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

  The sun felt hot on her cheek. She picked up a pale blue pastel, squinted at it then switched it for a darker shade instead. The sky was a brilliant ultra-marine. Pristine and perfect and peaceful.

  A deception as every New Yorker knew.

  Her mouth turned down at terrible memories that had changed her and her city forever.

  They said that what didn’t kill you made you stronger but if that were true she wouldn’t be such a coward about everything that really mattered.

  Concentrating on the only thing she knew how to do well, she started shading in some of the background, having blocked out the statue and pedestal with broad strokes. There was something vibrant about the way the green of the statue shimmered against that bright blue sky and she wanted to capture it. Photographs helped, but she knew from experience they wouldn’t reproduce the colors exactly. Nor would pastel but she had her paints too. Using combinations of all three media she hoped to do the lady justice.

  As a native, she’d been commissioned by the Tourist Board to do a series of NYC paintings. It was good reliable work in a career that rarely had good reliable work.

  The first two paintings had been of the Chrysler Building and the Empire State. One, a close up of the art deco detailing; the other a monument to a more ascetic architectural period. Rubbing the bridge of her nose she sighed. It was hard to draw skyscrapers in this city—too much associated pain. She looked over her right shoulder at the place where so many people had perished and her throat closed.

  Bracing her shoulders, she raised her chin. She wouldn’t be a coward because one man wanted to hurt her. People from this city were stronger than that. They weren’t easily cowed, especially when they had a hulking bodyguard at their beck and call.

  Sleek gulls buzzed overhead. Determinedly she rubbed the pastel over the paper, getting on with her life. They’d catch this bastard and Marshall Hayes would get the hell back to Boston.

  The oil pastel snapped beneath her finger. “Dammit.”

  Concentrating on the statue, she picked up the pale green and a dark leaf-green that was almost black for deeper shadows, holding both in the same hand as she sketched in details. Grabbed cadmium-yellow and white, and with a couple of strokes gave Liberty her fire.

  To get the sharp edge she needed for the spikes of the diadem, she pulled out her little penknife and sharpened the edge of an iced green.

  “You have a permit for that?”

  She jumped a half-inch off her seat. Marsh squeezed a hand on her shoulder and blasted a hole through her determination to keep things between them strictly professional.

  Lines cut deeply around his mouth, sunlight molding his stubborn jaw. She rolled her shoulder away from his touch, didn’t like the fact she was so happy to see him. “You gonna arrest me if I don’t?”

  “I do still have those handcuffs.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks as unbidden memories rose. A whiplash of heat coiled low in her body, a touch-light to passion. The brightness of his gaze made her blink, his eyes more green today than brown—clear, complex, changeable. She knew he wanted to protect her, but those deep hazel eyes also promised something else. Soul scorching sex.

  What single unattached woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to have sex with a rich handsome federal agent who’d promised to protect them from a monster? It didn’t make her a slut. It finally made her ordinary.

  Taking off his charcoal-colored jacket he slumped on the bench beside her, his knees brushing hers. He stared at the sketch with a thoughtful expression, but said nothing, his frown intensifying with his silence. It took every ounce of control not to ask him what he thought. But her work had always been her own, not influenced by the opinions of others or the contrary moods of the market.

  A bit like her.

  The rumble in her stomach told her it was lunchtime. Unable to work with him watching, she packed away her pastels and placed the sketch in her portfolio. She looked around for Vince, but he’d taken off.

  “You on duty?” she asked with a sinking heart. Why else would he be here?

  “He went for a walk.” The lines beside his eyes deepened as he squinted up at the statue. “I came to let you know I probably won’t be at your apartment tonight.”

  Her fingers curled. Dammit, she wasn’t completely helpless. “I can go stay with Pete for the night—you remember Pete? My ex-roomie?”

  A red line burned across Marsh’s cheeks. “There are some people you never forget—Pete and his lover definitely fall into that category.” He closed his eyes and a shudder rippled across his shoulders.

