Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  “I prefer Josie.” She swept a pale strand of hair behind one delicate shell of an ear.

  Marsh released a deep breath.

  “But Josephine is such a beautiful name.” Approval shone from Bea’s tone, but Josephine’s eyebrows slammed together and her mouth turned down as she flicked him an irritated glance.

  Marsh had always loved Josephine’s name, refused to call her Josie…and yet she didn’t like it. Maybe because it was old fashioned and formal, or maybe she’d been teased as a kid. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at a scratch that marred the otherwise perfect surface of his shoe.

  His mother opened a white painted antique dresser and removed some sleepwear. She placed a pair of satin pajamas on the quilt and went to retrieve a matching dressing gown. They were deep damson, exactly the same color as the bedspread. Interior design had taken on new extremes.

  What would Josephine think of a woman who spent all her time decorating walls and matching color swatches and why the hell did he care what Josephine thought of his mother?

  Shame surged inside him. His mother appeared vapid, one of the idle rich, when she was so much more than that. Guilt mixed with self-disgust—what the hell gave him the right to judge the woman who’d given him life? Or the one he’d foolishly fallen for?

  He should have stayed at a hotel. These two women never had to meet, and yet…

  “You have a wonderful eye for color, Mrs. Hayes.” Josephine stepped forward and slowly stroked the bedcover. “And for texture.”

  He turned away and willed his mother to leave the room—he was anxious to get out of here, but didn’t dare leave them alone.

  “I can’t claim much in that department either.” His mother sighed, a fluttering, wrenching sound. “I have an interior designer who guides me.” Her hand plumped a satin pillow. “But an old woman with no grandchildren needs some distractions to occupy her time, don’t you think?”

  With a pointed look between the pair of them, Beatrice Hayes swept out of the room.

  There was a long silence where neither of them was breathing.

  “She really is desperate for grandkids to contemplate letting my blood join the Hayes’ family line.” Josephine wiggled her eyebrows and gave him a strained smile. “Wanna do it now or later?” Shock tactics had always worked for her in the past—a defense mechanism to keep people away so she didn’t get hurt. But he was smarter than that. Holding her gaze, he waited until she stopped fidgeting.

  “My mother’s adopted. She got lucky having wealthy parents, but she cares very little about blood and a whole lot more about family.” His gaze slid down her frame, pissed with her continued charade and frustrated, not knowing how to break through the barriers that had protected her for so long. Maybe he’d never break through. Maybe she’d never really open up or let him close. “Don’t judge her with your snobbery and prejudice. That’s not who she is. And deep down, it’s not who you are either.”

  He turned and walked out of the room, furious he couldn’t control this situation. Frustrated he couldn’t control his own emotions when it came to this woman. He had to get away from Josephine Maxwell.

  ***

  Two hours later, Josie stroked a hand over the silk wall covering as she stole down the intricately carved staircase, her footsteps muted by the thick oriental runner. She was so nervous her stomach roiled. The desire to run was fierce. She’d never felt so out of her depth in her life.

  She was also late for dinner.

  She’d rather stay in her room and eat off a tray, or in the kitchen, or starve. But Marsh’s mother had very politely invited her to join them and Josie was less able to deal with courtesy than antagonism. And that scared the hell out of her.

  She self-consciously smoothed a palm over navy linen pants, absorbed the soft texture with a shiver of appreciation. It was teamed with a navy and white polka-dot cardigan with a red and white stripe running along the trim. She liked it. It was sexy and fun and she wouldn’t have looked twice at it in any shop.

  Not that Army Surplus stocked many polka dots.

  Marsh had turned up twenty minutes ago with a large bag full of clothes, dumped them on her bed and left without saying a word. And she’d desperately wanted him to stay.

  A laugh sounded from the dining room, followed by the gentle rumble of an amused male.

  Reluctantly, she took that last step.

  Marsh materialized soundlessly beside the balustrade. “Jesus H Christ!” She jumped an inch off the floor.

