Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  It was as spectacular as she remembered. She closed her eyes to absorb the pleasure, but the image of her mother being fucked against a wall drove all the passion from her mind and she shoved away from him.

  “Oh, god.” Nausea whirled through her. Whore. Slut. She stumbled toward the bedroom.

  Marsh grabbed her arm and swung her round. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m like her.” She wiped her hand over her mouth, trying to rub away the memory. “Just like my mother.”

  “You’re normal.” Frustration roughened his voice. “Sex is normal.”

  But she wasn’t. She pulled away and he released her, anger glowing in the depths of his eyes.

  “You have a girlfriend,” she whispered.

  “No, and the fact I let you think I do shows how low I’ve sunk. I don’t usually play games, Josephine. I’m not that kind of guy.” He dragged his hands through his hair and took a deep breath. “My mother is trying to set me up and marry me off to any woman who’ll have me. I do not have a girlfriend. The whole time we were out I felt like her goddamned father.” He looked so pissed her heart clenched. The thought of him getting married—being permanently unavailable gutted her. And she didn’t want anything to do with him—remember?

  “I haven’t been with anyone since you…since we…had sex. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.” There was a raw honesty in his tone that froze her to the spot.

  “That was six months ago.”

  His smile was pained. “I know. I can’t get you out of my head.”

  She stared at him. She couldn’t get him out of her head either. It wasn’t only sex although that was confusing enough. She wasn’t some shy miss, but this was unfamiliar territory. Complete with forbidden fruit. Bottom line was she was clueless about sex. Sure, she’d seen it in movies and during biology class and god help her, she’d drugged Marsh and seduced him, never thinking she’d enjoy what they did. But it seemed so long ago, the pleasure he’d stirred inside her moments ago was so fresh, so…incredible. She wanted it again—to repeat it and try to learn how to be a normal woman. But one way or another, sex had been her mother’s downfall and it had cost Josie her childhood. And sex was all there could ever be between a girl like her and the ultra-conservative federal agent.

  If sex was dangerous, relationships were warzones.

  Marsh turned and walked up to the front door. For one awful moment she thought he was leaving, but he flicked the locks and the deadbolt. Relief surged through her and it wasn’t all to do with evading a serial killer. She watched him stroll down the stairs, graceful as a tiger, charming as the devil, wishing like hell she was good and mad, and could deal with him. Instead his eyes were on her body with that look again and she reacted with a sharp inhalation.

  They needed a distraction.

  “Food.” She dove for the kitchen.

  “This isn’t finished, Josephine.” His voice was soft and warm, sending tingles running down her spine.

  It was definitely finished.

  His laughter chased her and she foolishly thought it was over until he followed her into the kitchen, where she was digging into the bottom of a cupboard, searching for a sieve. She glanced over her shoulder. Marsh loosened the knot of his tie and shrugged out of his suit jacket, slinging it over his arm.

  Sinful. Gorgeous. Suave and strong. The words didn’t begin to describe how the look of him affected her. And when he wasn’t being an arrogant bastard she actually liked SAC Marshall Hayes. And that scared her more than the idea of them screwing like rabbits.

  “What are you doing?” He arched a single dark brow, his eyes roving her ass like he couldn’t help himself.

  Ignoring an answering pull, she dragged her hair back from her eyes, spotted the white handle of the sieve and grabbed it, straightened up.

  “Baking a cake.” She glared when his mouth dropped open in surprise. “What?”

  “I didn’t think you even knew how to boil an egg.”

  Opening a drawer to find measuring cups, she paused for a moment and took a breath, rather than just reacting. Time to confront this thing. “That’s because we don’t know each other very well, do we?”

  “We know each other better than you want to admit.”

  Turning to face him, she was rocked by the full force of his gaze.

  “I know you’ve got a bitch of a temper, which hides a whole arsenal of insecurity.” His voice was soft and made her shiver. “I know you fight dirty especially when frightened.” He took a step closer and she wanted to bolt. “I know you make a funny little sound in your throat when you come.”

