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

  Fear soured on her tongue as she followed them.

  Vivid red splattered the white covers, dripped onto the hardwood floor. The stench of turpentine and paint curled up inside her nostrils; the tools of her trade used to terrorize. The message daubed on the wall sent a chill into her frozen heart.

  U R DEAD.

  “He has to get through me first.” Marsh holstered his weapon.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, fought to keep her teeth from chattering. “It’s also the last thing he said to me the night he killed Angela Morelli.”

  “Funny how you forgot to mention that earlier,” Special Agent Walker snapped.

  “Funny?” Her voice rose shrilly. “I figured the message was clear enough that even the feds could figure it out.”

  “We need to search the whole building.” Walker nodded to Dancer, and Vince followed them to the front door.

  Her knees wobbled and Marsh swept her up in his arms and placed her gently on the couch.

  Her teeth rattled. “He’s telling me he can get to me anytime he wants.”

  “He’s taunting you.” Marsh rested his hands on his hips and stared down at her. “I won’t let him get you, Josephine.”

  But there was a kernel of satisfaction in his voice. “You’re glad about this?”

  “No.” He pressed his lips together, trying to control his temper. “But I’m glad you weren’t here alone when the bastard broke in.”

  Point made.

  “I was only gone half an hour.” A sudden thought struck her. “How did he get in the building—did you see him?”

  Marsh shook his head, glancing around the apartment as if looking for anything that might be missing. “He must have stolen a key from Angela Morelli’s apartment but I thought your super was changing the locks?”

  “Friday.”

  “I still don’t know how he knew where you lived. Investigations can be slow processes but…fuck.”

  Agent Walker strolled back into the apartment. “We need to process the scene—”

  “You don’t really think he left anything behind, do you?” Marsh raised one quizzical brow at his fellow agent.

  “Well, I’m not going to miss an opportunity to track this man, sir,” Walker replied.

  “You already have his DNA. Any hits?” Marsh asked.

  She’d forgotten about the blood she’d drawn when she’d bitten him. The reminder turned her stomach.

  Sam Walker’s lips thinned. “He’s not in the system.”

  Marsh frowned. “Did you finish checking the rest of the building?”

  Walker nodded. “Got teams going through each apartment right now, but most of them are still empty following the first murder. And we’re going to set up video surveillance back and front of the property ASAP.”

  Why hadn’t they done that a few days ago?

  She looked down and spotted the red paint encrusting her fingernails like fresh blood. “He took a painting.”

  “What painting?” the feds asked in unison.

  Josie swallowed, feeling sick that she’d betrayed those women by painting an image of the torture they’d endured. It was abstract, but the Blade Hunter had known exactly what he’d been looking at.

  “I painted it this morning.” She scrubbed her eyes, feeling dizzy. “It’s abstract, but it’s about the murders. It’s about blood and agony.”

  Marsh pressed her head between her knees before she realized she was close to passing out. He knelt beside her on the rug. “You’re coming with me, Josephine, and if you fight me I’m going to handcuff you and drag you there.”

  “There’s always protective custody.” Sam Walker spoke to Marsh not her. She gripped Marsh’s hand and dug in her nails to tell him exactly what she thought of that idea.

  “That’s okay, Agent Walker.” He rubbed her hand gently. “She’s coming with me for a few days. After that we’ll need to figure out some other arrangement until we can catch this guy.”

  “The whole city is on high alert. The media are going crazy so we should have more resources soon,” said Walker.

  “Can you walk?” Marsh asked her quietly.

  “Of course.” She hoped.

  “Anything here you can’t live without?” He held out his hand as if expecting her to say no.

  Instead she shook him off and stumbled toward the closet near the front door. Her knapsack lay on the floor. She opened it and peeked inside. Marion’s ashes were safe within the funky little urn Josie had painted.

  “Just this.” She clasped the knapsack in front of her and ignored his curious frown. “Nothing else matters.”

