“One of the smallest orchids in the world. Venus’ slippers.” He scanned the surrounding area for more. “Whole wood will be full of them in a few weeks time.”
She leaned closer and tried to take in the detail of the pouty little flower. She’d never thought of orchids coming from the Rockies; they’d always struck her as expensive hothouse plants in need of fussing and nurture.
Nat’s calloused fingers glided along her forearm, making the fine hairs rise up on end. She shivered at the contact, but it felt warm and good and normal.
Blue eyes were shadowed beneath his hat. “They burst into flower late spring and then in the summer they disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Like they were never here.”
Nat looked down at the orchids, an unreadable expression on his face and she knew, like the orchid, she was going to disappear. But he wasn’t a mind reader and she couldn’t afford to confide in him. It was too dangerous...the mob didn’t play games. All that mattered to them was life, death, and payback. Rising to her feet, she swayed as she tried not to look guilty.
“Watch your step.” Nat reached out and caught her arm just as she was about to tread on another small plant. “They’re endangered because photographers and naturalists keep trampling them in their search of the perfect shot.” He gave her a slanted smile. “One of life’s little ironies.”
Nat shrugged shoulders that looked massive in his thick coat. They stood like that for a few seconds, his hand firm, but gentle on her wrist. Then he gave her a searching glance before he released her, removed his hat and rubbed a hand through his flaxen hair.
He was going to ask her about her past—she knew it as surely as she knew her own name.
The reprieve was over.
***
“You’re lucky to live in such a beautiful place.” Her hair danced in the wind as she moved away to gaze out at the valley stretched below them.
She was avoiding him again.
“It’s for sale.” The words squeezed past the lump of pride that wedged in his throat. “This whole wood goes up for auction in a few days time.” He looked around the forest that had been in his family for five generations and forced a laugh. It came out bitter and angry. And he was pissed that he felt sorry for himself. So they might have to sell off some land? Big fucking deal. They were hanging on by their fingernails, and he for one had no intention of letting go.
And he’d make damned sure the wildlife people knew that the orchids were in these woods after the sale went through. Whoever bought the land would have to build around the protection zones that would be put in place. But that wouldn’t be his problem.
Not anymore.
If his plan made him unethical, tough. He could live with it as long as he could protect the land and keep his family from sliding into bankruptcy.
“Why?” Eliza asked. “Why would you want to sell it?”
“I don’t want to sell, Eliza, I have to.” His anger came out hot and loud. “If we don’t sell these woods, we’ll lose the whole goddamned ranch.” His voice echoed across the valley floor and Eliza’s uncontrolled flinch had him turning his back, frustrated and unable to hide it.
Shit.
Land was the only commodity he had that could generate sufficient funds fast enough to save the ranch. But it was like cutting out his own heart.
And he was taking out his anger on Eliza.
Damn.
He scrubbed calloused hands across his face. She may as well hear the whole of it. She affected him. He wanted her in his bed, but she wouldn’t stay and he didn’t want her to, because he had nothing to offer her.
Nor did he completely trust her. Her secrets were stacking up against her like little black marks, but he still wanted her. Turning to face her, he saw she had carefully blanked expression. He’d hurt her feelings.
Guilt made him curse under his breath.
“We’ve got two-hundred grand’s worth of debt hanging over the ranch and time’s running out on the repayments.” A Saker falcon hovered over a nearby thicket, pinned to the sky in its hunt for the next meal. “If we don’t come up with the money real soon, we’re finished.” Nat looked down at his boots and kicked a stone out of the grass.
“Is this the neighbor who’s trying to force you out?” Eliza asked. She must have been talking to Ryan.
He nodded. How could he doubt it? At first he’d thought Troy Strange just wanted his Arabians. Now he figured Troy’s wife, Marlena, was spinning tales. Women sometimes had a piece missing. He’d seen it often enough to recognize the breed. They got what they wanted using sex and if they weren’t leading a man around by his dick—they punished him. Nina had been the same, he hadn’t even realized until afterwards. She’d controlled him with sex, blinded him with lust. He glanced at Eliza and found her watching him, earnestly, but he wasn’t going to fall for that trap again. His lips twisted cynically.
