Her Last Chance
Authors: Toni Anderson
Her Last Chance
Marsh & Josie’s story
By Toni Anderson
Copyright
© 2013 Toni
Anderson
Cover design by Killion Group, Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9918958-5-4
The characters and events portrayed in this book are
fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would
like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy
for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was
not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own
copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
All rights reserved.
No part of this
publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author, except in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For more information on Toni Anderson’s books, check out her
website
For Jean Anderson.
Who never stopped asking for this story.
Best mother-in-law ever.
____________
H
er footsteps rapped
loudly against Bleecker Street’s bustling sidewalk, her swirling black coat
creating an illusion of sophistication that usually amused her. But not right
now. Josephine Maxwell kept her head down and her stride firm, only the
white-knuckled grip on the handle of her art portfolio betraying her inner
apprehension.
Her eyes scanned the street. Fear
prickled her skin and crawled up her spine. Fear was weakness. She’d learned
that before she’d hit double digits.
Stealing a short, hard breath, she
figured she should be used to it by now.
The usual Friday night cocktail of
locals and tourists milled about in every direction, all intent on devouring
the vibrant Greenwich Village scene. Trees lined the avenues, the base of their
trunks dressed up in fancy metal grills. The smell of freshly baked bread
wafted warm and fragrant on the chill fall breeze. Lights began to glow as the
sun started to fade behind Jersey.
And
still
fear stalked her.
Nothing stood out from any other
day except the subtle sensation of being hunted. Danger flickered through her
and her heart gave a stutter. She ignored it, pressed down the tendrils of
panic and kept on walking—nearly home. Nearly safe.
On the patio of a little Italian
restaurant, a swarthy dark-haired man in an expensive business suit stared at
her with hunger in his eyes. Never breaking eye contact, he tipped back a
bottle of beer and took a long swallow. The action brought a childhood memory
sharply into focus and a fine shudder ran through her bones. Uber-confident,
the guy raised an eyebrow and curled his tongue suggestively around the top of
the bottle. Her stomach somersaulted. For one split-second he reminded her of
Andrew DeLattio, but thankfully that murdering asshole was dead.
She didn’t flip the guy off. The
old Josie would have, but nowadays the concrete backbone she’d constructed over
the years had started to disintegrate, leaving her less sure of herself, less
bold.
She looked away. What the hell was
wrong with men anyway?
The memory of one tall,
good-looking federal agent flashed through her mind, but she shut it down,
determined to forget the biggest mistake of her life. She didn’t have time for
self-pity or regrets. Life was a struggle for survival, so why waste energy
with delusions or fantasies of what-might-have-been?
She kept walking. The odor of wet
tarmac, exhaust fumes and damp fallen leaves mingled with hot spicy foods from
nearby restaurants. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch. But
the need to get home, to escape this irrational fear overrode even basic
hunger. Her footsteps quickened and the urge to bolt hit her with every
instinct she possessed. She walked faster. Turning the corner to her Grove
Street apartment, she watched a piece of litter keeping pace with her boots
before being swept ahead on a stronger gust of wind. Fighting the breeze, she
shifted her unwieldy portfolio to her other hand. It was heavy, but at least
the contents had gotten her another commission.
Dusk was starting to take hold.
Sinister shadows hovered between parked cars. Dying leaves rustled as they fell
from spindly branches. Finally she was home. A siren went off in the distance
as she groped in her coat pocket for the key to the main door of the apartment
building. She slid a furtive glance around, saw nothing to justify this uneasy
sensation of being watched.
When am I going to stop looking
over my shoulder?
Biting back a curse, she shoved her
key into the lock and pushed open the heavy black door, wrestling the massive
case through the narrow gap.
The lights were off.
A drop of perspiration rolled down
her temple. Her hands shook as she turned on the lights and she breathed out a
massive sigh of relief when illumination flooded the stairwell. Stepping across
the threshold, she closed the door and bent to open her mailbox on the bottom
row. A brush of sound was all the warning she had before someone grabbed her
around the neck.
She dropped her portfolio. Mail
scattered as her attacker swung her off her feet and whirled her around. Adrenaline
surged through her bloodstream, sending her pulse skyrocketing. Her fingers dug
into cloth and flesh, and she somehow managed to gather enough purchase to stop
her weight from snapping her own neck. Her legs smashed into the balustrade,
shooting pain through her limbs.
