Authors: Toni Anderson
Josephine tapped her fingers
against a wooden slat of the bench, scraping at the flaky paint. There were no
rings on her fingers; her nails were scrubbed clean and short. Wanting to calm
her agitation, he placed his hand over hers and was shocked by the coldness of
her flesh.
“Maybe in the meantime you could
actually start looking for the UNSUB?” Marsh cut the connection and reached
over to take Josephine’s other hand from where it clasped the strap of her bag.
Electricity bounced crazily in his stomach from the contact. She resisted for a
moment, but then she seemed to give up. She sagged against his shoulder as he
rubbed her fingers between his palms until they started to warm.
Her skin was smooth as silk and
despite the drugs she’d spiked him with that night six months ago, he
remembered other parts were even softer. Desire shot through him. An answering
awareness lit her eyes, but there were tears there too. Her eyes shone with a
cauldron of emotions. Physical awareness, yes, but sadness and grief also.
Elizabeth Ward’s disappearance had led to both her father and Marion Harper,
the woman who’d raised her, being murdered by mobsters trying to track them
down. He squeezed her fingers. No wonder she was messed up.
“My, my, what do we have here?” A
deep Southern drawl rasped off Pru Duvall’s lips.
Marsh grimaced and looked up at the
wannabe First Lady. What was she doing on this side of Manhattan? As far as he
knew, the Duvalls had an apartment in the exclusive echelons of Gramercy Park.
“You are a fast worker, Special
Agent
in Charge
, Marshall Hayes.” Pru raked her eyes up and down
Josephine’s figure. “I see you like them young, skinny and blonde.”
Josephine’s muscles vibrated like a
strung bow. He let go of her hands, which fisted into bony knots, and placed
his palm on her knee.
“Mrs. Duvall, what a pleasure.”
Marsh didn’t bother to stand. “Let me introduce a very good friend of mine,
Miss Josephine Maxwell.”
Pru Duvall smiled tightly at
Josephine, who stared mutinously back at the older woman.
“Ahh, now I recognize you, my dear.
You’re the victim of that awful person who’s running around Manhattan with a
knife.”
Flicking her blonde hair over one
shoulder, Josephine pushed his hand from her knee and stood, hoisting her bag
over her shoulder. “I’m nobody’s victim.”
Turning her back on Pru—
bad move
—she
stared down at him, the light in her eyes forged from hellfire. “Coming?”
The alarm and frustration of the
last twelve hours were wiped out by admiration for her indomitable spirit.
Without a word to Pru, he stood and followed Josephine down the path out of the
park, knowing that if she truly wanted him to, he’d follow her anywhere.
***
“Where are we
going?” Marsh’s gruff question irritated the hell out of her. She didn’t know
what to do with the feelings he evoked by racing to her rescue and then holding
her hand while sitting on a park bench in Washington Square.
The terror that had gripped her
after she’d left the apartment had knocked her off balance. And she wasn’t
happy about the fact that when she’d panicked she’d phoned Marsh, rather than
dialing 911.
She looked over her shoulder,
waited for him to catch up. Pru Duvall watched them with a catty expression on
her face—she’d looked at Josie like she was something nasty scraped off the
sole of a shoe.
“She’s got the hots for you.” Josie
glanced up into hazel eyes that sparked with amber and jade like fall leaves
scattered about the city.
He shook his head, “She’s a
power-monger. She wants me on my knees groveling.”
“She wants you on your knees all
right, but I don’t think groveling is what she has in mind.”
He grinned and she looked away.
He
disturbed her. Made her
thoughts scatter. Made her think about sex.
Everything about him appealed to
her senses, from the way his suit molded those wide shoulders, the strong
length of his legs, and that perfect face with the lean cheekbones and full
bottom lip. He even smelled great, clean and fresh like the ocean.
She wanted him.
Her mouth went dry. She was stunned
to think this way. The whole time she’d been growing up “sex” had been a dirty
word. Her father’s favorite nickname for her had been
whore
and that was
on a good day. All these years later, her father’s vicious words still hurt.