“Can’t you expand the holiday business?” Her green eyes lured him as she held her hair out of her eyes with one hand on top of her head, “or run photography courses, nature trails?”
Nat wasn’t stupid. He had a ton of ideas for expanding the ranch vacations; photography, fishing, livery, but there wasn’t enough time to turn a profit. He told her about his plans, watched her mull over the problem in silence.
“I could give you money,” she offered.
Nat nearly fell on his ass. He hadn’t expected that.
“No.” The woman had two hundred grand to give out to strangers? “Hell, no!”
She looked down at her boots. Nat thought he saw a shimmer in her eyes, but it was gone when she looked up at him.
“I just thought—”
“No. We’d better head back,” Nat shook his head. He’d had enough of talking about his problems. Talk solved nothing and there was no way he would borrow money from Eliza Reed.
What did he really know about her anyway?
She was beautiful, and rich apparently, could sharp-shoot and fight dirty. She’d told him she was in law enforcement, but she’d been damaged along the way. Did he really want to get involved with a woman as dangerous to his heart as Nina had ever been?
He started to walk away. Remembered that look in her eyes last night when she’d pulled the gun on him. The utter desolation and the nightmares.
He stopped and let her move ahead of him. As he followed her back to the horses, he couldn’t help but notice the way the soft denim of her jeans clung to her long legs. He imagined those same legs wrapped around his hips...
Oh yeah, he wanted to get involved all right. He wanted to get very involved.
He liked the way she moved. He liked the way she kissed. He’d wanted this time alone with her to gain her trust and he was slowly prying his way beneath the surface, finally seeing behind the mask that slipped over those wide green eyes whenever he got too close. He was learning to read her body language. Not just the signs of physical attraction, but the subtle things, like the way she dragged her hands through her hair when she was frustrated and twisted the ring on her pinkie when she got nervous. And the way she unconsciously bit her bottom lip when she watched him.
Heat kicked uncomfortably into his groin, but he ignored it.
The woman had a past. She was paranoid enough to sleep with a gun under her pillow and flinched at the slightest touch. She sure as hell didn’t need him or his problems. But still he wanted her.
She stood next to the roan, waiting for a leg up into the saddle. This concession to him was a big deal to her, even he knew it.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she turned to face him. “For being nosey.”
She was apologizing? To him?
Hell.
Nat brushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead and leaned down to touch her lips with his. It was a kiss of reassurance, gentle and uncomplicated. Nat was determined not to frighten her by taking things too far, too fast. Even if all he really wanted was to get inside her.
***
Elizabeth stood for a mo
ment, dazed by the soft kiss that sent heat spiraling through her veins. It felt so good she kissed him back, opened her mouth to his and explored him with her tongue. She rose on tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his neck, felt rock hard muscles strain beneath the super-soft sheepskin. For a single second he hesitated, before he backed her up against the solid cowpony. She’d forgotten the raw strength of the man, forgotten the firebrand nature of their kisses. She felt her knees give way and suddenly he was sweeping her off her feet.
Tiger snorted in Nat’s ear and Elizabeth laughed for the second time that day. It was getting easier. Even though life was a bitch, it was getting easier to laugh about it. With Nat.
“Who asked you?” Nat said to the horse. He blew out a big sigh of frustration and placed his forehead against hers. Tiger snorted again and Elizabeth wiped horse drool off Nat’s cheek with her jacket cuff.
With a reluctant groan, he slid her slowly down his body and let her feel every frustrated inch of him. Then he held her away.
“So now you know all my deep, dark secrets, Eliza.” Nat’s blue eyes delved into hers. She froze and knew he felt it.