Crying out, she gulped a breath as
he dumped her to the floor. Her vision blurred. She lay there in shock. Then
survival instinct kicked in. She rolled, scrambling away from the whistle of
steel that grazed her ear as the knife hit the mosaic tiles with a sharp crack.
On hands and knees she snatched up her portfolio, twisted, falling onto her
back, using it as a shield from that sharp hunter’s blade. They stared at each
other, frozen.
She recognized him.
Recognized the sharp intent in
those lifeless silver disks.
Oh, God.
Sickness stirred in her stomach as
she stared up at him, helpless. She’d always known he’d come back.
Always
known
. The constricted muscles of her throat choked the breath she so
desperately needed as they watched each other in silence. Predator versus weak,
pathetic, useless prey.
Dressed in black, a balaclava
covering his features, he crouched beside her, a dark faceless monster.
Ice-gray eyes stared from thin slits, reflecting the gleam of the knife he
carried in his left hand. He wore surgical gloves that made his flesh look waxy
as a corpse. Blood smeared the latex.
Whose blood?
Moving slowly, as if he knew he’d
won, the monster lifted the portfolio from her shaky grasp and laid it
carefully against the wall beneath the mailboxes. She couldn’t move; just lay
there petrified as memories bombarded her.
The predator tilted his head,
considering her as if she were already cut and bleeding. He clenched the handle
of the knife, strong fingers squeezing the weapon possessively. For all her big
mouth and fighting pride she could not move. Because he’d
created
her
all those years ago. He’d created her and now he was back to destroy her.
Without hurry he flicked open the
buttons on her coat. Lifted her sweater up and over her breasts and terror
welded her to the spot. He cut the material of her bra with a jerk of his
wrist.
Nausea threatened, but she forced
it back. Cold air flicked over her skin.
I can’t survive this twice.
The
memory of pain crawled over her body like hives. She told her limbs to work, to
move, but they wouldn’t obey.
Is this what I’ve been waiting
for? For him to come back and finish the job?
She flinched as his finger
traced a faded scar.
What did he think of his ancient
handiwork?
He lifted the knife. She watched as
he trailed its razor edge along a furrow of shiny, white scar tissue. From her
hipbone, up across her stomach, slowly, over her ribs,
bump, bump, bump.
She held her breath. The flat edge of the knife stroked her nipple, and horror,
not desire, had it puckering.
His mouth was hidden by the mask
but Josie knew he was smiling. Tears formed. Bile burned the lining of her
throat. Their eyes locked and she clenched her fists in frustrated rage as he
turned the knife upright and let the weight bear down into her chest. Blood
pearled. Pain burst along her nerves with excruciating clarity.
Sucking in a gasp, she braced
herself. “You promised if I didn’t make a sound you wouldn’t kill me.” Her
voice was ragged, air stroking her vocal chords with the sensitivity of barbed
wire.
Time suspended between them like a
big fat spider on a whisper of silk. The light in his eyes darkened. “You just
made a sound.”
She whacked the flat of her hand as
hard as she could against his ear and grabbed at his knife-hand, pushing it
away from her body. She sank her teeth into his wrist, narrowly avoiding
getting a knife in the face. His pulse beat solidly against her lips as she
clamped her jaws together until she tasted blood. She didn’t let go.
Her other hand clawed at his eye,
her legs finally working as they scrambled for purchase on the slick tile. His
body fell against her hip, his breath hot and violent against her cheek.
Gouging her sharp fingernails into his eye socket, she scratched at the smooth
hard shell of his eyeball. Blood filled her mouth, the taste of him bitter and
repugnant on her tongue. Her stomach twisted but she didn’t ease up. If she
did, he would kill her.
With a furious roar, he fell back.
Scrambling to her feet, Josie grabbed her portfolio from against the wall and
held it in front of her again as a last desperate defense. The predator rubbed
his hand over eyes that glowed with malevolence.
In her nightmares he was immortal,
unstoppable. In reality, he was just another fucking asshole who liked to hurt
people. And God help her, right now he wanted to hurt her.