She made a fist, clenching her fingers so tight her knuckles pulled at her
skin. She’d done everything to prove him wrong, to prove she wasn’t a whore and
that she wasn’t going to get dragged into the gutter like her mother or the
whisky-soaked alcoholic who’d spawned her. That’s why she hadn’t touched a guy
until she’d seduced Marsh last year. That had been a disaster, but at the time
it had felt amazing.
Somehow this ultraconservative
government agent had flipped a button inside her that made her want to get
naked and busy, and it scared the hell out of her. But not as much as the man
with the big knife did.
She shivered.
He put his arm around her
shoulders, startling her, and guided her around a group of college students all
wearing shorts despite the cold weather. Some of the guys were checking her
out. She knew she should be flattered by the stares and murmurs, but the scars
that branded her flesh reminded her how superficial beauty was.
So maybe it wasn’t the desire to
prove her father wrong that kept her from indulging in physical relationships.
Maybe it was nothing more than simple vanity. Touching Marsh like this, pressed
so close against him, made her heart speed up and excitement flutter along her
veins. She’d always pushed heterosexual males away because she was afraid to
let anyone see her scars. But right now she had a heterosexual male by her side
who’d seen all her many flaws. It didn’t seem to be such a problem anymore.
But if scars had been her only
issue she’d have just turned out the lights.
She was screwed up and the bottom
line was she didn’t want to let anyone close. Relying on anyone but herself was
dangerous. She pushed away from Marsh. He only looked surprised it had taken so
long.
“What happens next?”
“I’ll set up protective custody,”
his voice went deeper, seductive and compelling, “get you into a safe house—”
“I’m not going to a safe house.” He
drew in a breath as if to argue, and for the first time in her life she felt
compelled to explain. “Look. Social Services made it their mission to take me
away from the one person in the world I trusted.” A piece of lint clung to his
lapel; she concentrated on brushing it off rather than the emotions that went
hand-in-hand with thinking about Marion. Her gaze settled on the strong column
of his throat, above his starched white collar. “There’s no way I can stand to
be locked up again.”
“You’d rather be dead?”
“
I
wanted to leave,
remember? To disappear? You’re the one who wants me to stay and, yes, frankly
I’d rather be dead than locked up in some ‘safe house’ waiting for someone to
kill me.” A lump swelled in her throat. “But I’d rather not be either.”
The wind blew her hair in a wild
flurry around her face. “I thought you wanted to catch this guy?”
“I want to nail him.” His fingers
squeezed her shoulders and her gaze rose to meet his. “But not if it means you
getting hurt.” His fingers were warm through her jacket, the pressure
increasing, as if compelling her to trust him.
Slowly, he leaned forward and
touched his forehead and nose to hers, hot flesh against cold. This was the
most intimate gesture she’d shared with anyone, this one-on-one stare with a
G-man she’d spent months hating, months fantasizing about. Flecks of gold
glinted in his hazel eyes, and the banked heat of desire glowed deep and hot.
“I’ll hire private protection—”
“I can pay for my own damned
protection.” She was unhappy at being vulnerable to a killer and inexplicably
disappointed Marsh wouldn’t be the one watching her.
Watching
her.
Right
.
She drew back.
“There’s no way I can protect you
24/7. I’ll stay with you at night, but I have a job to do. And I’m hiring the
bodyguard, so get over it.”
Frustrated, she blew out a breath
and remembered what Elizabeth had told her about Marsh’s core sense of honor
and justice. Poor deluded bastard.
“Where are you going right now?” He
looked along the street as if suddenly noticing the throngs of tourists and
shoppers.
“There’s an art gallery on Mercer
that sold two of my paintings last week, I was going to talk to the owner about
what they might want to replace them with.”
He glanced at his fancy wristwatch,
as if mentally tallying up the minutes he needed to spend in her company.
Sliding her teeth against one another she narrowed her gaze at the cracks in
the sidewalk. Why was she so angry at him for doing his job? Why was she so
angry, period?
“I’ll walk you there. Dancer can
swap with me later if I can’t get hold of a friend of mine who lives in the
city. You remember Steve Dancer, right?”