“I can’t promise anything except the here and now.” He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “No rings, no happily ever after. I’ve got nothing to offer you, but I want you so badly I can barely stand to let you go.” But he did. He released her with a slight squeeze of her shoulders and took a step back. Somehow he managed to look annoyed and considerate at the same time.
Her heart tilted.
She wanted him too.
He’d said he had nothing to offer her but really it was the other way around. She could only cause him misery and sorrow. If she had any decency at all she would leave now. But Nat Sullivan was her chance at salvation, a lifeline thrown at the last possible moment. If she was nervous, it was only that her old fear would paralyze her, ruin the moment. Tentatively she raised a hand to the crease in his cheek and smiled.
Time stood still as they stared into each other’s eyes. She hoped he found the answers he needed written in her eyes, because she couldn’t speak about her past. Not yet, maybe never. But she did want him, and she wanted him to know it.
“Damn,” he said. He clenched his jaw and glared down at her like she’d done something wrong. He held his breath for a finite moment, stroked her cheek.
Then he grinned.
***
Connecticut, April 12th
Marsh dragged his hand through his short hair and blew out a ragged sigh of frustration. He drove his black BMW along Interstate 95, past the bustling port of New Haven with the gothic spires of Yale, just visible to the north.
His jaw was clenched so hard he’d given himself a headache. He was as frustrated as hell and getting more pissed by the minute. The number Josephine’s father had given him had turned out to be a cell phone, but it was turned off and untraceable. To all intents and purposes, Josephine Maxwell had disappeared off the face of the earth, no ATM or credit card activity, no sightings, nothing, nada, zilch.
She could be dead. But he didn’t think so.
Part of him was relieved that she was so hard to find, but he had a bad feeling about it. He’d missed something. His gut instinct was telling him that time was running out, slipping through his fingers like sand through an egg timer. The preliminary hearings on the mob cases were due to start in two days and things were going to happen. Crime families throughout the U.S. were running around like headless chickens, covering their asses and pissed because the feds had got one over on them.
Signs for the exit ramp to New London and Mystic loomed. He suddenly remembered the photograph in Josephine’s apartment of the women by the boathouse. Damn. He’d forgotten about Elizabeth’s aunt. Marsh swung hard across two carriageways, cutting off a sporty little Miata as he left a streak of black rubber on the asphalt.
His cell phone rang.
“Hayes,” Marsh answered.
A crackly voice came over a very bad line. “Special Agent Hayes, this is Captain Claremont, Brooklyn PD.”
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Marsh didn’t have time to deal with another case, but it had to be urgent, otherwise the cops wouldn’t involve the FBI. They’d rather suck their own blood.
“I need you down at the precinct. I got some questions for you.” The accent was thick Brooklyn, a no-nonsense sort of voice.
“Sorry, Captain, no can do, I’ll send one of my team down ASAP.” Marsh wanted the cop off the line. He needed to get a name and address on Elizabeth’s late aunt. She’d had a house near Mystic—that was all he knew.
There was a muffled exchange at the other end of the line, as if the man had covered the mouthpiece and conferred with someone else.
“You don’t get it, Hayes,” Claremont said abruptly. “I need to question you in relation to a double-homicide. Your prints were found all over the murder scene.”
Shit.
“Walter Maxwell?” Marsh asked. He needed to be sure.
“How’d you know that?” the chief asked.
Marsh nearly laughed at the Colombo-style nature of the interview, but he didn’t. Josephine Maxwell’s father was dead and he didn’t believe in coincidence.
“Because he’s the only person I’ve visited in Brooklyn in the last thirty-eight years. What time did the murder occur?”
“I can’t—”
“Who’s the other victim?” Marsh cut through the bureaucratic bullshit.
“Can’t disclose that at the moment, Hayes, if you just—”
“Was it a mob hit?” Marsh asked.
“Mob?” Claremont clearly hadn’t got a clue what was going on.
Forget it. Marsh wasn’t wasting his time being questioned by detectives while the mob lined up their next victim. He’d get the information he needed from another source.