  * * *

  Five hours later, Marsh watched the sway of Josephine’s hips as he followed her and his mother along the upstairs hallway of the family home.

  Alternate realities set on a collision course.

  They glided like ghosts over the thick oriental runner, footsteps silent as moth’s wings. The subtle odor of beeswax teased his nostrils and brought with it a cascade of memories that faded inexorably with each passing year. Two boys sword-fighting along this hallway, sliding down the banister and clambering over furniture. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and forced away the memories.

  His life was about to change. Again.

  Whether they realized it or not, the two most important people in his life were sizing one another up. Josephine paused on the bedroom’s threshold. It was the same room she’d stayed in six months ago, but his parents had been away at the time. Would Josephine recognize it? The décor had changed again.

  His mother moved restlessly from one room to the next in their enormous Louisburg Square home, decorating in a forlorn effort to fill the void. Marsh worked his ass off and his father golfed. How else did you cope with the loss of a beloved son or revered brother?

  Josephine lowered her knapsack carefully to the floor beside the bed where it landed with a hollow thud.

  What the hell was in that thing?

  The bed was made up with a lavish mixture of shiny mauve, cream and purple sheets, with enough covers and pillows to survive a Canadian winter.

  “I can’t believe what happened to poor Lynn.” Beatrice Hayes stood inside the room, her hand resting on her heart. She gave a little shake of her head. “I called to leave my condolences, but Lydia wasn’t receiving. She’s under medication.” Her eyes flicked nervously away.

  Lydia—Lynn Richards’ mother.

  Josephine caught his eye and they exchanged a moment of guilt.

  His mother folded and unfolded her hands across her chest, probably unsettled by the less than friendly expression on Josephine’s face. This was the first time he’d ever brought a woman home, and she wasn’t exactly the girl next door.

  “Josephine has been attacked twice by this killer, once when she was only a small child.” Marsh knew he’d go to hell for playing on his mother’s sympathies, assuming Josephine didn’t kill him first for sharing her secrets. His mom softened visibly, her maternal instincts staunch enough to overlook the fact Josephine was no longer a child, but a full grown woman that her son lusted after.

  “I’ll try and find you some clothes to wear, dear.” Bea frowned as she assessed Josephine’s tall slender frame. His mother was about seven inches shorter and four sizes wider. “Actually you’d better go out to the boutique at the end of the road, Marshall, and pick up some things. I can’t believe he didn’t give you time to change.”

  Yeah, because clothes were more important than getting Josephine away from danger.

  She looked down at her paint spattered jeans and frowned, a bewildered light entering her eyes. “The FBI wanted to search my place and I didn’t want to wear anything the guy might have touched…”

  Bea’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, of course not. Please forgive me, dear. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She gave a delicate shudder, crossed over and hugged Josephine briefly, as if someone touching her underwear was the worst thing his mother could imagine. He hoped to God that neve
r changed.

  Josephine’s wild frantic eyes shot a pleading look in his direction. He shrugged.

  This was what happened when two worlds collided.

  “You redecorated in here?” He made an attempt at light conversation.

  His mother released her and smiled, happy to be distracted from the baser side of life. “Yes, dear, though your father wasn’t happy when I had the wood paneling painted white.”

  No kidding. Marsh coughed.

  “Not that I told him until after it was finished.” She squeezed his arm, her fingers soft on the sleeve of his jacket. He bet his father had gone ballistic when the antique wood had received a facelift, but then nobody really cared as long as Bea was happy. Except she was never really happy. Pain lingered in the corners of her eyes, in the lines around her soft mouth.

  And that’s why he’d gone on a date with a young woman who’d ended up dead.

  “It brightens the room, don’t you think?” Bea’s anxious hazel eyes, so like his own, so like Robert’s, appealed to him now.

  He wanted to say yes, it brightened the room, but the lump in his throat blocked the words. Who cared? His mother’s smile faltered.

