“Come on, boss. She’s a middle-aged politician’s wife. What harm can she do to a razor-sharp, intelligent, specially trained, and armed, FBI agent?”
“I can think of a few things.”
Dancer was silent for a moment. “Don’t you trust me?”
Marsh sighed, tucked the phone into the crook of his neck as he filled a glass of water and swallowed two tablets. He needed to de-stress or work out. He needed to solve this damn case—which he was beginning to think was more a personal feud between two wealthy families—so he could get on with the job of finding the killer whose main aim in life was to slice and dice the woman he loved.
And wasn’t that a hell of an epiphany to have while his brain pounded and his mother coaxed a smile out of Josie who was paler than skimmed milk.
“I trust you, Dancer. It’s Mrs. D I don’t trust.” Marsh sighed, decision already made. They needed to get this off their desks. “I still want you to report in, before and after.”
“Want me to order a SWAT team too, just in case? They could join us for lunch? Even SWAT guys gotta eat.”
Remembering the feral look on Pru’s face when she’d stared at Dancer the other morning, it wasn’t such a bad idea.
“I’ll be good. I promise.” Dancer’s cell reception was breaking up.
“Watch your back.”
He ended the call and threw the phone down onto the countertop where it landed with a clatter. Blowing out a harsh breath he walked around the counter and wrapped his arms around Josie’s waist. Ignored his mother. Ignored the initial stiffness of Josie’s frame, dipping his face into her hair as he waited for his headache to recede.
Nothing else really mattered anymore except keeping her safe.
***
They sat silently for some time. He was working. Josie was reading the news on his parents’ laptop. His mother had left them to go supervise the lunch menu for a group of her cronies.
“Why do you do it?” The curiosity in Josie’s tone cut through his concentration.
He looked up, met vibrant eyes and wondered what it would be like to look at her every single day of his life. He shook his head as though to shake the thought loose. Now wasn’t the time to think about the future. They had to survive the present. “Why do I do what?”
“This.” She waved a hand over the FBI badge that sat in its case on the kitchen counter. Gingerly, she picked up the smooth black leather case and flipped it open so the golden shield flashed. “You obviously don’t need the money.”
He studied her while she studied his badge—a badge he’d worked hard for despite his connections. She bit her lip and frowned, thinking too much as usual. In a floaty dress, teamed with tall brown suede boots and a long brown cardigan, she looked more feminine than he’d ever seen her. He’d grabbed the clothes from a nearby boutique. Just handed over her sizes and his credit card to the store clerk and asked for one of everything. Knew she’d look good regardless. The dress was casual—she wouldn’t have worn it otherwise—mismatched fabric with a little tieback thing that emphasized her small breasts and tiny waist. Everything about her looks screamed pedigreed wealth and privilege. Appearances were deceptive, and he didn’t give a shit.
His mouth went as dry as the Mohave Desert.
Realizing he was staring at her stupidly, he pressed his hand against the SIG-Sauer that rested beneath his arm. “What else am I going to do?” he ventured.
It was a non-answer and they both knew it. Marsh checked his wristwatch. Noticed Josie wore nothing on her wrists except a group of three pale freckles.
The gulf between their worlds couldn’t be more noticeable and yet Marsh didn’t give a damn about her lack of cash or family connections—it was Josie who cared, Josie who chose to carry the stigma of her upbringing and proclaim that she didn’t fit in. He needed to figure out a way to make her understand what really mattered to him; who he was beneath the badge and the bloodline.
He had several hours before he had to meet the admiral. The guy lived in an Old Colonial in Charlestown. Not only was it the scene of the crime, it was where the old bugger felt most comfortable and hopefully off his guard. He climbed to his feet, pocketed his cell phone and badge. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”
“Show me what?” Twin lines formed between her brows as she peered up at him.
“Why I became a FBI agent.” He picked up a dark brown velvet jacket, held it out for her to slip first one arm and then the other through the thick sleeves.
