Her Last Chance (17 page)

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 conceited. 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

___________________

D
ancer 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.

Tipping back the glass, he
swallowed the rest of the wine. Wiping his mouth he tried to recapture the
thrill of having lunch at the Ritz-Carlton hotel.

“So, I’m pretty curious as to why
you wanted to meet up with me for lunch, Prudence.” He gave her a shy smile,
knew it made him look fifteen.

She raised one sharply defined
eyebrow. “Do you really need to ask, Agent Dancer?”

“I’d rather not assume…” He let the
question hang. Rather not assume a married woman would screw around on her
husband? Rather not assume she would try to insinuate herself in an official
investigation? Or that the wife of a potential nominee for the presidency would
be so indiscreet?

Reaching across the table, she
rested her hand next to his and stroked one fingernail along his freckled skin.
The lines on her hand revealed her true age—no plastic surgery in the world
could hide that reality.

Heat radiated from his cheeks like
mini explosions. “I—I—I, I’m flattered, Mrs. Duvall.” Yep, there was his
stutter back, the icing on the cake of his humiliation. The Statue of Liberty
saluted in the distance, and Dancer found himself grinning back at her. Before
he could say anything Pru leaned forward, revealing cleavage as deep and firm
as any twenty-year-old’s.

Fifty-two years or not, she worked
out and looked good. And it stirred not an atom of interest in any part of his
body. Prudence Duvall was his mother’s age and the idea of being with her
repelled him so deeply he thought he might puke.

So hold it together, Joey. You
don’t believe she’s really after your body, do you? She wants something and
figures getting you in the sack would be the fastest route to the jackpot.

“Prudence.” He smiled into her eyes
and pretended not to see the unsheathed claws gleaming in her retinas. “I’m
flattered, but you are a married woman.”

The waiter arrived with their main
course and Dancer breathed a sweet sigh of relief. Salivating at the aroma of
prime sirloin he picked up his knife and fork then noticed a tear escaping
Pru’s eye. He knew it wasn’t real, he knew she was putting it on, but the sight
twisted his gut and had him placing a hand over hers.

“He beats me.” Her voice dropped to
a thick whisper.

“What?” Dancer didn’t believe her
for a second. “Who beats you, Prudence?”

Pursing her lips she shook her
head, her ash-blonde hair coming down from one of its pins and making her look
vulnerable for the first time ever.

Barracuda
, he reminded
himself.

“You don’t believe me. I can tell.”
Her eyes were bright and she blinked rapidly at the wetness. Glancing around,
she slowly inched back the sleeve of her jacket.

Indigo and green bruises encircled
her wrists.

Shit
.

Appetite wiped clean, Dancer leaned
back in his chair and looked deep into her eyes. What the hell was going on?
“You need to tell me everything.”

She nodded frantically. “But not
here. Someone might see me here.”

Mentally rolling his eyes at
himself, he rose and walked around to assist her from her chair. She pulled
down the sleeves of her suit jacket and stood jerkily, spilling her wine with a
crash. Red stained the white wool of her skirt like fresh blood.

“Come on.” He took her arm, looked
longingly at the steak on his plate. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and talk.” Maybe
she’d tell him where she’d got that painting and why she’d lied about it.

***

“Well damn and
blast, you finally found it.” Admiral Chambers’ brown eyes twinkled like
Christmas lights as he examined the color photocopy Marsh held out to him.

“We got a tip off.” Marsh followed
the elderly naval officer into his oak-lined study. The golden wood of the desk
shone brightly. The room smelled sweetly of polish.

“Your father will be proud.”

Marsh had wondered how long it
would take the man to bring up the family connection.

“When can I get it back?” The
admiral moved with a stiff gait, like he was bothered by arthritis or maybe an
old injury. But excitement propelled him eagerly to his desk and he was all but
rubbing his hands together with glee. Chambers didn’t know the painting had
been reassessed in its absence and was considered by the few experts who knew
of its existence to be a missing Vermeer.

Or did he?

Before Marsh could release it he
needed to establish the rightful owner. He saw lawyers on the horizon. Lots of
lawyers.

 “Did you miss it that much or are
you just anxious to sell?” Marsh wandered around the book-filled shelves,
noting a thick layer of dust coating each volume.

Thick silver brows beetled together
and the old man’s jowls quivered with indignation. “None of your goddamned
business.”

“What if I wanted to buy it? As a
present for someone?” Marsh examined his fingernails in a big show of
nonchalance.

“You?” The admiral’s eyes narrowed
as if looking for a trap as he settled his bulk into a shiny brown leather
chair, worn pale around the seams. It creaked with strain as he leaned against
the backrest. “Jake said you’d finally brought a woman home. You kowtowing to
the need for an heir or just screwing her?”

“None of
your
goddamned
business.” Marsh smiled at the old coot whom his father confided in during
their twice-weekly golf games. If Marsh ever arrested the admiral, his father
would probably disown him, whether the admiral was guilty or not.

The other man opened a drawer and
hauled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass.

“Want one?” Chambers’ hand hovered
over a second glass.

Deciding it was the best way of
keeping the old termagant talking, Marsh nodded. “I didn’t think you were
allowed to drink anymore?”

Chambers grunted, slipped a nasty
look toward the closed study door. “What Helen doesn’t know won’t kill her.”
His smile was small and bitter.

“After fifty years of marriage she
must love you a hell of a lot to monitor your health so closely.” Marsh kept a
bland expression on his face. His private life wasn’t the only one discussed
among strangers. Helen Chambers had her husband by the proverbial balls and was
slowly strangling him for past indiscretions.

