Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  “I didn’t want to go on a date with her because she wasn’t you.” The words spilled out when he’d thought they’d stay silent inside his head. Shit.

  Her hands gripped the material at her breast. “I—”

  “Don’t say it.” He dragged his hands through his hair and moved woodenly down the stairs. “I don’t want your fucking pity.”

  She came toward him, stopped a few away. “I’ve never pitied you, Marsh. I’ve hated you and the things you make me feel, but I have never pitied you. This wasn’t your fault—”

  “It was my fault,” Marsh said quietly. “If I hadn’t taken her to the gallery opening she wouldn’t be dead.”

  Her shoulders tensed and her chin lifted. “If your mother hadn’t set you up on a date, if the photographer hadn’t taken your picture, if the newspaper hadn’t put us on the front page together.” She advanced until there was nothing between them but polarized molecules of electricity. “If I hadn’t survived.”

  Pain tore his chest wide open. Jesus. It was his fault. He dropped down to the couch, hands over his face, the smell of naphthalene still embedded in his skin despite endless hand washing. Repugnant. Stomach clenching. Disgusting.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath, felt Josephine’s arms slide around him, lightly, uncertainly, as if she had no clue how to comfort someone. “That bastard killed her like she was worthless. Slaughtered her because he wanted to give the FBI the finger. She was eighteen.”

  “I want to help. Please tell me what I can do to help.”

  Handcuffs would be good. Tie him up and fuck his brains out. That’d work. Shit. He wanted to sink into her flesh. Bury every desperate thought in soft folds wrapped around him so tight, no guilt could steal inside his head. Then he could pretend evil didn’t run rampant and unchecked through their world. He could pretend the law would prevail and they’d nail this sick bastard and she’d be safe. But it might never happen. They might never catch him.

  Josephine cradled his head to her breast and rocked him.

  She was rocking him.

  He raised his head so their eyes were level, the usual vivid blue of hers just another shade of gray in the moonlight. The skin around her mouth was tight, her lips compressed, as if she held emotion forcibly inside, unable to release it, unwilling to express it. He cupped her cheek, rubbed his thumb across the hard line of her lips and felt them relax a fraction as she released a breath. She smelled of grapefruit as if she’d recently showered, skin still slightly damp.

  She never railed against fate or the terrible things that had happened to her. No matter what this killer threw at her, she didn’t give an inch and Marsh didn’t think it was because she didn’t feel the fear, but because she’d barricaded herself behind so many emotional defenses she was almost impenetrable.

  Almost.

  “I think you’re a better man than most.” Her hand caught his, pressing it into her cheek.

  That’s what he wanted—to be better than most—to be good enough to fill the void left by an older brother whom he’d loved. Good enough to catch the bad guys.

  His fingers slipped around her cheek, brushed her ear and delved deep into the silken tresses of her hair. He drew her closer to him. Felt the resistance in every muscle, every vertebrae, in every staggered breath she drew.

  “I want you.”

  “I can’t—” She pulled back slightly.

  “You did last time,” he said. The drumbeat of his heart snarled through his ears, scorched blood streaming through his veins making him want to dive in and devour her. But no violation was allowed. No coercion. No drugs. No guilt. Nothing but honest desire.

  Lightly stroking the delicate skin of her wrists, he leaned back so his shoulders rested against the couch.

  Released her.

  She wasn’t a coward. She’d put herself firmly in the bulls-eye of the mob last spring helping Elizabeth and hadn’t flinched, but when it came to the passion that burned between them, this crazy crackle of heat, she always ran.

  “Go to bed,” he told her. Baring his teeth in a humorless grin, frustrated and pissed, needing something from this woman that she didn’t want or need from him. He closed his eyes so she couldn’t see his weakness.

  Silence rang loudly. The only noise was her breath, a light indecisive sound.

  He didn’t want indecisive. “Go to bed, Josephine.”