He led her through the house to the Georgian arch of the front door. Vince was meeting them here at eleven thirty. His secretary, Dora, had arranged a rental car because his Beemer was still in NYC and likely to stay there for the next few days. He glanced around the elegant cobbled street. Stared back at a minuscule Smart car that sat outside, next to the curb.
“What the hell is that?” he snarled.
Josie snorted loudly and put a hand against his chest. He felt the connection all the way to his heart.
“I told her I wanted inconspicuous. That is not inconspicuous.”
“Now I wish I’d learned to drive.” Josie was actually chortling as she stepped out the front door. “I bet it’s a lot more environmentally friendly than that thing you drive.”
Marsh scanned the area for reporters or killers, but Josie didn’t seem to consider anyone might follow her here. They probably wouldn’t, but they’d be hounding her when she got back to NYC, dammit.
He blinked. “What do you mean, ‘learned to drive’?”
“Well, I can drive a little, but I don’t have my license.” Josie gave him a slow broad smile that was not a good sign.
“But you drove my BMW to the airport last spring.”
“It wasn’t easy. Nearly crashed into a tree before I even got out of the drive and Logan Airport was a nightmare.” Her shoulders trembled delicately. “I used the fake ID Elizabeth set me up with to hire a car in Montana.”
His heart stopped. Great. He gritted his teeth. He was in love with the woman who broke the law without thought. She was nuts and he was about to try and explain why he’d become a FBI agent?
Maybe he was the crazy one.
It was only a couple of miles west on Huntington, past Northeastern University and along Louis Prang. The Gardner Museum. On game days you could hear the roar of the Red Sox fans less than a mile away.
“You ever heard of the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?” Marsh asked Josie as she climbed out of the tin can. The material of her dress clung to her body as she stretched her arms languidly to the sky. The longer he spent with her the more trouble he was in. The lust did not abate; the longing did not die.
“Yep.” Josie wrapped her arms around herself. They strolled down the sidewalk, their footsteps ringing in perfect synchrony, ordinary lovers out for a day’s outing.
It was too early to be open to the public yet, but he’d phoned ahead and spoken to the curator. As the lead FBI agent investigating the theft, it wasn’t difficult for him to get inside. As the only son of a prominent Boston family who’d sponsored the museum since its inception in 1903, he’d have probably gotten in anyway.
A security guard Marsh knew checked them in. Entering through a small doorway, both he and Josie squinted from the abrupt change in ambient light as they passed through dimly lit corridors.
As his vision adjusted Marsh watched Josie take in the Italian style Palazzo. Red brick archways ringed a courtyard, ancient carved stonework augmented by the natural beauty of grass and flowers.
Her eyes brightened, sharpened and a half smile of wonder played across her lips—lips he’d spent most of last night tasting. The centerpiece was a Roman mosaic tile floor picturing the Gorgon, Medusa, appropriately surrounded by statues. Nearly two thousand years old and the colors were still lucid.
It was quiet as a graveyard inside the cloisters.
“In March 1990, two thieves dressed as Boston PD officers strolled in here and stole eleven paintings and two artifacts valued at more
than three-hundred million US dollars.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, stared at an ancient marble sarcophagus carved with beautiful women gathering grapes and thought of the plain wooden box in which his brother had come home.
“I’d just finished my BA in Art History at Harvard and was supposed to carry on the family tradition where the second son becomes a lawyer.” A shudder ran through his body. “Jesus, can you imagine?”
Josie swept a gaze down to his highly polished shoes, touched the wool of his gray suit with one finger, and cocked one brow. “Yes.”
He captured her hand and held it still. He wanted her to know who he was. Who he’d been. It had been a chilly day. Colder than usual. He still felt the bite of frost and the imbalance of ice, slick beneath the soles of his shoes. “I’d done a few months of law school and loathed every second of it.”
Gently squeezing his hand, she turned to face him. “And you’d just lost your brother.”
