Her Last Chance (18 page)

Drums thrummed along his veins,
faster and faster.

God be with you…

And also with you.

Lying fucking assholes.

Walking up behind her, he handed
her a plastic cup. Pity about the White House, but he had a greater goal now.
Everything had shifted into place. He could finally see the big picture.
Survival. Escape. A fresh start.

***

“So you don’t even
know if there
was
a crime?” Josie laughed so hard she forgot to breathe.
Streetlights filtered through the open drapes to showcase pure masculine
beauty, but left her enough darkness to be comfortable with her disfigured
skin. Kneeling naked on the bed was pretty empowering for a woman who usually
averted her eyes getting into the shower.

“It isn’t funny.” Marsh threw his
arm over his forehead.

But it was and she saw a smile
twitch the corner of his mouth.

“So, the she-devil gave the admiral
her late daddy’s very expensive painting when they were doing the dirty, but
when the admiral broke it off because his wife was getting suspicious, she
stole it back?”

“But the admiral never knew for
sure it was Prudence who stole the picture, even though he suspected it was
her, he still had to report the theft, or face an inquisition from Mrs.
Chambers.”

“That’s pretty funny.” She grinned.

“Not when you imagine them naked it
isn’t.” He squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced. Then he opened his eyes and
looked at
her
.

“Damn.” His hot gaze slid over her
body and the evidence of his arousal made her blush. Again.

“He must have been pretty good in
the sack to warrant a 17th Century Dutch Master,” Josie mused, trying to keep
her distance because she wanted so desperately to touch him and didn’t
recognize herself.

“I’m thinking you’re a Cezanne.
Vibrant and unusual but perfect nevertheless.” Dark eyes glittered at her,
intense and unsettling. “So how’d you rate me?” The voice was teasing, but
being an expert on the subject, she recognized basic insecurity.

“Hmmm…” She tapped her finger to
her lip as if considering. “Maybe the grand master himself? Leonardo?”

“DiCaprio?” His chest shook as he
laughed.

“No. DaVinci.” She felt foolish and
hid her unease by running her fingers over the satin covers, enjoyed the cool
shiver that sparkled along her nerves. Wished she didn’t prefer touching his
warm sleek muscles. She was getting needy, and that suggested weakness she
couldn’t afford.

Marsh had arrived home an hour ago,
but rather than sit down and eat, he’d wordlessly taken her hand and led her up
the stairs, locked the door and jumped her.

It nagged at her that his parents
were in the house and knew they were up here probably screwing each other’s
brains out. But the glitter in Marsh’s gaze had warned her not to question him
and not to bow to convention the way she wanted to. She’d never cared about
meeting other people’s expectations before, and didn’t like the guilt it
wreaked on her conscience.

Role reversal with a twist of
red-hot sex.

Marsh rolled away from her and she
admired the carved planes of his back, rock solid columns flanking his spine
and that tight ass she liked so much.

And it wasn’t only lust that
invaded her mind…

But their relationship was too
fragile, her survival too uncertain to examine those growing feelings. Needing
a distraction she ran her hand across his smooth skin, fascinated by the way
his muscles bunched and played beneath her touch.

Grabbing his cell phone, he jabbed
a speed dial number. “I wish I knew where the hell Dancer had disappeared to…”

“You’re not really worried about
him, are you?”

“Not really. Not anymore,” Marsh
admitted. “He’s a smart guy, too smart to get tangled in any of Pru Duvall’s
schemes.” But he frowned as he got bumped to voicemail yet again. “We could
press charges against Pru and the admiral for wasting FBI time, but the powers that
be would probably snuff them out before they even got to the AG’s Office.

Lying down, her breasts pressed to
his back, she slipped her hand around him, felt power shimmer through her as he
groaned and dropped the phone. Tension and heat erupted from every pore of his
body. Hot naked flesh pressed against hot naked flesh and she explored him in
painstaking detail.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked with
a smile. “I’m hungry.”

“Starving.” His voice broke as
Josie scraped teeth over smooth skin.

“You want to call him again?” she
whispered.