  Cool fingers touched him through the soft wool of his pants and he jolted violently, the caress turning a silky ache into volcanic heat that forced a noise from between his gritted teeth that sounded like he was dying.

  She hesitated as if unsure.

  “Don’t stop.” Mr. Cool. Lightly he moved her slender fingers over flesh that begged for her attention—he didn’t want anyone else and he was probably going to freak her out, scare her away, but he needed her to touch him. He needed her to want to touch him.

  With one hand she pushed him back against the couch. Moonlight washed in and out of the high windows, leaving her as insubstantial as shadow, as powerful as a prophesy. He let her pin him, knowing he was doomed, knowing she could rule him with nothing more than the pressure of those slender hands or a soft word.

  Her hair shone, drifting down to cover her expression when he damn well wanted to see her face. Then she touched him again—an exploration that made him jump and bump his elbow on the wooden arm of the couch. He gritted his teeth, sweat beading along his brow, every pleasure neuron in his body latching onto her touch like iron filings to a magnet. She withdrew her hand and for a second he thought he might howl, but then she tugged on his belt, damn near cut off his blood supply before she undid the buckle and slid the leather free.

  Soft fingers brushed his stomach as she undid the button, drew the zipper down with a rasp that sounded hotter than his most erotic fantasy.

  “I’ve never done this before.” Her mouth was close to his as she whispered in his ear, sliding her hand along the swelling heat of him.

  He couldn’t breathe let alone talk.

  Her hands moved silkily over his flesh, a hiss of steam rising in their wake. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like.” Insane laughter rang inside his head. Not possible.

  Kneeling beside him on the couch, her knees dug warmly into his thigh and she ran her fingers higher, over the tight drum of his stomach and undid a button of his shirt.

  Unable to stop himself, he pulled her across his lap, sensations of light flashing behind his eyes as she straddled him, adjusting their intimate fit in a way that made his brain meltdown—especially when he realized she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  His hands gripped the firm flesh of her thighs, fusing her to him, refusing to let her move even though he could feel her desire to do just that in the quivering of her muscles.

  “Josephine.” His voice was rough.

  Opening her eyes, she looked as if she’d come out of a trance. Not what he wanted, but he wasn’t playing games tonight and he wasn’t having any misunderstandings getting between them.

  “I don’t want to fool around like a teenager. I want to take you to bed and—”

  “Fuck my brains out.”

  “There’s more to it than that.” The vehemence in his voice shook them both.

  “I don’t want there to be more to it than that.” She reached up and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Can we just do this? Have sex. Like normal adults? Or are we gonna screw this whole thing up again?”

  He grabbed the edge of her t-shirt, too quickly for her to protest and jerked it over her head.

  “Normal well-adjusted adults get naked when they have sex,” he told her. Neither of them was normal or well-adjusted but he didn’t care.

  “Normal people don’t look like this.” Her hands came up to cover her torso.

  “Don’t,” he said, “Please don’t. Your scars don’t bother me.” He palmed a small perfect breast and she rocked toward him. Her head fell forward, hair trailing in a long swathe over her shoulders.

  Rem
inding him she was naked and he was pretty much fully clothed.

  A fantasy come true. If he got any hotter he was going to ignite. He ran his hands over her back, skimming the area where he’d implanted the transmitter all those months ago, unwilling to draw attention to the spot but curious. The skin felt satin smooth, no hint of the microchip hidden beneath the supple flesh. Shuddering, he moved on to cradle the soft swell of her breasts with her own palm, letting her feel the beauty and sensuality of her own body. A soft moan escaped slightly parted lips.

  Tracing a silver scar, he rubbed lightly the spot where it ended, right on the point of her hipbone.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “No, I’m not.” Her head came up, fire flashing in her eyes in the moonlight. “You don’t have to flatter me. You are getting lucky tonight.”