  “It’s beautiful.” Josephine hovered beside the bed as if afraid to sit down. She cleared her throat, walked to the casement window, peered into the dark square beyond. “Pretty fancy digs.”

  “And the security is top of the range.” He squinted down at his mother. “You are still using the alarm system we installed, right?”

  Bea flapped her hands at him. “Your father keeps setting the silly thing off with his midnight strolls to the kitchen.” She smiled, the lines on her smooth cheeks creasing, “We keep the outside one turned on, of course, but inside…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’ll talk to Dad—until we catch this killer we have to assume he might track Josephine here.” He held his mother’s gaze, read her silent query as to why he’d brought danger into their home. She was too polite to call him on it.

  Josephine prowled the background like a tiger locked in a too-small cage. The sequins on her flip flops shimmered in the light from the ornate chandelier.

  “So how long have you two known each other?” Bea asked, smiling at Josephine so guilelessly Marsh wanted to shout a warning, but she answered naively.

  “We have a mutual friend who got into some trouble last April.” Josephine shrugged a shoulder and missed his grimace. His mother didn’t.

  Bea turned back toward Josephine, assessing her for a full ten seconds with only the ticking carriage clock to fill the silence. The lighting made Josephine’s hair glow white against the darkness of the window, all three of them reflected there like ghosts.

  Conscious of possible onlookers, Marsh walked over and closed the drapes. Stood tall at Josephine’s shoulder.

  Eyes sharp, lips considering, Bea examined them both. Then she nodded. “You must be terrified, Josephine. Do you mind if I call you Josephine?”

  “I prefer Josie.” She swept a pale strand of hair behind one delicate shell of an ear.

  Marsh released a deep breath.

  “But Josephine is such a beautiful name.” Approval shone from Bea’s tone, but Josephine’s eyebrows slammed together and her mouth turned down as she flicked him an irritated glance.

  Marsh had always loved Josephine’s name, refused to call her Josie…and yet she didn’t like it. Maybe because it was old fashioned and formal, or maybe she’d been teased as a kid. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at a scratch that marred the otherwise perfect surface of his shoe.

  His mother opened a white painted antique dresser and removed some sleepwear. She placed a pair of satin pajamas on the quilt and went to retrieve a matching dressing gown. They were deep damson, exactly the same color as the bedspread. Interior design had taken on new extremes.

  What would Josephine think of a woman who spent all her time decorating walls and matching color swatches and why the hell did he care what Josephine thought of his mother?

  Shame surged inside him. His mother appeared vapid, one of the idle rich, when she was so much more than that. Guilt mixed with self-disgust—what the hell gave him the right to judge the woman who’d given him life? Or the one he’d foolishly fallen for?

  He should have stayed at a hotel. These two women never had to meet, and yet…

  “You have a wonderful eye for color, Mrs. Hayes.” Josephine stepped forward and slowly stroked the bedcover. “And for texture.”

  He turned away and willed his mother to leave the room—he was anxious to get out of here, but didn’t dare leave them alone.

  “I can’t claim much in that department either.” His mother sighed, a fluttering, wrenching sound. “I have an interior designer who guides me.” Her hand plumped a satin pillow. “But an old woman with no grandchildren needs some distractions to occupy her time, don’t you think?”

  With a pointed look between the pair of them, Beatrice Hayes swept out of the room.

  There was a long silence where neither of them was breathing.

  “She really is desperate for grandkids to contemplate letting my blood join the Hayes’ family line.” Josephine wiggled her eyebrows and gave him a strained smile. “Wanna do it now or later?” Shock tactics had always worked for her in the past—a defense mechanism to keep people away so she didn’t get hurt. But he was smarter than that. Holding her gaze, he waited until she stopped fidgeting.

  “My mother’s adopted. She got lucky having wealthy parents, but she cares very little about blood and a whole lot more about family.” His gaze slid down her frame, pissed with her continued charade and frustrated, not knowing how to break through the barriers that had protected her for so long. Maybe he’d never break through. Maybe she’d never really open up or let him close. “Don’t judge her with your snobbery and prejudice. That’s not who she is. And deep down, it’s not who you are either.”