“He’ll be fine,” Marsh muttered,
jerking her to him and kissing the breath out of her.

***

Dancer felt
sluggish, his arms heavy. For a moment, his worst nightmare rose inside his
brain, dark and ugly—that the disease that had destroyed his mother had also
taken control of his body. But he clenched his fists, felt the very solid
connection of hard fingernails pressed into the palm of his hand and knew that
wasn’t the problem. A hood covered his head and panic gripped hard to his
heart. Had he been abducted? He listened hard, trying to figure out whether or
not he was alone. Couldn’t hear anything except the creak of the wind against
windows. Slowly he eased the hood off his head. There was something in his
mouth—he spat out a rag covered in dirt and grime and tried to figure out where
the hell he was. He lay on a filthy wooden floor. The boards were warped and
rotten, mouse droppings scattered everywhere. Rusty nails wavered close to his
face. Memory was hazy. He felt like he’d gotten shitfaced, but didn’t remember
going out. He squinted and vaguely remembered the Statue of Liberty raising her
hand to him…

Rolling onto his back he realized
his zipper was undone and he was exposed to the world.

Shit!
What the hell
…?
Pulling his zipper closed, he rifled through his pant pockets frantically
searching for his cell phone.
Where was it?

Giving up, he staggered to his
knees, relieved when the giddy sensation receded and he was able to raise his
head.

A strong scent hit him and he
gagged. He knew the pungent odor of violent death. He might only be a glorified
technician, but he’d been involved in some serious cases—not least Elizabeth
being pursued by the mob last spring. And he’d been right there when scumbags
Andrew DeLattio and Charlie Corelli had had their faces blown off.

Bracing himself he turned around.
He wished he hadn’t. He wished he hadn’t woken up that morning. He wished he’d
kept on sleeping like a baby, lids welded shut for as long as it took.

Prudence Duvall lay stretched
across what would have been the sanctuary of the church, immediately beneath
the altar. Duct tape covered her mouth. Handcuffs restrained her wrists above
her head.

His handcuffs.

Sirens wailed in the distance, but
they didn’t pierce the fog of his brain.

Blood streaked her body, escaping
from deep wounds that crossed her chest and abdomen. Her blouse was shredded
and hung like a rag from one of her arms. Her skirt was bunched around her
hips, leaving her completely, brutally exposed.

Blood dripped slowly down one side
of her torso. In a daze, Dancer moved toward her.

Was she still alive?

How could she be?

He knelt by her side and checked
her carotid. Noticed the knife lying beside her thigh one second before a voice
called out, “Freeze!”

A flicker of something moved in her
eyes, he was sure of it.

“I’m with the FBI, I think she
might still be alive!”
Jesus
.

“Get away from the body, spread out
on the floor and don’t move a friggin’ muscle.” The voice boomed in his ear so
loud he flinched.
Shit
.

Dancer eased away, his ears
ringing, but repeated quietly, “I’m with the FBI.” He lay on the floor, slowly.
Tasted dust and shit in his mouth. “I think she’s still alive.”

“Shut your mouth, dickwad.” One
officer patted him down hard enough to hurt, but Dancer simply stared at
Prudence and wondered what the hell had happened between the restaurant and
here.

Another cop knelt beside her and
put his fingers on her neck the same way Dancer had. “Nah, she’s dead.”

Dancer started to struggle as the
cuffs snapped against his wrists, catching flesh. He didn’t give a shit about
the pain. “Give her CPR, you stupid prick! Get the EMTs in here! She’s still
alive—”

The first officer nailed him with a
punch.

“Like to cut up women, do ya?” The
beat cop blasted him again and pain shot through his skull as his nose split
open and he collapsed to the floor.

As he lay face down in the dirt,
blood dripping steadily from his broken nose, he knew he’d been set up and
these bozos wouldn’t listen to a word. “I need to make a phone call.” He spat
out dirt and blood and tried to breathe through his mouth. He was from South
Boston; it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a beating.

The police officer spat on him.

How can you be so fucking dumb?