  “Exactly.” Dealing with this woman was always a challenge and when no blood circulated his brain it was downright impossible. “So why don’t you believe me when I tell you, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen?”

  He held her gaze; saw distrust warring with insecurity.

  “I’m going to have you anyway.” He trailed his hand lower, slowly trailing his finger down her body and then between her legs. He dipped one finger inside hot flesh. “Why would I lie?”

  “Oh god,” she whispered as her hands braced against his chest. “I don’t know.”

  She was slick and wet and the desire to dive inside nearly overcame him, but he wanted to give her everything, make her view sex as a thing of wonder, not a pit of depravity.

  He held her in place with one hand low on her back, bringing her closer. Gently, he took a puckered nipple into his mouth, and suckled her gently, rasping his tongue across the knotted areole. A breathy moan resonated through the room, bouncing off the high ceilings. Tight panting breaths echoed the rhythm of his fingers. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, nails biting deep as he pressed his palm against her clitoris and found the spot that made her writhe in his arms. She exploded against him, lips parted, eyes closed as she shuddered and trembled naked in his arms. She slowly quieted and rested her forehead on his shoulder. The feel of her breath against his neck had satisfaction ripping through him. A vital piece of his life shifted back into place.

  Desire still pulsed through him, but it was tempered by patience. He wouldn’t rush her. Wouldn’t rush them. Maybe she wasn’t ready for more—

  An openmouthed bite to his neck punctured his thoughts. She reared back, a beautiful angel, gloriously naked in his lap. “You’re way too controlled here.”

  “Making up for last time.” His voice was gritty, hoarse. He took a strand of silken hair and teased it across the top of her breast.

  “You said last time was the best sex you’ve ever had,” she reminded him.

  Lightly, he ran a fingertip over the sensitive skin at the junction of her thigh, watched her shiver. “Do you doubt me?”

  The sound that came from her lips was a high-pitched intake of breath. “No, but my experience is limited.”

  Marsh slid them both onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. There was enough curiosity in her voice that he didn’t stop.

  “Giving you a crash course of the highlights.” He slid down her body to taste her, the scent of woman exploding into every space inside his mind. Thought fled, lust detonated through his veins and tripped a fuse inside his head.

  “Oh, god.” She arched up as his tongue slipped through her folds. “I can’t believe how good that feels. I don’t think I can take it.”

  “Do you want me to stop?” His words were muffled and grim.

  “Not yet.” And she laughed. Thank God. It was such an unusual sound he almost did stop. Cupping her backside, he teased and stroked, nuzzled and nipped, wanting to be inside her, but also wanting to make it last forever. To make it good for her. As long as he didn’t have to think about anything else he was happy watching her control snap and fray. She stiffened, mouth opening in a silent scream, body bowed like some primal vision of femininity.

  Beautiful. Sex wasn’t tawdry or dirty. It was beautiful. She was beautiful.

  He raised his head. She lay panting on the floor. The dim light revealing pale skin and slender frame. Slender, but not weak.

  The sight of her lying there naked drove him crazy, but he was also aware of a change in the atmosphere as she started to think again. Warning bells rang, but he was also curious. Tight, throbbing, insane, wound up like a clockwork missile, curious. The thin scars crisscrossing her body were picked out in shadow. Suddenly visions of Lynn Richards haunted his mind. He rubbed his hands over his face, sat up as reality crashed over him.

  She tapped her head, voice low in the darkness. “Doesn’t matter how far away I go, he’s always right here when I return.”

  He wanted to tell her they’d catch this bastard before he killed again, but he wasn’t so sure anymore. “I can help you forget for one night.” He held out his hand. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

  ***

  “What did you tell him?” His voice was raspy. The light seeped from the surrounding neighborhood through the uncovered loft windows. His skin tingled, his prick throbbed with anticipation so primal it might burst through his flesh and consume the night. The crop cracked down hard on her bare ass.