“Listen, I met Walter Maxwell this morning for the first and only time. I gave him a bottle of whiskey and three-hundred bucks. It was in relation with an ongoing investigation that I am not at liberty to discuss.”
He let his FBI status work for him and put on his most autocratic voice. “If you need any more information I suggest you talk to either FBI Director Brett Lovine or my attorney. My secretary can tell you how to contact them.” He ignored the spluttered protests and rang off. Then he dialed his secretary before anyone else could tie down the line. He needed information and he needed it fast.
The FBI had a leak.
It had to be a mob hit. Had to be. How else could they have connected an old man in the slums to an upscale curator at MOMA? Marsh knew the OCU had fingerprinted Elizabeth’s apartment after she disappeared and had gotten a cold-hit on Josephine Maxwell’s prints. That information must have been passed onto the mob, only they hadn’t believed the old man when he’d told them he didn’t know where his daughter was. They’d killed the bastard.
Marsh didn’t believe in coincidence. Josephine Maxwell was up to her slim neck in trouble and time was running out.
Half an hour later, Marsh stood outside the house that had once belonged to Elizabeth’s aunt, nestled on the beach just outside the small town of Stonington. He’d been dumb. He should have remembered that Elizabeth never sold property. His black BMW was parked on a grass-verge hidden from view a hundred yards down the road. The house was a two-storey clapboard with freshly painted blue shutters, set deep in leafy gardens, well hidden from the casual passerby.
Marsh wore a black jersey over his white shirt, his 9-mm SIG pistol holstered to his chest. The place was quiet except for the scream of gulls on the wind. Salt stung the air.
Adrenaline hummed through his veins, reminding him it had been a long time since he’d put his own life on the line. Maybe too long. He vaulted the small wooden fence that sided the property and made his way through the garden, not wanting to approach from the drive. Cautiously, he worked his way around to the back of the house and spotted lights on in a couple of rooms.
He stretched up and spotted a blonde woman walking
away from him toward what looked to be the kitchen.
Bingo.
Looking up, he saw an intricately carved balcony with the doors standing ajar and gauzy drapes billowing in the wind. An old hemlock stretched gnarly limbs just inches from the white balustrade. It had been years since he’d climbed a tree to get into a woman’s bedroom.
Two minutes later he stood in an opulent room and brushed lichen from his pants. A canopied bed, draped with cream silk, dominated the room. It was a bed made for fantasies. Marsh raised his eyebrows, wondering just whom it belonged to. It wasn’t a bed he could picture Elizabeth sleeping in; it was far too girly for his gritty agent. A delicate French lady’s-vanity stood next to the window, complete with a skirted stool. Covered with dozens of tiny glass perfume bottles and an old wedding photograph in a silver filigree frame, it looked like something his mother would have liked. Checking the hall, he made his way silently downstairs, and headed toward the sound of music that spilled from the kitchen.
Josephine Maxwell stood at a center island with her back to him, opening a can of tomatoes. Long silver-blonde hair was caught up in a simple twist that exposed the graceful line of her neck. Her long legs were covered in skintight black leggings and she wore a figure-hugging black tank, draped with a gauzy green shirt that had some weird ethnic print on it. It floated around her as she moved in time to the music.
He waited for her to turn around, knowing she was going to be frightened when she saw him, but not knowing how to prevent it. Not that she didn’t deserve a little shot of terror, the way she’d treated him when they’d last met. But he had to convince her he was one of the good guys. Somehow. She grabbed a saucepan, oblivious to him, and his nerves stretched to breaking point.
Dancing to the music, she whirled and froze as she saw him standing in the doorway. She swallowed convulsively and her eyes darted towards the French-doors at the other end of the kitchen. He started to shake his head, to tell her everything was okay, but she hurled the saucepan and its contents at him. He swore, ducked, and narrowly avoided the cast-iron pot before chasing after her. She made it to the doors, but couldn’t unlock them before he grabbed her.
Crimes of Passion Page 44