“Give me a phone—”

The boot connecting with his kidney
did what the first two blows had failed to do. Blackness dragged him, pulled
him under even as Marsh’s name slipped past his lips.

Chapter
Fifteen

_________________

N
elson Landry turned off
the police scanner, laughing. He couldn’t believe his good luck. He blew on his
cold hands, wished he had time to make coffee before he wrote his piece, but he
didn’t. This was fate. This was God smiling and taking down the bastard who’d
ruined his topnotch journalism career. They’d see how much weight all that FBI
power got him today.

He could see the front page now.
The
BLADE HUNTER—a knife-wielding G-man?

It was better than TV.

Typing frantically, glancing at his
watch, he used one finger to dial his editor.

“What?”

Either she had caller ID or she
never gravitated from bitch mode.

“We need a second edition out
ASAP,” he said.

“What have you got?” The switch
from pissed to hungry was palpable in those four little words.

“I’ll email it,” he glanced at his
watch, “ten minutes. Tops.” He cut the connection, cracked his knuckles.
Christ, it felt good to be back at the top. Pleasure surged through him. He was
about to get even with Marshall Hayes and he’d enjoy every second of the
bastard’s fall from grace.

***

“Say that again.”
Marsh couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He rubbed his temples as the
information was rapidly repeated back to him.

“What is it?” asked Josie. Sitting
up in bed, she looked like she’d spent a wild night having hot sex, all tangled
hair, reddened lips and heavy eyes, which was exactly as it should be. But
while they’d been trying to exorcise their demons and maybe forge a new
relationship for themselves, the Blade Hunter had carefully set up his next
move—orchestrating their lives as effortlessly as marionettes on a miniature
stage.

Marsh turned away from her.
Revulsion and shame burned him, blazing away the bubble of contentment that
last night had wrapped around him. Sheets rustled behind him, then he heard
Josie getting dressed.

“A broken nose?” This should not be
happening in his country, damn it. Not to a good agent like Steve Dancer. Anger
coalesced into something stronger, harder, meaner. “Contact Benedict
Colavecchia.” He named the best criminal defense attorney in NYC. “Tell him he
has a new client and to get his ass to Brooklyn right now. And get me a flight
to La Guardia.” Marsh broke the connection to his secretary who’d called him
even though it was four in the morning.

He needed to grab a shower and
shave so that NYPD got the full force of his FBI status because this time he
was using every ace up his sleeve, every favor he could pull in, every dollar
at his disposal. Steve Dancer was not a killer. He’d stake his life on it.

Whatever Josie saw in his eyes made
her swallow, but she narrowed her gaze, lifted her chin and stared him out.
“What happened?” She’d dressed in dark cords and a roll-neck sweater that
covered her almost entirely. She wrapped her arms tightly against herself,
hunching slightly as if chilled.

He was cold to the bone.

“Someone murdered Prudence Duvall
last night.” His voice was gruff and he cleared his throat. Josie carried on
staring at him as if somehow knowing that was only a small part of the story. “
The
Blade Hunter
killed Prudence Duvall—or a copycat—and the NYPD found Special
Agent Steve Dancer at the crime scene covered in blood.”

“Is he hurt?” She picked up her
knapsack and held it to her breast like a shield.

“It wasn’t his blood.”

Shit
. He sat on the bed and
cupped his face in his hands. He’d been too busy screwing Josephine to protect
his team.
Fuck
! This was not how the law was supposed to work. Blind
justice didn’t have to be deaf, dumb and stupid, did it?

“Tell me exactly what’s going on,
Marsh.” Her words were forceful and determined.

“The NYPD found Dancer inside an
old church in Brooklyn after an anonymous tip was called in.” Her eyes flashed,
but he carried on, holding down a fury that was starting to feel cold and
deadly inside him.

“Pru was stabbed and mutilated.”
God, he was going to puke and he hadn’t even liked the woman. He braced his
hands on his thighs. “Cops first on the scene arrested Dancer and beat the shit
out of him—the stupid bastards thought they’d caught the Blade Hunter.”

Josie slumped beside him, but he
shifted away a fraction of an inch, unable to bear the thought of anyone
touching him, anyone tapping into that valve that might make him explode.

