the exclusive echelons of Gramercy Park.
“You are a fast worker, Special Agent in Charge, Marshall Hayes.” Pru raked her eyes up and down Josephine’s figure. “I see you like them young, skinny and blonde.”
Josephine’s muscles vibrated like a strung bow. He let go of her hands, which fisted into bony knots, and placed his palm on her knee.
“Mrs. Duvall, what a pleasure.” Marsh didn’t bother to stand. “Let me introduce a very good friend of mine, Miss Josephine Maxwell.”
Pru Duvall smiled tightly at Josephine, who stared mutinously back at the older woman.
“Ahh, now I recognize you, my dear. You’re the victim of that awful person who’s running around Manhattan with a knife.”
Flicking her blonde hair over one shoulder, Josephine pushed his hand from her knee and stood, hoisting her bag over her should
er. “I’m nobody’s victim.”
Turning her back on Pru—bad move—she stared down at him, the light in her eyes forged from hellfire. “Coming?”
The alarm and frustration of the last twelve hours were wiped out by admiration for her indomitable spirit. Without a word to Pru, he stood and followed Josephine down the path out of the park, knowing that if she truly wanted him to, he’d follow her anywhere.
***
“Where are we going?” Marsh’s gruff question irritated the hell out of her. She didn’t know what to do with the feelings he evoked by racing to her rescue and then holding her hand while sitting on a park bench in Washington Square.
The terror that had gripped her after she’d left the apartment had knocked her off balance. And she wasn’t happy about the fact that when she’d panicked she’d phoned Marsh, rather than dialing 911.
She looked over her shoulder, waited for him to catch up. Pru Duvall watched them with a catty expression on her face—she’d looked at Josie like she was something nasty scraped off the sole of a shoe.
“She’s got the hots for you.” Josie glanced up into hazel eyes that sparked with amber and jade like fall leaves scattered about the city.
He shook his head, “She’s a power-monger. She wants me on my knees groveling.”
“She wants you on your knees all right, but I don’t think groveling is what she has in mind.”
He grinned and she looked away.
He disturbed her. Made her thoughts scatter. Made her think about sex.
Everything about him appealed to her senses, from the way his suit molded those wide shoulders, the strong length of his legs, and that perfect face with the lean cheekbones and full bottom lip. He even smelled great, clean and fresh like the ocean.
She wanted him.
Her mouth went dry. She was stunned to think this way. The whole time she’d been growing up “sex” had been a dirty word. Her father’s favorite nickname for her had been whore and that was on a good day. All these years later, her father’s vicious words still hurt. She made a fist, clenching her fingers so tight her knuckles pulled at her skin. She’d done everything to prove him wrong, to prove she wasn’t a whore and that she wasn’t going to get dragged into the gutter like her mother or the whisky-soaked alcoholic who’d spawned her. That’s why she hadn’t touched a guy until she’d seduced Marsh last year. That had been a disaster, but at the time it had felt amazing.
Somehow this ultraconservative government agent had flipped a button inside her that made her want to get naked and busy, and it scared the hell out of her. But not as much as the man with the big knife did.
She shivered.
He put his arm around her shoulders, startling her, and guided her around a group of college students all wearing shorts despite the cold weather. Some of the guys were checking her out. She knew she should be flattered by the stares and murmurs, but the scars that branded her flesh reminded her how superficial beauty was.
So maybe it wasn’t the desire to prove her father wrong that kept her from indulging in physical relationships. Maybe it was nothing more than simple vanity. Touching Marsh like this, pressed so close against him, made her heart speed up and excitement flutter along her veins. She’d always pushed heterosexual males away because she was afraid to let anyone see her scars. But right now she had a heterosexual male by her side who’d seen all her many flaws. It didn’t seem to be such a problem anymore.
But if scars had been her only issue she’d have just turned out the lights.
She was screwed up and the bottom line was she didn’t want to let anyone close. Relying on anyone but herself was dangerous. She pushed away from Marsh. He only looked surprised it had taken so long.
“What happens next?”
“I’ll set up protective custody,” his voice went deeper, seductive and compelling, “get you into a safe house—”
“I’m not going to a safe house.” He drew in a breath as if to argue, and for the first time in her life she felt compelled to explain. “Look. Social Services made it their mission to take me away from the one person in the world I trusted.” A piece of lint clung to his lapel; she concentrated on brushing it off rather than the emotions that went hand-in-hand with thinking about Marion. Her gaze settled on the strong column of his throat, above his starched white collar. “There’s no way I can stand to be locked up again.”
“You’d rather be dead?”
“I wanted to leave, remember? To disappear? You’re the one who wants me to stay and, yes, frankly I’d rather be dead than locked up in some ‘safe house’ waiting for someone to kill me.” A lump swelled in her throat. “But I’d rather not be either.”