  Blushing furiously, she looked away. He was the only person on the planet who knew that about her.

  “I know you were a brave little kid who overcame a hell of a childhood to go on to become a successful artist.” He paused and she looked up, unable not to. “And I know you’re true and loyal to those you love.”

  His image of her rocked her. She was bitchy, and abrasive, and had spent most of her life running away from her reality. She didn’t know how he saw any good beneath the surface she showed the world.

  He took another step bringing him within arm’s length, trailed his index finger gently down her forehead, sweeping her nose and coming to rest on her lower lip, which trembled.

  “I know I want you.”

  Rattled beneath his perceptive gaze, she fought the pathetic sensation that invaded her limbs. She couldn’t afford to let this man in. She’d never survive losing him too. “Even if I don’t want you for anything but protection from a madman?” She narrowed her eyes against the intensity of his gaze.

  “What if I said I don’t want you for anything but sex?” he countered, then tipped her chin up. “But then I’d be lying and I promised I’d stop doing that when it came to you.”

  The thump of her heart against her ribs was so violent, she was sure he could hear it. Shoving past him, she crashed out of the kitchen and into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. So much for not running away, so much for facing her fears. There was no laughter, no joy. Only bleak knowledge that Marshall Hayes was more dangerous to her soul than any knife wielding maniac.

  * * *

  He looked at the dead girl on the bed. Wrists and ankles bound. Blonde hair splayed across the dark sheets, almost gold in this light. Blue eyes, fading from bright and terrified to opaque and lifeless. Decomposing before his eyes. For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.

  It was her own fault.

  “I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound…” Only the child had remained silent. But she wasn’t a child any longer. A shiver ran through his flesh as he remembered the scars. Perfect silver marks against pale white skin.

  His.

  The same way this pathetic creature was his.

  Blood soaked the mattress. It spattered him too. He stepped out of his coveralls and stuffed them in a black garbage bag that he’d incinerate. The knife handle was solid in his hand. Weighty. Familiar. Latex gloves made his palms sweat. A necessary evil. Duct tape quieted her screams. Another concession to the neighbors.

  Killing in the city was more difficult than killing in the great outdoors, but even though he missed the thrill of the noise they made when he cut them, he had no intention of getting caught. Once he’d finished what he’d started all those years ago, once he’d completed the circle, he’d move on. He’d change his identity and stop for a while. Experiment with other ways to calm the bloodlust.

  The scars on his chest itched. He couldn’t stop forever. God knew he’d tried.

  Memories of violence ricocheted inside his head like a hammer smashing a steel drum. The tightness in his chest made breathing difficult. Only boys and women scream. It’s time to be a man. He opened his eyes wide so he could see his power, not remember his weakness. He was a man now, not a child. It was his turn to dominate and control.

  He started to shake. It was too soon to have done this again, but the rush was too hot,
too intense to fight for long. The drums grew louder. He craved the domination, despised the weakness.

  He looked down at the girl’s bloody perfection and breathed deep, trying to calm the fierce contractions of his heart. He was the last thing she’d seen on this earth and the knowledge filled him with power that no one could ever take away. He eyed the area of flesh he’d skinned. She’d had a tattoo marring her body. She was his canvas. His work, and she’d been tainted by graffiti. Not a masterpiece, not even close. But she’d served her purpose and now it was time to get out. He picked up the garbage and stroked her face one last time. Maybe once he killed the child he could move on from the past. He’d destroy it all if he had to.

  * * *

  A Queen Anne desk and matching chair were positioned before the window overlooking Gramercy Park. Light streamed through the sheer drapes, casting a soft almost spiritual glow over the room. Marsh squinted against the brightness. Josephine wasn’t talking to him. He forced himself to relax his jaw, hoping to alleviate the headache that drilled his temples. It had been a long night on a hard couch, staring up at a dull ceiling while trying not to think about the woman in the next room.