Clenching his teeth, he nodded. He didn’t know how she’d linked that detail and didn’t want to know. He’d come here that day because this had been Robert’s favorite place, the spot where his brother had proposed to his girlfriend, Julianna, before he’d gone off to war.
The dean had pulled Marsh out of classes and told him the news. Marsh recalled the uncomfortable sensation of being cradled in a stranger’s arms. Maybe that was why he’d never gone back. “Who’s your favorite painter?” Marsh rapidly changed the subject.
Tugging her hand, he urged her along. He needed to get this right, needed to show her that they weren’t so different. She let him guide her, a wonder in itself.
“Technically? Rembrandt. Use of light? Turner. Use of color? Vermeer. And for originality on top of amazing draftsmanship? Picasso.” She bent forward to peer closer at the scrolled base of a ruined column. “Though I might give you different answers if you ask me tomorrow.” Not that she was fickle…her smile assured him.
Their steps rang softly on the smooth stone floor.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered.
“Why?” she questioned. But he slowed his pace when he realized she actually had closed her eyes, a subtle sign of trust that both gratified and spooked him.
Cautiously, he guided her down a couple of steps until they stood in a dark hallway. The air was cooler here. Above their heads, out of visual range, a surveillance camera guarded a masterpiece that hung in brilliant isolation.
Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to face the far end of the corridor. They couldn’t be seen or heard by the security system—he’d had a hand in all the updates they’d installed and knew all the weak spots.
He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered softly in her ear. “This is my favorite painting.” He bit gently into the cold fleshy lobe of her ear. Felt tense anticipation morph into dazed passion as she slowly shuddered out a breath.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, looking at the painting and absorbing the sensual bite all at the same time. Grasping onto his forearms, she gave a funny little quiver that vibrated through his flesh to his bones.
He held her tight against him, cupped her breast as she took in the artfully lit canvas painted by John Singer Sargent. El Jaleo.
It was more than three meters wide by two meters high. A flamenco dancer in a small town cantina.
With those clear blue eyes and loyal spirit, Josie was more stunning than any painting. Stroking her puckered nipple through the thin cotton of her dress while golden light reflected from the painting bathing the floor, the Moorish walls, the silhouette of Josie’s profile in burnished fire.
“I love the way the light moves through the picture.” His other hand slipped lower, the coolness of her dress spilling over his wrist. Blonde hair trailed over his shoulder as she tilted her head to the side and he tasted the pulse hammering in her throat.
“I like the light too…” She gasped when he slipped his finger inside her. She was hot as Hades, as smooth as Chinese silk.
“I love the energy of the dancer, the intensity of the passion of the audience.” Heat seared the palm of his hand. He could feel the strain of her muscles, taste the salt as sweat appeared on her skin.
“Oh god. I don’t care about the painting. I want you, Marsh. Inside me. Right. Now.” Her voice got low and then broke as he pressed his palm against her mound and stroked secret flesh.
“Can’t do it, Josie.” His voice was a low growl. “It’s against the law.” He sank his teeth into her shoulder as she came with an uncontrolled shudder. His own arousal pounded like a beast, but he breathed through the lust and held her gently as she came back to earth.
Slowly she turned in his arms, clasped her hands around his neck, gazed up, her eyes dark with desire.
“I bet I could make you forget your principles, Special Agent in Charge Hayes.” Her lips were soft temptation.
“You already did.” Gently he pulled away. He backed up a step, giving himself time for his breath to settle, his blood to cool. “But you wanted to know why I joined the FBI. What drove me into law enforcement.” In an effort to restrain the emotions that always consumed him inside this building, he led her back through the courtyard and up some steps, past Italian masterpieces and priceless Japanese screens. Into the Dutch Room with its dark-paneled ceiling and heavy oak furniture.
***
Josie stood in the center of the room, awed to be in the presence of timeless masterpieces. Then she spotted it. “There are empty spaces on the wall.” Iciness stole over her skin, made her scalp prickle despite the sun glaring through the big arched windows and the residual desire that made her limbs weak.