  Neither he nor Pete would say what had passed between them. “You don’t like gay people?”

  Marsh threw his head back and laughed deep and loud. His throat was pale bronze against the pure blue sky, his Adam’s apple clearly defined. Josie grinned. She didn’t remember the last time she’d heard him let loose with a laugh and despite trying to hold onto her irritation, she liked it.

  “Gay doesn’t bother me one bit.” Then he shifted to face her, his thigh brushing hers as she held his gaze. “In fact, finding out your roomie was gay and not your live-in lover made my freaking day.”

  She swallowed. “Oh.”

  His smile told her he’d revealed more than he wanted to and changed the subject. “Vince said he’d stay over at your apartment, until I got back,” Marsh told her, “which could even be late tonight but will probably be tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” There was a serial killer who had a blade with her name on it and, despite appearances, she wasn’t stupid. In truth she was unbearably beholden to them both and one day soon she needed to be brave enough to tell them that.

  Bending down she finished packing her stuff into her knapsack. She had enough detail and color information to carry on the work at home. And she couldn’t concentrate with Marsh so close. That bothered her because normally nothing distracted her.

  Spotting the urn at the bottom of her bag she paused. She’d planned to scatter Marion’s ashes to the four winds today. But she couldn’t do it. As much as she tried, as much as she’d promised herself, she still couldn’t let go of the past.

  Pain welled up, but she didn’t want Marsh to sense anything was wrong. The fact that Marion was dead had a lot to do with him and she hadn’t even begun to deal with her feelings over that yet.

  Maybe that was the reason she’d run so hard from him? Punished them both for being alive when Marion was so horribly dead? Or maybe it was just good old-fashioned terror of getting involved and getting your heart tenderized with a meat mallet.

  “Where are you off to?” she asked.

  “Savannah.”

  “Oh.” What the hell was in Savannah? She refused to ask, knowing how seriously he took his job. Craning her neck she stared up at the image of freedom and independence, ignored the gnawing under her heart at her lack of those qualities in her life. A pigeon landed on the ground in front of her, a puddle of feathers strutting and pecking for scraps of food.

  “You ever been up to the top?” She indicated the malachite green Greek monolith with a tilt of her chin, surprised when he shook his head.

  “No, but I know the arm has been closed to visitors since 1916 when German collaborators set off dynamite on the New Jersey shore.” His eyes held a wealth of sadness. “Terrorism is nothing new. You?” It was a lazy question, them sitting in the sunshine chatting, but this statue meant so much more to her than that.

  “I used to come here every year with Marion. The weekend after Independence Day.” Marion hated crowds, yearned to travel to her grandfather’s homeland across the ocean to Ireland. She’d never got her wish. The tightness in Josie’s throat burned. “I… I didn’t come this year.”

  Marion’s death had been too fresh—the guilt almost suffocating and she didn’t think it would ever go away. She glanced at her knapsack. Today was the first time she’d had the nerve to return and that was only because she’d had to, putting Lady Liberty and the memories off as long as sh
e possibly could.

  Now visions of all those childhood visits welled up inside and even six months on, the pain of losing the woman who’d taken the reins of Josie’s life when she’d had no one else was overwhelming. She knew deep down that it wasn’t Marsh’s fault Marion had been killed. It was hers. A sob rose up and she cupped her hand over her mouth so it didn’t escape.

  She could feel Marsh’s gaze, feel the weight of understanding in those hazel depths. But he didn’t move to touch her. Didn’t try to help. This wasn’t something he could solve or fix. She had to get past it herself. The silent empathy in his eyes suggested he understood her pain, her need for penance and her inability to get past the guilt.

  He pressed his lips together and shoved his hands in his pockets. Leaned forward and the pigeon flew away. After a couple of minutes silence, he asked, “Did Special Agent Walker get in touch this morning?”

  “No.” She reached up to shake her hair out of the elastic band she’d tied it back with. The sea breeze immediately grabbed it and played.