  He turned and walked out of the room, furious he couldn’t control this situation. Frustrated he couldn’t control his own emotions when it came to this woman. He had to get away from Josephine Maxwell.

  * * *

  Two hours later, Josie stroked a hand over the silk wall covering as she stole down the intricately carved staircase, her footsteps muted by the thick oriental runner. She was so nervous her stomach roiled. The desire to run was fierce. She’d never felt so out of her depth in her life.

  She was also late for dinner.

  She’d rather stay in her room and eat off a tray, or in the kitchen, or starve. But Marsh’s mother had very politely invited her to join them and Josie was less able to deal with courtesy than antagonism. And that scared the hell out of her.

  She self-consciously smoothed a palm over navy linen pants, absorbed the soft texture with a shiver of appreciation. It was teamed with a navy and white polka-dot cardigan with a red and white stripe running along the trim. She liked it. It was sexy and fun and she wouldn’t have looked twice at it in any shop.

  Not that Army Surplus stocked many polka dots.

  Marsh had turned up twenty minutes ago with a large bag full of clothes, dumped them on her bed and left without saying a word. And she’d desperately wanted him to stay.

  A laugh sounded from the dining room, followed by the gentle rumble of an amused male.

  Reluctantly, she took that last step.

  Marsh materialized soundlessly beside the balustrade. “Jesus H Christ!” She jumped an inch off the floor.

  “Not quite.” His eyes burned her up and down, and he nodded. “They fit?”

  “Yeah, unlike me,” she muttered.

  He stared up at the ceiling and looked suspiciously like he was counting to ten.

  Why was he pissed? Of course, they hadn’t settled the fight they’d started earlier—but she was here, wasn’t she? It took her a moment to admit she was being a bitch and it had more to do with her own insecurity than anything he’d done. She drew in a deep breath. “Thank you. For the clothes. And for helping me
.”

  His expression softened but they were interrupted before he could speak.

  “Ah, here she is…” A thinner, older version of Marsh appeared in the doorway and Josie steeled herself. Socializing was what other people did. She stayed home and watched TiVo or painted. She hated meeting new people. Felt the unexpected pressure of trying to impress Marsh’s parents simply because they were Marsh’s parents.

  When is the last time anyone expected anything from me? Maybe never. Maybe that was the problem.

  “Dad, let me introduce Josephine Maxwell. Josie, this is my father, General Jacob Hayes.”

  Her mouth dropped open. He’d called her Josie. She flicked him a shocked glance, but he’d already turned away as his father reached out a hand to her. It was hard to hold the general’s bright green gaze, full of unspoken probing and silent appraisal. Jacob Hayes shot his son a sharp glance when he spotted her bare feet.

  “Didn’t you buy her any shoes?”

  Marsh had bought her tons of footwear—shoes, runners, boots. Too many beautiful things for a few short nights away. She’d have to find a way to return them or spend the next ten years paying him back.

  She wiggled her bare toes as everyone stared at her feet. “Actually, I figured if I wore shoes I might make a break for the front door. I decided not to chance it.”

  For what seemed like an eternity Marsh’s father locked his gaze on hers.

  “That nervous, huh?” He huffed out a laugh. “I’ll be damned.” He looked anxiously over his shoulder. “My one piece of advice is don’t let Bea catch you cursing—thirty years in the Army and she still thinks heck is a suitable expletive to cover any and all occasions…including bloodshed.”

  Josie grinned—he seemed like a nice old guy. Marsh stood silently beside her and she knew her comment about running away had been noted and catalogued inside his efficient brain. She was escorted into the elegant sitting room and offered a chair beside the fire, feeling like she’d been transported into a Hallmark Happy Families card.

  “Would you care for a drink?” the general asked her.