The wind blew her hair in a wild flurry around her face. “I thought you wanted to catch this guy?”
“I want to nail him.” His fingers squeezed her shoulders and her gaze rose to meet his. “But not if it means you getting hurt.” His fingers were warm through her jacket, the pressure increasing, as if compelling her to trust him.
Slowly, he leaned forward and touched his forehead and nose to hers, hot flesh against cold. This was the most intimate gesture she’d shared with anyone, this one-on-one stare with a G-man she’d spent months hating, months fantasizing about. Flecks of gold glinted in his hazel eyes, and the banked heat of desire glowed deep and hot.
“I’ll hire private protection—”
“I can pay for my own damned protection.” She was unhappy at being vulnerable to a killer and inexplicably disappointed Marsh wouldn’t be the one watching her. Watching her. Right. She drew back.
“There’s no way I can protect you 24/7. I’ll stay with you at night, but I have a job to do. And I’m hiring the bodyguard, so get over it.”
Frustrated, she blew out a breath and remembered what Elizabeth had told her about Marsh’s core sense of honor and justice. Poor deluded bastard.
“Where are you going right now?” He looked along the street as if suddenly noticing the throngs of tourists and shoppers.
“There’s an art gallery on Mercer that sold two of my paintings last week, I was going to talk to the owner about what they might want to replace them with.”
He glanced at his fancy wristwatch, as if mentally tallying up the minutes he needed to spend in her company. Sliding her teeth against one another she narrowed her gaze at the cracks in the sidewalk. Why was she so angry at him for doing his job? Why was she so angry, period?
“I’ll walk you there. Dancer can swap with me later if I can’t get hold of a friend of mine who lives in the city. You remember Steve Dancer, right?”
She nodded. Hard to forget Marsh’s sidekick with his techno-gadgets. Steve Dancer had been nice to her even when everybody in the world, including Marsh, had hated her guts. Not even Nat Sullivan, Elizabeth’s new husband, had wanted her around after she’d inadvertently brought Andrew DeLattio to his remote ranch. She could hardly blame him. Elizabeth had almost died and it had been her stupid fault.
Her shoulders sagged as Marsh herded her toward her appointment, already on the phone to a bodyguard whose number he knew by heart. She wanted her life back. Her nice, safe, insular little life that now seemed as cold and desolate as a wasteland.
There was a hot dog vendor on the corner of West Broadway, the aroma invading every particle of air she breathed, reminding her she’d only had one measly piece of toast since lunchtime yesterday.
“You want a hotdog?” she asked Marsh, groping for change in her purse.
The sun flared between clouds and light flowed over his dark hair, catching a hint of silver she hadn’t noticed before.
“You’re going to eat on the move?” Disapproval in every word.
“Yep.” She wished she didn’t find him quite so attractive, wished she’d never discovered what she’d been missing as a twenty-seven year old virgin. Life had been fine before that.
“Let’s go somewhere decent—”
“This is decent.” She shook her head, blew the hair
out of her eyes. He was such a snob.
One hand on her elbow he pointed to the flies hovering on the ketchup dispenser. “This is a health hazard,” he said.
Seriously… She rolled her eyes at him.
The sun broke fully through dissolute clouds, glinting warmly off his tanned skin. He tugged her away from the succulent aroma and reluctantly she fell into step beside him.
“Well, it better be quick—”
“Why, Josephine?” He stopped and looked down at her, a hard light in his eyes. “I thought artists were Bohemian, free spirits? Why are you always in so much of a damn rush that you don’t look after yourself?”
“I’m hungry, you idiot.” Angry at being so unfairly judged lit a fuse within her. “And I know how to look after myself.” She planted her finger on his chest. “I’ve had plenty of practice looking after myself and aside from this stupid freaking serial killer on my tail, I do a pretty good job of it.”
People streamed around them in the street. Marsh swept a pitying glance over her frame, from her Doc Marten boots to her favorite army jacket. She glared back, wanting to cross her arms over her chest, but knowing that would put her on the defensive rather than the attack.
“You’re too damn thin. I could push you over with one finger.” He copied her move and stuck his index finger in her sternum, between her breasts.
The world stopped. Time hovered. The people rushing past them ceasing to exist. There was nothing but the heat in his eyes and the energy that sizzled and circled between the points of contact of each finger on each chest, round and round, firing sparks through her heart and breasts, making her breath squeeze tight into a tiny ball.
Suddenly it was the flat of her hand against his white cotton shirt as if holding him off—but she wasn’t and he knew it. He dropped his hand slowly away from her.
Speechless for once in her life, she finally let her hand drop away.
“Come on, woman.” He took her elbow gently and steered her down the sidewalk. “Let’s get some food.”
Her Last Chance Page 6