  “Maybe he hasn’t found anything yet.” Marsh’s jaw flexed.

  Found anything… Like an old blonde corpse matching my mother’s description. Mingled grief and guilt formed a kaleidoscope of torment that knotted her stomach. Knowing she was about to lose it, she grabbed her belongings and strode away, aware of one very solid body scrambling after her.

  Marsh snagged her arm and spun her round to face him, “I don’t have time to chase you around. This isn’t a game!”

  Trying to destroy the evidence of her tears, she blinked rapidly. But he must have spotted the wetness on her cheeks because suddenly every inch of her body was pressed to his, her face against the cool fabric of his shirt, inhaling the male scent of his cologne and the slight musk of sweat. She couldn’t breathe or see, but she craved comfort so badly it didn’t seem to matter.

  “Jesus. I’m sorry. I keep forgetting this is your mother we’re talking about.”

  Strong hands roamed her back, soothing and therapeutic. It felt good to lean on him. So damn good. And far too dangerous. Being alone was what she did. How she survived. The pain of being hurt and abandoned had cut deeper than any knife and she wasn’t sure how to deal with things any other way. She pushed back and sniffed inelegantly. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “Wanna climb her?” she asked. She knew she’d surprised him. She’d surprised herself except she wanted to go up, to scatter Marion’s ashes on the wind, but this was one thing she couldn’t do alone.

  He took her hand and squeezed. “I can’t. I have a flight to catch shortly. Anyway it’s closed today. Vince will stay with you tonight—”

  “Okay. Great.” She slipped out of his grasp. “We’ll hang out. Catch a movie.” She kicked a stone, bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself saying anything more junior-high. All ten-foot-six, ex-Navy SEAL walked up behind him.

  Marsh’s cell phone rang and she used the opportunity to head toward the ferry terminal. His hand snaked out and grabbed her before she’d gone two paces.

  “Hayes,” he answered the phone. “When?” He paused for a second and Josie knew something bad had happened from the way his eyes sliced to her. “Yeah, she’s here. I’ll bring her right over.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Did they find my mother?”

  Their eyes locked, his febrile bright. “No. There’s been another murder.”

  * * *

  Marsh negotiated traffic toward Federal Plaza, one hand gripping the wheel tight as he blasted the horn at a cabby trying to cut him off.

  Josephine sat beside him, pale, tense, withdrawn.

  “They have any leads?” Vince asked from the backseat.

  “They wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone.” Tension rose within him triggering an ache in his jaw and a fear that ran all the way to his fingertips. And he had to go to freaking Savannah.

  He glanced at Josephine’s stark profile.

  “Come with me.” The suggestion was out of his mouth before he could stop it, but now he thought about it, it was a damn good idea.

  She shook her head, blonde hair brushing her slender shoulders. Too slender to carry the weight of this monster.

  “Your flight is in less than an hour.” Her voice was subdued. Sad. “If we’re ever going to stop this man I need to go through everything I can possibly think of with Agent Walker.”

  Marsh bit down on what he was going to say. She could do all that tomorrow after she’d spent the night with him in Savannah—and that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with keeping her alive.

  But what if this bastard killed another woman in the meantime?

  Marsh filled his lungs with a deep breath and tried to relax. He caught Vince’s dark stare in the mirror, read the unspoken pledge in his eyes. He nodded.

  Working his shoulders to loosen the stiff muscles, he checked the time and knew he had to pull out all the stops if he was going to get to the airport on time. “Promise me one thing,” he spoke to Josephine.

  The fragile look disappeared. Instead, suspicious eyes turned on him, reminding him she didn’t normally do promises.

  “What?”

  “After you’re done with Walker, go home with Vince and don’t leave his side for anything. And I mean anything.”

  “Anything?” Josephine smirked with her trademark pissy attitude that Marsh finally figured out was a front to cover fear. “Showering will be fun, but I’m game if you are, big boy.”

