Authors: Toni Anderson
His life was about to change.
Again.
Whether they realized it or not,
the two most important people in his life were sizing one another up. Josephine
paused on the bedroom’s threshold. It was the same room she’d stayed in six
months ago, but his parents had been away at the time. Would Josephine
recognize it? The décor had changed again.
His mother moved restlessly from
one room to the next in their enormous Louisburg Square home, decorating in a
forlorn effort to fill the void. Marsh worked his ass off and his father
golfed. How else did you cope with the loss of a beloved son or revered
brother?
Josephine lowered her knapsack
carefully to the floor beside the bed where it landed with a hollow thud.
What the hell was in that thing?
The bed was made up with a lavish
mixture of shiny mauve, cream and purple sheets, with enough covers and pillows
to survive a Canadian winter.
“I can’t believe what happened to
poor Lynn.” Beatrice Hayes stood inside the room, her hand resting on her
heart. She gave a little shake of her head. “I called to leave my condolences,
but Lydia wasn’t receiving. She’s under medication.” Her eyes flicked nervously
away.
Lydia—Lynn Richards’ mother.
Josephine caught his eye and they
exchanged a moment of guilt.
His mother folded and unfolded her
hands across her chest, probably unsettled by the less than friendly expression
on Josephine’s face. This was the first time he’d ever brought a woman home,
and she wasn’t exactly the girl next door.
“Josephine has been attacked twice
by this killer, once when she was only a small child.” Marsh knew he’d go to
hell for playing on his mother’s sympathies, assuming Josephine didn’t kill him
first for sharing her secrets. His mom softened visibly, her maternal instincts
staunch enough to overlook the fact Josephine was no longer a child, but a full
grown woman that her son lusted after.
“I’ll try and find you some clothes
to wear, dear.” Bea frowned as she assessed Josephine’s tall slender frame. His
mother was about seven inches shorter and four sizes wider. “Actually you’d
better go out to the boutique at the end of the road, Marshall, and pick up
some things. I can’t believe he didn’t give you time to change.”
Yeah, because clothes were more
important than getting Josephine away from danger.
She looked down at her paint
spattered jeans and frowned, a bewildered light entering her eyes. “The FBI
wanted to search my place and I didn’t want to wear anything the guy might have
touched…”
Bea’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh,
of course not. Please forgive me, dear. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She
gave a delicate shudder, crossed over and hugged Josephine briefly, as if
someone touching her underwear was the worst thing his mother could imagine. He
hoped to God that never changed.
Josephine’s wild frantic eyes shot
a pleading look in his direction. He shrugged.
This was what happened when two
worlds collided.
“You redecorated in here?” He made
an attempt at light conversation.
His mother released her and smiled,
happy to be distracted from the baser side of life. “Yes, dear, though your father
wasn’t happy when I had the wood paneling painted white.”
No kidding
. Marsh coughed.
“Not that I told him until after it
was finished.” She squeezed his arm, her fingers soft on the sleeve of his
jacket. He bet his father had gone ballistic when the antique wood had received
a facelift, but then nobody really cared as long as Bea was happy. Except she
was never really happy. Pain lingered in the corners of her eyes, in the lines
around her soft mouth.
And that’s why he’d gone on a date
with a young woman who’d ended up dead.
“It brightens the room, don’t you
think?” Bea’s anxious hazel eyes, so like his own, so like Robert’s, appealed
to him now.
He wanted to say
yes, it
brightened the room
, but the lump in his throat blocked the words.
Who
cared?
His mother’s smile faltered.
“It’s beautiful.” Josephine hovered
beside the bed as if afraid to sit down. She cleared her throat, walked to the
casement window, peered into the dark square beyond. “Pretty fancy digs.”
“And the security is top of the
range.” He squinted down at his mother. “You are still using the alarm system
we installed, right?”
Bea flapped her hands at him. “Your
father keeps setting the silly thing off with his midnight strolls to the
kitchen.” She smiled, the lines on her smooth cheeks creasing, “We keep the
outside one turned on, of course, but inside…” Her voice trailed off.
“I’ll talk to Dad—until we catch
this killer we have to assume he might track Josephine here.” He held his
mother’s gaze, read her silent query as to why he’d brought danger into their
home. She was too polite to call him on it.
Josephine prowled the background
like a tiger locked in a too-small cage. The sequins on her flip flops
shimmered in the light from the ornate chandelier.
“So how long have you two known each
other?” Bea asked, smiling at Josephine so guilelessly Marsh wanted to shout a
warning, but she answered naively.
“We have a mutual friend who got
into some trouble last April.” Josephine shrugged a shoulder and missed his
grimace. His mother didn’t.
Bea turned back toward Josephine,
assessing her for a full ten seconds with only the ticking carriage clock to
fill the silence. The lighting made Josephine’s hair glow white against the
darkness of the window, all three of them reflected there like ghosts.
Conscious of possible onlookers,
Marsh walked over and closed the drapes. Stood tall at Josephine’s shoulder.
Eyes sharp, lips considering, Bea
examined them both. Then she nodded. “You must be terrified, Josephine. Do you
mind if I call you Josephine?”
“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.