  “Ow!” A thin dark line bisected her pale white skin. Color leeched in the shadows. “Nothing. Please, please! I didn’t tell him anything!” Pru Duvall sobbed against the pillow where he’d shoved her face the moment she’d walked into the room. He’d pushed her tweed skirt up and rammed himself into her until she’d begged.

  Then he’d stopped.

  A siren echoed around the high loft space. Agitated noise, wailing and screeching. Desperate little people doing desperate little deeds.

  There was power here. It strummed through the night like the wings of a bat, silent, invisible, as tangible as the crop he flexed between his fingers.

  Whack.

  “Jesus.” Pru sobbed. “I can’t take any more.”

  He touched her skin, absorbed a flinch with his fingertip. Pru Duvall might be a future First Lady of the United States of America, but in her heart, in her soul she was darkness and dirt.

  “Please…” Her voice cracked.

  He’d thought about killing her, but a little voice deep inside said killing Pru Duvall would be like taking his own life—and he wasn’t ready to do it yet.

  The worked leather at the base of the crop felt soft and frayed against the sensitive tips of his fingers.

  Drums beat in the darkness, but not killing drums, just excitement and pleasure—if only that could be enough for his all needs. He’d cuffed her hands behind her back. Not the velvet-lined cuffs others used, but steel bands he’d stolen from a cop when he first moved to the city. Dead cop now.

  “I’m going to destroy him.” He ran a gentle finger along the abused line of skin. Power. Lowered his lips to blow gently against the skin and kiss the pain better. Control.

  Pru shivered, the whites of her eyes shining.

  “Good,” she hissed.

  He scraped his teeth over her perfect skin. Bit gently at the base of her spine and rubbed between her legs with the length of the riding crop.

  “Please?” Her little girl’s voice fractured as she sank back on her haunches.

  Whack.

  “Damn you—”

  He whipped her harder, breaking the skin.

  Thwhack.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, please, don’t kill me. I can help you. I’ll do anything you want.” She always did. It’s what made them so compatible.

  Chapter Eleven

  _________________

  A slash of light cut across the ceiling as a car moved slowly along the street. Josephine lay curled against him like a cat, her head nestled beneath his shoulder and he didn’t know what he was going to do about her. Some primitive yearning had driven him to make love to her as often as pos
sible during the night like some wild bull staking his biological claim.

  And if he were honest, the thought of Josephine pregnant with his child sent a feeling of contentment deep into his marrow. Which was insane.

  From an early age he’d had plenty of girlfriends. Being rich didn’t usually hinder his chances, but it did this time. This time having money worked against him. Having money would make Josephine, who snored gently against his chest, bolt like a rabbit for a safe place.

  And he didn’t want her to bolt. They’d made love for hours and even now the scent of her skin, her hair, her essence, stirred desire in him. He didn’t want to lose her but he didn’t know how to keep her. She was too unsure, too defensive, too feral.

  There was a clank in the street, metal on concrete, like a can rolling along the sidewalk. Gently, Marsh eased away from her warmth and moved to the window. Looked out into the street.

  Dawn hovered out of reach. A man hunched against the chill of the wind, walking a Dalmatian whose tail lashed back and forth like a whip. Leaves skittered in his wake as the dog marked his scent on the metal scrollwork that lined the base of every tree.

  Marsh felt eyes on him.

  Who else was out there in the night? Was the Blade Hunter watching right now?

  Why had the sonofabitch made this personal?

  Covers rustled in the bed.

  “What are you looking at?” Josephine asked. Fear threaded her voice, made his nerves tighten at the insidious threat.

  “Some guy walking his dog.” He looked back at her.

  Groaning, she fell back against the covers. “I hate this.”

  He moved away from the window and sat on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. “I hate it too.”

  Words didn’t help. Promising to catch the bastard didn’t help. The only thing that might help was locking this animal behind bars. Marsh moved around the bed and picked up his pants—rifled through his pockets for his cell phone.