Heroes In Uniform (243 page)

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.

Her Last Chance: Chapter Fourteen

Dancer 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.