  “Not quite.” His eyes burned her up and down, and he nodded. “They fit?”

  “Yeah, unlike me,” she muttered.

  He stared up at the ceiling and looked suspiciously like he was counting to ten.

  Why was he pissed? Of course, they hadn’t settled the fight they’d started earlier—but she was here, wasn’t she? It took her a moment to admit she was being a bitch and it had more to do with her own insecurity than anything he’d done. She drew in a deep breath. “Thank you. For the clothes. And for helping me.”

  His expression softened but they were interrupted before he could speak.

  “Ah, here she is…” A thinner, older version of Marsh appeared in the doorway and Josie steeled herself. Socializing was what other people did. She stayed home and watched TiVo or painted. She hated meeting new people. Felt the unexpected pressure of trying to impress Marsh’s parents simply because they were Marsh’s parents.

  When is the last time anyone expected anything from me? Maybe never. Maybe that was the problem.

  “Dad, let me introduce Josephine Maxwell. Josie, this is my father, General Jacob Hayes.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He’d called her Josie. She flicked him a shocked glance, but he’d already turned away as his father reached out a hand to her. It was hard to hold the general’s bright green gaze, full of unspoken probing and silent appraisal. Jacob Hayes shot his son a sharp glance when he spotted her bare feet.

  “Didn’t you buy her any shoes?”

  Marsh had bought her tons of footwear—shoes, runners, boots. Too many beautiful things for a few short nights away. She’d have to find a way to return them or spend the next ten years paying him back.

  She wiggled her bare toes as everyone stared at her feet. “Actually, I figured if I wore shoes I might make a break for the front door. I decided not to chance it.”

  For what seemed like an eternity Marsh’s father locked his gaze on hers.

  “That nervous, huh?” He huffed out a laugh. “I’ll be damned.” He looked anxiously over his shoulder. “My one piece of advice is don’t let Bea catch you cursing—thirty years in the Army and she still thinks heck is a suitable expletive to cover any and all occasions…including bloodshed.”

  Josie grinned—he seemed like a nice old guy. Marsh stood silently beside her and she knew her comment about running away had been noted and catalogued inside his efficient brain. She was escorted into the elegant sitting room and offered a chair beside the fire, feeling like she’d been transported into a Hallmark Happy Families card.

  “Would you care for a drink?” the general asked her.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “Have a Pimms, dear.” Looking slightly merry, Bea smiled and raised her brimming glass.

  Avoiding Bea’s hopeful gaze, Josie cleared the lump in her throat. “I don’t drink alcohol, but I’ll have water, please.” She sent Marsh a forced smile, knowing she wasn’t conforming to whatever the hell his family wanted, but unable to pretend to be something she wasn’t.

  Marsh went to get her some water. He’d been ominously quiet. His parents exchanged a look.

  Josie took the glass from Marsh’s grip, and thanked him with a smile. His expression didn’t change. Guarded. Wary.

  “What do you do, my dear?” The general asked.

  “When I’m not being stalked by a serial killer, you mean?” Josie smiled over-brightly and the Hayeses swapped startled looks. There was no way she was pretending to be here as t
heir son’s date. Sure it was easier that way, but Josie had never gone with easy. There would be no happy ending for her and Marsh. It wasn’t fair to pretend otherwise. What they had was hot and dangerous and would burn out the moment they caught the killer, or he caught them. “I’m an artist.”

  Bea’s smile was delighted. The general took a swig of his scotch.

  “And what about your family, Josephine? What do they do?” the general asked.

  Vetting her…

  She didn’t want to hurt Marsh’s parents, but they couldn’t go on believing this was some family introduction to the future Mrs. Hayes. She knew they wanted him married but she wasn’t that girl. The fact that a tiny portion of her brain wished she was pissed her off.

  Marsh paced the floor near a window that faced onto the street. She had no idea what he was thinking. He certainly wasn’t helping her out.