  Fresh peonies and gardenia sat in a fat crystal globe adding an overpowering scent to the picture-perfect room. A Degas sketch hung over the Adam’s fireplace. Elegant. Expensive. The décor reminded him of a thousand other sitting rooms of a thousand other society matrons whom he’d visited over the years, including his own mother’s.

  Leaning against a damask-covered settee he tried to picture Pru Duvall in this setting and failed. Somehow the image didn’t jive. Despite her Southern hauteur and classy pedigree, the hard edge of her personality made her more suited for chrome, marble and splintered glass.

  With his expensive suit and highly polished Italian shoes, god help him, he fit right in. Adjusting the strap on his holster allowed him at least the illusion he was something more than society dead weight. The memory of a sulking Josephine sipping coffee and staring silently out of her loft window flashed through his mind. They came from totally different worlds but he didn’t care. He’d almost lost her a few days ago. Tragedy had brought them together but this time he was determined to work things out. Somehow.

  So how the hell did I manage to screw up last night so badly?

  Pru strode in, followed by the aide he’d seen at the opening. Marsh stood as Dancer straightened from where he’d been examining a Meissen snake-handle-vase.

  Marsh flicked an uneasy gaze at his agent. Please, don’t bug a US Senator and his wife.

  “Marshall Hayes.” The crackle in Pru’s voice was husky. “You turn up in the most unexpected places. If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d taken a fancy to me.”

  Inside Marsh recoiled, but quashed it. Maybe Josephine was right, maybe Pru was looking for a little extracurricular bedroom action and though he’d rather suck battery acid, he sent her a smooth smile. “A woman as lovely as you must have many admirers.”

  Tilting her head courteously, she seemed to accept his compliment at face value, or accept the society dance the way they’d both been raised. Her baby-pink sweater was cashmere, her A-line skirt mauve-colored tweed. Everything screamed conservatism, except for the scalpel-edged glint in her eyes.

  Turning her head, she faced Dancer with another predatory smile. “And who are you?”

  With his floppy red hair and freckles, Steve Dancer looked more like a Catholic schoolboy than an FBI Special Agent. Something that usually worked to his advantage. Right now Pru Duvall looked like she dined on Catholic schoolboys for breakfast.

  He walked over and shook her hand. “Special Agent Dancer. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Duvall.” Marsh had a sudden vision of Huckleberry Finn being made into a fashion accessory by Cruella De Vil.

  “And this is Geoffrey Parker, Brook’s PA.” She wiggled her fingertips in the aide’s direction and he nodded briefly, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “I’ve stolen him for the morning.”

  The perfect society hostess, Pru rang for coffee and made herself comfortable on the loveseat opposite. Never mind they were here to interview her for something as tawdry as art fraud and theft.

  Marsh waited for the coffee to arrive before he got down to business. He set down his dainty porcelain cup on its dinky saucer and felt like a bumbling giant. Dancer looked as uncomfortable with his, holding it protectively like a quarterback shielded a ball.

  “Mrs. Duvall, Pru. I need to ask you about a painting you sold to Total Mastery Galleries last spring—it was on show at the same gallery opening you attended the other evening.”

  She waved her hand in a way that suggested talking trade was crude. “I have a business manager who handles all that. Geoffrey can give you his card.”

  “Your business manager will need to answer some pretty serious questions, Pru. Possibly criminal.” Marsh watched her pupils dilate.

  “Why?” Geoffrey ventured, trying to diffuse a potentially volatile situation.

  Marsh drew out a photograph of the painting from his jacket pocket. Slipped it onto the table. “Do you recognize it?”

  She shook her head.

  Despite his many years being a lawman he couldn’t read her. “Blue Steel Trading Corporation sold the picture for a fraction its actual worth, about six months ago.” He didn’t mention that the painting was a suspected Vermeer and worth much more. De Hooch was valuable enough. And regardless, it was stolen.