***
Aesthetically, the
17th Century Dutch painting with its fake
De Hooch
signature left Special
Agent in Charge Marshall Hayes colder than a witch’s tit, but even so his chest
tightened and his heart rate stepped up a gear. It was only 7:30 PM but the
place was packed for the grand opening of yet another trendy New York art
gallery. The party atmosphere and chattering crowd faded as he took a closer
look. Someone jostled his elbow, someone else brushed his ass. He ignored
everything except the painting.
It had been stolen a month before
the infamous Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum robbery and the two might be
linked. The theft had been kept under wraps because the owner didn’t want to
look like a moron for hanging artwork worth a fortune on his lounge wall with
nothing but an aging German shepherd for security. It wasn’t even listed on the
National Stolen Art File or Interpol.
So maybe after so many years the
thieves had figured the painting was finally safe to fence. Or maybe the thief
died and the painting had passed into the hands of a legitimate collector.
Marsh didn’t know, but it was his business to find out.
Anticipation tingled over his skin.
The suckers who’d opened this gallery had probably been taken for a lot of
money. Unless they were involved…
Music beat through the air with the
low throb of sex. Cameras exploded in the background like emergency flares.
Marsh looked across the room. Gloria Faraday, one of the owners, was
air-kissing some woman wearing thin silk on a cold New York night. He vaguely
recognized the new arrival from billboards. Some cat-walk model who’d been
outed in the tabloids for drug addiction and had just got out of rehab.
His mind wandered to another woman
with a waif-like figure, big blue eyes and a
Titanic
attitude problem.
He forced the image away. He was working, dammit.
A nipple peeked out of the model’s
halter-top, a quick flash of scandal sure to make tomorrow’s gossip pages. With
carefully staged embarrassment, she slipped the silk back in place and moved
away from the cameras. Maybe sensing his gaze, she tilted her head and met his
eyes. He didn’t smile, but didn’t look away either. She swept him with a look
that switched to interested in a heartbeat.
Marsh turned away, irritated with
his own lack of interest in an undeniably attractive woman. And okay, it wasn’t
a lack of interest in beautiful women that bothered him, more his obsession
with one particular female. His teeth locked as he pushed Josephine out of his
mind and reminded himself once again he was on the job—kind of.
The owners, Philip and Gloria
Faraday, were British nationals, recently moved from Paris. He didn’t know much
about them—yet. Not even if they were husband and wife, siblings or a couple of
hustlers looking for fresh marks in the Big Apple.
Gloria looked early forties, but it
was hard to tell exactly in the era of cosmetic age reduction. She wore thick
makeup and a garish print blouse that clashed and repelled the eye. Philip
looked younger, dressed down in designer jeans and a long-sleeved gray tee. He
sported a salt-and-pepper crew cut and dark glasses even though it was dark
outside. Pretentious ass.
Philip slipped through a discreetly
hidden door, probably a storage area or maybe where they kept the cash register
in a place too up-market for price tags.
The Faradays owned galleries in
London, Paris, Barcelona, Nairobi, Sydney & Tokyo, and now it seemed they’d
decided to head west. Total Mastery NY was a nicely put together concept. Old
masters mixed with contemporary artwork to update the classic look. Crusty old
portraits hung above funky metallic vases, exquisitely carved side-tables
complimenting the paintings and ceramics. A classy place. Persuading the
clientele you really could buy good taste.
Marsh caught Steve Dancer’s eye
through the crowd. He nodded to his tech who returned the look with a familiar
light of excitement in his eyes.
Game on
.
“What do you think of it?” The
woman at his side stood on tiptoe and raised her voice over the noise of the
crowd.
Damn
. He’d forgotten about
her.
Lynn Richards was beautiful,
charming and well-bred—apparently all the ingredients for a perfect wife. And
sexually she did as much for him as the portrait. Her mother had told him that
the girl was eager to attend the opening and she knew he was going, so would he
take her? Lynn provided good cover so he’d agreed, but she seemed to think they
were on a date which made him feel like a goddamn pedophile. He did not date
children.
She dug her nails harder into his
bicep and he winced. He twisted slightly, loosening the girl’s talons without
making it obvious. But she clung.