  “My father was a factory worker who spent most of his life on disability and my mother was a school secretary who disappeared—now believed murdered—after having a fling with a visiting African missionary.”

  The fire crackled and Bea pressed a shocked hand to her mouth. Marsh turned to watch, but she could not read the light in his eyes. “The FBI thinks my mom was the first victim of this maniac who’s after me now.” The coldness of the water was soothing against the lining of her throat. “The only person who cared for me growing up was a woman named Marion. Because of my actions, she was tortured and killed last spring.”

  Appalled by the tears that grew hot in her eyes, she stared at Marsh in shocked realization that she’d never even remotely gotten over Marion’s death. She hadn’t even begun to forgive herself. “Her ashes are upstairs in my knapsack because I still can’t bear the thought of losing her.” She slipped the glass onto the nearest table afraid she’d drop it and it’d shatter, splintering into a thousand pieces like her composure. “I’d better go—”

  “No.” Bea rose and held both hands out toward her. Tears filled her eyes and Josie froze, unable to bear the empathy in the older woman’s gaze. Marsh’s mother should be turning her nose up about now—adopted or not, it was clear that Josie was totally unsuitable for their beloved son.

  “Forgive us.” Marsh’s mother swallowed and blinked away the tears. “We should never have probed—it isn’t as if our family hasn’t experienced great loss, but I’m sure Marsh has told you all about it.”

  Josie swung overstretched eyes to Marsh who’d never told her a thing about his family. She’d never asked. He looked at the floor, mouth twisted before looking back with carefully shuttered eyes.

  His mother stared off into the fire, sadness palpable as rain on the window. The general coughed. Marsh walked up beside her, took her hand, her fingers chilled against his heat of his skin. He led her across the room toward a photograph hanging on the wall between two casement windows. She’d thought it was a photograph of Marsh when she’d glanced at it earlier. Now she realized the uniform was different—Army, not Navy.

  “My brother, Robert,” Marsh spoke quietly. His voice was carefully level. “He died in Iraq.”

  Josie stared at the photograph of the blisteringly handsome young man, a man so like Marsh her heart gave a squeeze.

  Beatrice Hayes began to cry, softly. Jacob handed her a handkerchief and the action made Josie’s gaze flick to Marsh, who tightened his lips into what most people would think was a smile. She knew better. It was a flare of pain.

  “Seems like yesterday,” Bea sobbed gently. The general rubbed her back, the gesture both soothing and hopeless, as if he’d done it a million times before and finally realized it didn’t help.

  It hurt.

  “The pain never really goes away does it?” Josie forced the words out through a throat rapidly closing with emotion, “Losing someone you love…”

  Beatrice held her gaze, the emotional connection like tensile steel. Her eyes seemed to reach inside Josie and soothe her heart with tender hands. She hadn’t felt this sort of comfort since Marion had died and wanted to weep.

  Josie’s head snapped up.

  She’d been snared by a trap so complex she’d been blindsided. The woman had drawn her into their world, into Marsh’s world and made her care, a feeling she assiduously avoided and yet it had slid into her body as effortlessly as a barbed hook.

  Marsh leaned down, his breath warm against her cheek. “Welcome to my world.”

  ***

  Marsh hesitated as he opened the door to Josie’s room. Shadows played across the walls, the smell of old wood overlaid by the sweet scent of a candle she’d lit beside the bed. He moved into the room. She sat fully dressed, leaning forward on a straight-back chair, elbows on knees, staring out into the empty street.

  Noise was muted through the thick panes of century-old glass, sounds of downtown remote in this affluent citadel, just a murmur of wind rattling the frames.

  Shocked by the fragility of her appearance, he reached for her hand, drew her carefully to her feet.

  “I have to leave.” Her voice quavered, too much strain born on too fine a wire.