“You’re angry,” she put her hands
on her hips, “because we were together while Dancer was being set-up? Because
we were busy banging each other when that bastard was cutting up his next
victim?” She gave a harsh laugh that ended on a broken sob. “Welcome to my dark
ugly world.”

Swinging her knapsack over her
shoulder, she jumped up and strode to the door.

“Where the hell do you think you’re
going?” Marsh’s voice was little more than a growl in the darkness, but he
couldn’t soften it. Couldn’t bring forth an ounce of empathy or sympathy to the
surface.

“I’m going back to New York, so we
can finish this thing—”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“We’re both going. You know that.”
She was undaunted by his anger. He’d forgotten that this was how she’d grown
up; with anger and fear and pain. With shouting and violence and plain
old-fashioned ugliness. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but that part
of himself was wrapped up tight by guilt and self-recrimination. If he let go
now it would destroy him.

Her eyes were bright with tears,
but it wasn’t sadness in her eyes; it was rage every bit as powerful as his.

“It’s
me
he wants, Marsh.”

“Which is why you should stay here
and let the law deal with it,” he told her.

“They’ve done such a great job so
far.” She planted her hand on her waist, cocked her hip. “I’m not putting your
family in danger as well as your friends.”

He started to rise to his feet.
“Steve Dancer is a trained professional. You didn’t put him in this situation—”

“Tell me you don’t blame me, blame
us
,”
she pointed at the bed, “for getting him caught up in this mess—”

“I should have been paying more
attention!” His voice bounced off the walls.
Shit
. He sank back onto the
bed. Dropped his face into his hands.
Shit. Shit. Shit
.

Josie looked away, swallowed hard
and nodded. “Exactly.”

***

Marsh’s FBI creds
had got them seats on the first flight to NYC, but wedged between Vince and
Marsh, she was squeezed tighter than a burger in a bun. They were in cattle
class because these were the only seats available.

Josie knew Marsh was angry. She
knew he felt guilty. But she was terrified of the feelings he’d evoked and he’d
done nothing except ignore her for the last three hours—and that after a night
of incredible mind-blowing sex and real honest intimacy.

“Can I get you anything to drink?”
The stewardess asked Marsh. She was perfectly made up, white teeth dazzling and
totally uncaring about anything except getting the job done. An automaton. Like
Marsh.

Josie glanced at him, but he had
his laptop open and was engrossed in work. He glanced up at the flight
attendant’s question and gave an infinitesimal shake of his head.

“How about you?” The woman lifted
her coffee pot and smiled at Josie, vermillion lips clashing against pink gums.

Josie couldn’t even remember if
she’d brushed her hair. “No. Thanks.” Couldn’t even drum up a smile.

Marsh’s fingers paused over the keyboard
for one fraction of a second as if he’d just remembered she was there.

Vince’s legs were too long to fit
in the tiny space in front of his own seat and so he’d shoved them sideways,
into her space as the trolley moved past. He accepted a black coffee and
received the type of smile from the attendant that was banned in religious
countries.

Josie
hated
flying. Her
hands shook. That’s why she said no to coffee. She’d spill it all over the
place…maybe even over Marsh’s spanking new laptop.

Tucking her hands beneath her
backside, she closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest as the air
pressure played havoc with her eardrums.

“You okay?” Vince asked her
quietly.

She opened her eyes and he shifted
his legs back out of her space. As if unable to help himself, he turned his
head to appreciate the physical attributes of the flying waitress as she moved
past them.

“Men.” She rolled her eyes.

Marsh’s fingers paused on the
keyboard even though he was pretending to be absorbed in his work. A hiss
escaped her lips. To think she’d nearly fallen for him.

Who was she trying to kid? She’d
taken a running jump off the highest building and ended up splattered on the
sidewalk.

It hurt.

He was treating her like she was a
casual acquaintance, like someone he knew well enough that he couldn’t ditch
her there and then, but not intimately enough to actually work up an interest
in how she was feeling.

Not enough to pretend he cared.