She nodded. Hard to forget Marsh’s
sidekick with his techno-gadgets. Steve Dancer had been nice to her even when
everybody in the world, including Marsh, had hated her guts. Not even Nat
Sullivan, Elizabeth’s new husband, had wanted her around after she’d
inadvertently brought Andrew DeLattio to his remote ranch. She could hardly
blame him. Elizabeth had almost died and it had been her stupid fault.
Her shoulders sagged as Marsh
herded her toward her appointment, already on the phone to a bodyguard whose
number he knew by heart. She wanted her life back. Her nice, safe, insular
little life that now seemed as cold and desolate as a wasteland.
There was a hot dog vendor on the
corner of West Broadway, the aroma invading every particle of air she breathed,
reminding her she’d only had one measly piece of toast since lunchtime
yesterday.
“You want a hotdog?” she asked
Marsh, groping for change in her purse.
The sun flared between clouds and
light flowed over his dark hair, catching a hint of silver she hadn’t noticed
before.
“You’re going to eat on the move?”
Disapproval in every word.
“Yep.” She wished she didn’t find
him quite so attractive, wished she’d never discovered what she’d been missing
as a twenty-seven year old virgin. Life had been fine before that.
“Let’s go somewhere decent—”
“This is decent.” She shook her
head, blew the hair out of her eyes. He was such a snob.
One hand on her elbow he pointed to
the flies hovering on the ketchup dispenser. “This is a health hazard,” he
said.
Seriously
… She rolled her
eyes at him.
The sun broke fully through
dissolute clouds, glinting warmly off his tanned skin. He tugged her away from
the succulent aroma and reluctantly she fell into step beside him.
“Well, it better be quick—”
“Why, Josephine?” He stopped and
looked down at her, a hard light in his eyes. “I thought artists were Bohemian,
free spirits? Why are you always in so much of a damn rush that you don’t look
after yourself?”
“I’m hungry, you idiot.” Angry at
being so unfairly judged lit a fuse within her. “And I know how to look after
myself.” She planted her finger on his chest. “I’ve had plenty of practice
looking after myself and aside from this stupid freaking serial killer on my
tail, I do a pretty good job of it.”
People streamed around them in the
street. Marsh swept a pitying glance over her frame, from her Doc Marten boots
to her favorite army jacket. She glared back, wanting to cross her arms over
her chest, but knowing that would put her on the defensive rather than the
attack.
“You’re too damn thin. I could push
you over with one finger.” He copied her move and stuck his index finger in her
sternum, between her breasts.
The world stopped. Time hovered.
The people rushing past them ceasing to exist. There was nothing but the heat
in his eyes and the energy that sizzled and circled between the points of
contact of each finger on each chest, round and round, firing sparks through
her heart and breasts, making her breath squeeze tight into a tiny ball.
Suddenly it was the flat of her
hand against his white cotton shirt as if holding him off—but she wasn’t and he
knew it. He dropped his hand slowly away from her.
Speechless for once in her life,
she finally let her hand drop away.
“Come on, woman.” He took her elbow
gently and steered her down the sidewalk. “Let’s get some food.”
***
They settled on a
small Irish pub. Marsh ordered a steak sandwich. Josephine ordered beef pie,
French fries and orange juice.
Marsh sipped water as they sat in
silence. That pulse of desire that had rushed them on the street rattled him.
Six months ago, he’d let her get way too close and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get
over it. Lust for her had clouded his judgment, affected his thinking and made
him break the law. Not to mention nearly gotten his agent killed. Right now, he
couldn’t afford distraction, because this time it would be Josephine who wound
up dead.
A huge mountain of food arrived in
front of them and they both dug in. No way was she going to be able to eat all
that. First she smothered the fries in vinegar, then ketchup, and she started
eating like she was ravenous. One French fry after another disappeared between
those delicate lips. She licked salt off with a darting pink tongue.
She looked up. “What?”
Marsh shook his head and stared at
the rapidly disappearing food. “I hope you’re not doing that to impress me.”
“I’m starving.” Wiping a napkin
over her mouth, she paused. “And you know I rarely do anything to impress
anyone.”