  Pru picked up her own coffee and sipped delicately. “What does my having an incompetent business manager have to do with the FBI?”

  “The painting was actually stolen in February nineteen-ninety from Admiral Chambers.” Marsh watched for a reaction.

  “That old coot?” The light in her eyes was cold, but she laughed. “He probably lost it in a poker game after drinking too much and forgot about it the next day.”

  Marsh had figured Brook and Pru Duvall might know the admiral, though laughter wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

  “Be that as it may, he reported it stolen and your company sold it to Total Mastery Galleries this year. We need to know where it’s been the last decade and, more importantly, where you obtained the painting.”

  The lines around Pru’s eyes creased infinitesimally. More power to plastic surgery. “Like I said, Marshall.” Her fingers gripped her cup lightly, tendons straining beneath her pale skin. “My business manager handles all that.”

  Geoffrey cleared his throat, but Marsh ignored him.

  “Are you telling me you have no knowledge of this painting?” He tapped his fingers on the photo she hadn’t even glanced at.

  Pru picked it up and made a big show of focusing, as if she needed glasses. Marsh bet his badge her sight was 20:20, laser-quality.

  “I don’t pay much attention to art.” She raised a brow and looked straight at him as if daring him to disagree.

  “Can you tell me why you were at the gallery opening on Friday night then?” Picking up his ridiculous cup of coffee, he finished it in one gulp.

  “We received an invitation. We went.”

  “So you don’t actually know the Faradays?”

  Something altered in the light of her eyes. Leaning forward she held his gaze. “Have I done something illegal, Special Agent in Charge Hayes? Because if you are hinting at indiscretion on my part I’ll call my lawyer.”

  Marsh had wondered when the big guns would be drawn. Seemed they’d reached Pru Duvall’s very low tolerance for the US justice system. And she hadn’t answered the question. Although given her impatient nature maybe that wasn’t such a surprise.

  Geoffrey moved toward Pru. “I’ll get you the contact information you need, Agent Hayes.”

  Interview over.

  Marsh tilted his head. His smile was sweet as honey. “I’m sure your business manager can clear up any misunderstanding.” He stood. “I certainly don’t want to cause trouble for Brook so close to the race for nomination.” His smile was flat.

  Dancer
hid a guffaw behind a cough and drew Pru’s attention. She stared at him the way a cat scoped out a mouse.

  “That’s a bad cough you’ve got there, Agent Dancer,” she purred. “I hope it doesn’t turn into something nasty.”

  Dancer sobered quickly. “I’m always extra careful with my health, Mrs. Duvall.”

  “Good.” The reply was accompanied by another icy smile. Prudence Duvall was hiding something and he was going to find out exactly what it was. As they left he eyed the Meissen vase. Marsh hoped Dancer had bugged the witch.

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Eight

  Josie combined work with a pilgrimage. The Statue of Liberty loomed overhead, three hundred and five feet, two-hundred and twenty-five tons of American pride. Designed by the French. Celebrating independence from the British.

  And didn’t that say it all.

  Oil pastels made her hands greasy. Her sketchbook rested against a mini-easel Elizabeth had bought her a couple of Christmases ago, expensive as hell, and not something Josie would ever have indulged in.

  Her mood plunged. The scent of brine was thick in the air, but when she closed her eyes for a split second she was back in Montana and Andrew DeLattio had her crowded into the back of his van, his hand up her shirt as he taunted Elizabeth on her cell phone. She missed her best friend. Thanked god Andrew DeLattio had gotten his head blown off before he could hurt her again.

  A shudder of revulsion snaked down her spine. He was dead, dammit, and the Blade Hunter was going to join him in hell.

  A gull screamed overhead and broke her reverie.

  Vince lay twenty feet away stretched out on the grass. He looked asleep, but she figured ex-Navy SEAL war heroes could look asleep without actually being asleep. Took years of training, but no one ever said being a SEAL was easy.