And so what if she was being stupid
and bitchy? She hadn’t wanted to get involved period. Now Pru Duvall was dead.
Steve Dancer was in jail and it felt like Marsh was blaming her—blaming
them—for what had happened, when she hadn’t wanted to get involved anyway!

She understood the weight of guilt.

She carried it in her backpack on a
daily basis.

And when she’d finally begun to
work out what all the fuss was about with relationships and sex, wham bam! Shut
out and isolated like the nobody she really was.

Dammit
. Worse than before
because she should have known better. People left. People died. People were
murdered and she’d never been able to do a damn thing to stop it. But Marsh
did. He spent his life trying to stop the darkness swallowing the world. He
deserved a better person than her in his life and she knew exactly how to prove
it.

“So are we through fucking each
other or should I make myself available later?”

The woman in front of them twisted
around, shock making her eyes wide before she remembered her manners and turned
back to face the front.

Marsh’s hands froze over the
keyboard, but he didn’t look up. Vince raised his table and tried to get the
hell out. But an elderly woman with a stick made her way slowly past him and he
was stuck.

“How’d I rate, Marsh? On a scale of
say, Georgia O’Keefe to Rembrandt? Or am I more of a Jackson Pollock?”

“You want another rating?” His
laughter was cruel, his tone tipped with biting sarcasm.

No, what she wanted was to get out
of this mess and never see him again. She did much better alone.

“I always liked Jackson Pollock.”
He couldn’t meet her gaze and that’s when she really got it. He thought this
was all her fault…

She sat in silence and used years
of experience to remain dry-eyed and emotionless. She was not doing this. Pain
was something she avoided assiduously. She wasn’t having a relationship that
would rip her to shreds. And maybe she was kidding herself about the
relationship thing anyway, because right now he looked like he couldn’t stand
sharing the same airspace.

God knew her father had always told
her she was trouble, had been from the day she was born. Looked like Marshall
Hayes had finally figured it out.

***

The corridors
heaved with cops, press and Department of Justice agents. The buzz around Marsh
spiraled as a couple of the reporters recognized his face. Marsh pushed through
to the building’s atrium. A solid hand planted on his chest stopped him going
any further. The cop’s pale blue shirt stank of BO, his matching blue eyes
dared him to push any further.

Marsh flicked the desk sergeant a
glare and flashed his badge. “Special Agent in Charge, Marshall Hayes.”

The cynical glare came with a
sneer. “Doesn’t mean you can go back there.”

Detective Cochrane, the bald cop
from Angela Morelli’s murder scene, tapped the big guy on the back, “Hey,
Morris, we need this one.” As if Brooklyn PD could keep him away. “Let him
through.”

Marsh nodded to Cochrane, caught a
speculative gleam in the detective’s gaze as he shoved past the big cop.

“Where’s Special Agent Dancer?”
Marsh asked. They were walking fast down bustling corridors filled with wall
fliers, past excited uniforms, the air rank with the stale odor of
under-washed, over-worked bodies.

“Back here.” Cochrane held a door
for him, twitched his moustache to indicate Marsh went first.

“You don’t really think you’ve got
the right guy, do you?”

“Your man was caught leaning over
the still warm body of a senator’s wife and the murder weapon was right there
with his prints on it—”

“It’s a set-up. Test his DNA and
you’ll know it’s the wrong guy.”

“We’re running his DNA, but if it’s
a set-up it’s a freaking elaborate one.” Cochrane shook his head.

“The perp’s trying to get to
Josephine Maxwell—”

“Looks to me like he was trying to
get to Mrs. Duvall, and succeeded…”

Shit. Another woman dead. In a city
this big how the hell did he protect everyone? “How’s Brook taking it?”

As if conjured, the steely-haired
politician walked dazedly out of an interview room. Next to Steve Dancer, under
normal circumstances, Brook Duvall would be the top suspect on the law
enforcement radar. Marsh moved toward him, sympathy warring with an inbuilt
suspicion. It had nothing to do with his dislike of the man, and everything to
do with the statistics of murder.

Maybe this wasn’t the Blade Hunter?