He filled both shot glasses to the
brim, passed one across the desk leaving a small streak of liquid marring the
otherwise perfect surface.

“I’ll give you one piece of advice,
lad. Don’t marry a woman who controls the purse strings. Hell, don’t get
married period.”

Lad
?

The admiral tossed back the bourbon
and poured himself another. He held up the bottle, but Marsh declined. Chambers
capped it and stuck it back in his drawer like a guilty secret.

What other secrets were locked up
inside that devious old mind?

“So.” Chambers breathed out slowly,
the bourbon doing its job. “When do I get my painting back?”

“We need to establish provenance.”

A flicker of unease entered the old
man’s eyes. As if aware he was giving himself away he turned and looked out of
the window. “It was bought years ago. I don’t have any proof of purchase.”

“Prudence Duvall claims the
painting was hers.”

Chambers’ head whipped around, his
mouth drawn back in a snarl. “That woman is a lying bitch.”

“She has evidence in the form of
eyewitnesses who place the painting in her childhood home throughout her life.”

A vein throbbed in Chambers’
forehead, a vivid mark of temper. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed.
“She’s lying, but she did promise to screw me one day.” Suspicion entered his
gaze as his fingers closed tighter on the shot glass. “Where’d you say you
found it?”

“I didn’t.” Marsh didn’t give out
details to anyone during investigations. “So how do you two know each other?”

Annoyance puckered the man’s brow
as he sipped his drink. “
Knew
. I haven’t seen her in years and good
riddance.” He turned away again, stared at the velveteen green lawn sprinkled
with this year’s dead leaves. Sweat glistened on his brow. “She’s evil.”

Marsh ignored the bitter
observation, wanting more information. “You slept together?”

“No.” The admiral’s tone grew dark
as he glanced toward the oak paneled door of his study. “But I fucked her for a
few weeks.”

“Looks like she fucked you right
back.” Marsh rose to his feet, feeling nauseous that
this
was his
father’s best friend. He walked to the casement window, put his hand against
the cold pane. “We figure that painting you two
both
claim to own could
fetch as much as fifty million at auction today.”

Chambers’ face lost all color.
Marsh wished he had the grace to feel sorry for the old fool, but he didn’t. “I
think it’s time you told me the whole story and then maybe the FBI won’t press
charges about you falsifying the report of a crime and wasting police time.”

***

The old church was
boarded up, windows cracked and splintered, wire mesh enforcing the exclusion
order. Grime coated each pane, blocking light until nothing but gray silt
pervaded the empty nave. Echoes of an old life competed with the drums inside
his head. The floor was smooth hardwood, worn down in places by the tread of
long forgotten bodies, a lost congregation, a failed faith.

He lit three candles. One each.

God be with you…

And also with you.

Thick dust coated everything,
spider webs shrouding the old pulpit where his father had once preached faith
and charity. His mouth tightened with memories belonging to another lifetime.
His family had been excited by their first trip to the US, away from their
sanctimonious mud hut existence to the bright lights of America.

They’d never been the same again.

Darkness stirred. Hatred burned for
the woman who’d started all this—a woman he’d already killed.

The man on the floor groaned,
attempted to reach out a bound hand and ended up face down, writhing on the
floor. A black nylon hood was strung over his head. Taking a small syringe he
tapped it to get the air out and stuck the man with another dose of liquid
codeine.

He didn’t want to kill him.

Pru had gotten him into her car
before he’d succumbed to the drug she’d put in his wine. He smiled. Everything
was going perfectly, though Pru didn’t fully appreciate the endgame yet.

“When are you going to kill him?”
Her voice was breathy.

“After. You can do it.”

A gleam of anticipation lit her
eyes in the darkness. She’d never been involved this intimately before and was
excited by it. They’d been sexual partners for years before she’d guessed his
unusual sideline. Instead of turning him in, she’d been turned on by the fact
he had a lethal hobby. So he hadn’t killed her.

But she was high risk. Once Brook
was nominated as a presidential candidate, which looked more and more likely,
the chances of being caught exploded exponentially. Pru lived for the thrill,
didn’t really care about getting caught.

She’d become a liability.

The candle flames fluttered like
they’d been disturbed by a ghostly presence. A shiver ran along his forearms,
tingled across his shoulders.

Pru’s hands trembled and her
breasts heaved like she’d run all the way here. She was aroused. Riding a
sexual high. A kindred spirit who called to him—like a parched flower called
for rain. The thought of doing it here, inside this church where his father had
preached deceit, where he’d first seen Margo Maxwell and her anemic-looking
daughter made him shake.

Perfect symmetry in an imperfect
world. He touched his knife, painfully aware he needed to leave it behind this
time.

“You know what to do.” He kept his
voice flat. Dampened the emotion because he needed the details to be perfect.
She swept past him with a knowing look. The thought of blood brought the drums
to full volume inside his skull. The desire to touch her was almost tangible,
but he held himself in check and let his groin ache.

Sinking to her knees, she pressed
her cheek to the grunt’s stomach, lips pouting.

“Use your mouth.” An experienced
whore in the abandoned house of God, but she wasn’t the only sinner here. “Let
him go out with a bang.”

Excitement curled along his nerves,
unfurled like fire in his fists. Need clawed and bit and savaged his control
like a wild animal half-starved and cornered. He reined it in. First she had a
job to do because there were some things he didn’t want to relive. Some actions
he never wanted to repeat.