  He met Vince’s eyes in the mirror and recognized the determined glint in his wide smile.

  “Sure thang, Missy, you think you can handle me, that is.” Vince put on a Southern twang that made Josephine scowl and then laugh.

  She did have a sense of humor. She just tried to bury it.

  Then they were there, Vince getting out and opening Josephine’s door, scanning the area even though Special Agent Sam Walker stood there glowering through the windshield. Marsh grabbed Josephine’s hand before she got out.

  “Be careful.” He wanted to say something else, something meaningful but he didn’t know what. Instead he stared dumbly into wary blue eyes. “Please?”

  She nodded, got out and slammed the door behind her. Marsh winced, grateful for solid German engineering.

  Sam Walker stuck his head through the open window. “I need you inside too.”

  Judging from the guy’s appearance, he’d had another rough night. Marsh glanced at the clock on the dash. “I can’t.” BAU saw more burnout than all the other fields, but if anybody could help catch this killer, it was those guys. “I have a job to do in Savannah. I’ll be back late tonight or tomorrow morning. You can schedule an appointment then.”

  Ignoring Walker’s glare and shout, Marsh rolled up the window. Jesus. What was wrong with the guy? Was he back to being a suspect? Walker stepped back, turned to Josephine and smiled briefly at something she said.

  Marsh pulled out and maneuvered the car through heavy traffic. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the anger, the ache and the desperation that crawled along every nerve fiber. He had a job to do. Vincent was more than capable of keeping her safe. The trouble was—he finally admitted to himself—he didn’t want anybody else getting too close to her and that bugged the hell out of him too.

  His cell phone rang, a welcome distraction. Turning on the hands-free, he wove in and out of lanes, heading for the Manhattan Bridge. Did a full body cringe when a female voice announced the director was on the line.

  Shit.

  “Marsh, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Brett, good to hear from you—”

  “This isn’t a social call.” Brett Lovine sounded harassed and pissed. Not a good combination for an FBI Director, though probably not an uncommon one.

  “Then what can I do for you, sir?” The names they’d called each other as kids echoed through that short title. Enough to have Brett blowing deeply into the receiver.

  “I am just off the phone after talkin
g to Montgomery Able. You know him?”

  “Ahhh—”

  “Senator Brook Duvall’s lawyer, Special Agent in Charge Hayes.” Brett’s tone edged toward a sarcastic snarl.

  Ahhh. “Director, I have solid evidence connecting Pru Duvall to a stolen painting. I have to investigate the lead.” Checking his mirror, he changed lanes, roared onto the expressway and put his foot down. “Just because Brook is odds on favorite to win the party’s nomination is not a reason to back away from this. In fact, I’m doing him a favor by investigating the matter thoroughly.”

  Brett snorted, but Marsh plowed on. “We have reason to believe Admiral Chambers’ stolen painting is actually a missing Vermeer that could be worth as much as fifty million dollars at auction and will cause an explosion in the art world when it’s revealed. Any hint of impropriety will sink Duvall like a stone.”

  The line went quiet.

  Brett was obviously weighing the good publicity the FBI might garner if they recovered that painting, versus the bad karma associated with pissing off a potential future president.

  “We both know Chambers is such a crazy old goat he might have given the thing away and changed his mind the next day,” Bret said slowly.

  Marsh acknowledged the truth of that statement. “But he has photographic evidence the painting was in his collection and he reported it stolen to the FBI.”

  His boss seemed to be listening. “I don’t want a word of this leaked to the media. Not one word. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Marsh smiled. Nothing like getting your own way with one of the most powerful people in the western world.

  “And what the hell are you doing involved in this serial killer fiasco in New York City?”

  “The case involves a close personal friend of mine—”

  “Yeah, I saw the photos.” Back to being his friend, Brett scoffed. “Just your type. Do us both a favor, screw her and get the hell out of that sit—”

  “Or what? You’ll fire me?” Fury forged his tone.

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Do it.” Marsh cut the connection.