“Isabella Gardner left very clear instructions in her will about how this place was to be run.” Marsh held his hands stiffly at his side. “The curator can’t make changes to the permanent collection, so we’re left with this…” Marsh strode over to one wall, pointed to the yawning space within an empty frame. “Rembrandt.” He kept on walking, his voice getting fiercer as he circled the room, “Vermeer. Rembrandt. Flinck.”
There was nothing but depressingly empty space, a sad testament to failed security and human greed.
“Isabella Gardner spent her life collecting art and left it for the American people to enjoy. My brother gave his life for those same Americans.” His voice echoed loudly off the dark walls, sounding sacrilegious in the rarified atmosphere. “These fuckers didn’t give a shit about any of it. So while my brother was willing to give up his life for his country, they just waltzed in and took what they wanted.”
When he whirled to face her again, his eyes were brighter than glass. “That is why I dropped out of law school and joined the military, to honor my brother. That…” he pointed his finger at the pillaged walls, “is why I joined the FBI and persuaded them to create a division devoted to art theft, which they didn’t have back then. I wanted the satisfaction of tracking these bastards and shutting them down.” Looking furious and isolated in the big empty room, he took a huge shuddering breath and held it, let it out slowly. Her own breath unfolded from her chest in a jagged wave.
“I want to catch these bastards and others who don’t care about the rights of a nation. I want to lock them away if they think it is okay to steal what they want at the expense of everything my brother fought for.”
He stared at her with an unholy glitter in his eyes, totally unlike the sensuous exchange they’d shared downstairs. And thinking about what they’d done in a public place made her cheeks burn. She didn’t understand the justice system. It hadn’t saved her. It hadn’t even glanced in her direction.
But she understood art, and didn’t think it should be a privilege of the wealthy. Tears pricked the backs of Josie’s eyes. She’d always thought Marsh delusional, the way he believed in the law, and fought so hard for justice. She watched him from behind a veil of hair and thought about her own ideals and principles. It shamed her she had so few.
But she understood him now. He wasn’t arrogant or co
nceited. He wasn’t a rich boy playing at being a cop. He was driven and focused and determined to do the right thing for everyone. They couldn’t be more different if she barked and wagged a tail. And here they were trapped, entwined together as intimately as oxygen and fire, as bound for tragedy as any manmade inferno.
The look in his eyes told her he’d die for her and she knew, deep down where she buried her secrets, she did not want to exist in a world without him.
No matter how ingrained escape was, she couldn’t run. Not yet. He needed what comfort she could give, and she needed to offer it.
Life had been so much easier with her emotions locked away.
The distance between them was just a few yards, but stepping toward him felt like crossing the galaxy. Feeling his heat, running her hands up through his crisp dark hair, she drew his mouth down to hers. Kissed him with a fierceness that bordered on possession.
Chapter Fourteen
___________________
Dancer bent under the table to retrieve a fork Pru Duvall had dropped and received a totally unexpected flash of her Brazilian wax. Holy mother. He straightened sharply, banging his head on the edge of the table. The ruby-red claret in his crystal glass cost the same amount he and his mother had paid for a week’s rent in Southie. He swallowed half the glass in one gulp. Three-and-a-half days rent in one mouthful.
“Is the wine all right?” Prudence reached for her glass and sniffed before taking a sip, smiling across at him. The information in her file put her at fifty-two years old; almost the same age his mother would have been had she lived. He’d have guessed thirty-five. On a bad day.
He’d secretly named her the Barracuda. It was a childish nickname, but it was childishness that got him through most days away from dark memories.
“It’s lovely, ma’am, thank you.” His cheeks continued to burn. God. He hated his complexion.
“Call me Prudence.”
Call me stupid. Fifty-two years old.
Suddenly he was bombarded with memories. That tiny apartment. His mother’s frail figure stumbling from one room to the next, using the walls to support her wasted limbs.
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