  He held her close, pressed her head to his chest. “Stay. Stay with me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” Her body quivered against him. But despite the words she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her lips to his and he knew she wouldn’t leave him yet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  __________________

  They were eating at the breakfast bar in the kitchen by six a.m. Marsh couldn’t believe how much he enjoyed such a mundane act. For a little while they were able to pretend they were ordinary people getting to know one another, and Josie wasn’t being targeted by a killer. Then he saw the front page of The NY News. Tension stretched up his spine and across his shoulders like a crucifix. “Damn.”

  “Better watch your mouth. Your momma doesn’t approve of bad language.” Her sass dissolved when he turned the laptop toward her.

  “Oh, no.”

  Bright lights glared down from the kitchen ceiling, highlighting her horror as her past was exposed for the world to see. Her hands curled into fists, knuckles gleaming white a hair’s breadth beneath the surface of her skin. The NY News had gotten hold of the photograph taken after Josie’s first knife attack. The bleak black and white image of a hollow-eyed child stared out at them next to the bold caption, ‘The First Victim’. This case was about to blow wide open—a serial killer stalking NYC for the last twenty years. Front page news.

  Marsh looked at the by-line. Nelson fucking Landry.

  This was the reporter’s revenge for Marsh putting the lid on his investigation into Elizabeth’s disappearance last spring. Karma was a bitch. His cell rang. Dancer.

  “Yo, boss.”

  “Yo?” Marsh pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m a senior federal official and your boss, and all I get is Yo?”

  “I’m channeling Donnie Brascoe. Yo is what you’re getting today.” Dancer whistled between sentences, clearly excited. Marsh recognized the theme tune to The Godfather. Please, God, don’t let the mob be involved in any way, although there were rumors about the Gardner robbery.

  “What have you got for me? And why are you channeling Joe Pistone?” Marsh forced a harsh tone to his voice, but knew he didn’t fool his tech for a second.

  “Because I’m going deep undercover in New York City, boss man.”

  Alarm bells jangled inside his mind. The pressure in his jaw started to give him a headache—these two cases were killing him. “What do you mean? I thought you were in Boston to help me interview the admiral?”

  “I was going to be in Boston,” Dancer corrected, sounding way too cheery.

  Marsh ground his teeth, loosened his tie as his internal temperature exploded. He was getting a very bad feeling about this. Dancer was brilliant, but he could also be a royal pain in the ass when he wanted to be. A loose cannon—the nerdy kid left unattended for too long in the computer lab who ended up hacking NASA.

  Marsh glan
ced at Josie. He seemed to attract wild sparks.

  Maybe he was attracted to their fire, their disregard for the rules that bound him.

  Josie met his gaze head on, crystal blue eyes reflecting a soul-deep wound. He wanted to hold her, to wrap her up in safety. “Spill it, Steve, before I sign your transfer papers to Fargo.”

  “Fargo wouldn’t be so bad—”

  “D.C. then…” The thought of all those politicians would freak him out more than chainsaws and permafrost.

  “Something about this case isn’t adding up,” Dancer said softly.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “So I figured I’d dig deeper—”

  “What did you come up with?” Normally, patience was his strong suit, but right now…nothing was making sense. His focus was being pulled in a million different directions and the only thing he really wanted to do was put a smile on Josie’s face and make it stay there.

  “Nothing yet, but Pru Duvall phoned the office last night, just before I was supposed to catch my flight. She invited me to lunch today.”

  Marsh closed his eyes. “Do not get involved with that woman Dancer, I mean it—”

  “So I agreed to have lunch with her—”

  “For fuck’s sake.”

  His mother came into the brightly lit kitchen. He turned his back on her astonished expression. There was a reason he didn’t bring his work home.

  “It’s lunch, boss.”

  “I don’t trust her, Steve. Do not meet her without back up—even for lunch.” Marsh’s fingers cramped from his death grip on the phone. Pain speared through his skull as his senses finally overloaded. Blindly, he stood up and reached for aspirin in the kitchen cupboard.

  “I don’t know why you do what you do, Marshall,” his mother whispered and shook her head as she stirred a silver spoon through milky tea in a porcelain mug.

  Mentally Marsh counted to ten. In Latin.