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

  “We will,” Nicholl assured her with a glare.

  He was the prick she voted Most Likely to Succeed.

  “Why do you even think it’s the same guy?” she demanded, picking up the pen and scoring the writing pad with the nib. “It was, what, eighteen, nineteen years ago? I figured he’s dead or in prison with all the other psychos.”

  Maybe her memories had betrayed her…maybe it was a different guy.

  Sam Walker opened a file and laid a picture on the table. Angela Morelli’s dead eyes stared up at her, her torso patterned with exactly the same marks Josie carried on her flesh.

  Bile rose in her throat and she covered her lips with her palm. Son of a bitch. Other photos appeared on the table. Body after body of butchered women, blood soaking beneath them in dark pools.

  “Josie, I know this is hard, but you’re the only lead we have on this guy.” The only one left alive. Walker’s voice was coaxing and gentle, totally at odds with the horror laid out on the table. He squatted beside her, put a hand on her knee and she held very, very still.

  She didn’t like to be touched. Never had. But she couldn’t afford to freak out in Law Enforcement Central. Rubbing her arms, she tried to hide her reaction until he removed his hand.

  When he did, she forced herself to try to breathe. To try and remember. It wasn’t like she wanted this nutcase on the loose any more than they did.

  The bastard had knocked her unconscious and carried her down some godforsaken alley. “I really don’t know how I can help.”

  As a child she’d lain frozen as that sharp blade had sliced her skin. Not deep, but deliberately searching out raw nerve-endings. I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound. She frowned, kept her hands on the tabletop in front of her. There’d been something about his voice, but it was so long ago…

  She’d been too scared to move—just like today. And when he’d flipped her onto her stomach she’d expected him to kill her, but instead he’d scored his blade across her flesh some more, carving a pattern that had defined the rest of her life.

  It had stung like a bitch, but she hadn’t made a sound. At some point she must have passed out because when she’d woken up, he’d been gone.

  That’s when she’d staggered to her feet and run for help.

  She remembered having her fingerprints taken and desperately trying to wash the greasy blackness from her hands even though the movement had pulled her stitches. “The cops got his prints, I think. Off the knife that pinned me to the ground.”

  * * *

  Marsh waited in the corridor, checking the latest bureau mandates pinned neatly to the corkboard outside the interview room. The door opened and Josephine walked out, closely followed by Special Agent Walker. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor and would have marched right past him, except he blocked her way.

  Cold fluorescent light emphasized the hollows beneath her cheekbones. The blue of her eyes was the only splash of color in this sterile stretch of corridor. Even though he didn’t trust her, he was helpless in the face of his fascination for her.

  Nicholl hustled out of the interview room checking his wristwatch. Seeing Marsh, he slowed down and shot out a modulated smile.

  “Thanks for the lead, sir.”

  He felt Josephine bristle. Her childhood scars were more than a lead in a case. Shrugging off the thought and knowing he might need Nicholl’s help if he wanted an inside track on this investigation, Marsh shook the man’s hand. Special Agent Walker stood patiently beside Josephine, resting a proprietary hand on the small of her back.

  Marsh stuck out his hand to Walker, just to get him to stop touching her.

  “I’ll see Ms. Maxwell home.” Walker smiled grimly.

  Not in this lifetime. “I’ve got it covered.” Marsh released the agent’s hand fully expecting Josephine to argue, but her eyes held only fatigue and defeat. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  She flashed a narrowed-eyed scowl at them both. At least she didn’t look defeated anymore.

  Moving quickly she got into the elevator. He shoved his arm through the gap to prevent it from closing on him and followed her inside. Finally they were alone.

  There was an air of fragility about the normally fierce woman as she leaned against the stainless steel walls, her finger pressing the button for the ground floor. It shot a little ache into his chest.

  “What now?” she asked quietly.

  Her hair was caught inside her battered army jacket. Unable to resist, he slipped his fingers inside her collar and pulled it free, smoothed the silky silver tresses over the worn olive canvas. Her lips parted, nostrils flared.

  She felt it too. He could see the echo of uncertainty reflected deep in her eyes, the dance of awareness that ignited between them even though they were both exhausted and wary and burnt from their last encounter. Small white teeth bit pink lips and heat kicked through his groin like a supernova.

  Too smart to play with the jaws of a gin-trap, Marsh withdrew his hand. “We go back to your place and I sleep on the couch.”

  He expected her to argue, but whatever else she might be, Josephine Maxwell was no fool.

  The delicate skin beneath her eyes was darkened, but she still managed to look fierce and battle-ready. “Tomorrow I’ll clear out of town.”

  Her MO was to run. He should have known that would be her answer and couldn’t explain why it pissed him off so much. “And leave the UNSUB to kill more innocent women? I figured you were braver than that, princess.”

  It was a low dig and Josephine responded by baring her teeth. Something about her had always reminded him of a wild animal—most dangerous when cornered. “It’s your job to catch the bad guys, Superman. Why don’t you concentrate on that.”

  There was nothing defeated about her anymore. This was the grit and balls Josephine he’d gone a few rounds with in the spring. Theoretically they’d come off even, but he wasn’t so sure. He’d never recovered, and aside from her encounter with a serial killer, she seemed fine.

  It pissed him off.

  “He’ll come after you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but not before he’d seen the terror flash in their depths. Why couldn’t she drop her guard for once? Why couldn’t he? Marsh crowded her against the elevator wall conscious of the security camera that monitored every move. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to keep her wrapped up safe until the danger passed. But Josephine rarely allowed anyone to sense weakness, certainly never accepted compassion or help, especially not from him.

  They stared at one another, emotions shimmering in her eyes, his heartbeat thudding angrily in his chest. He bit down on words that wanted to spill out. What were they both so scared of?

  The elevator dinged and he stepped away, but not before she swept a scathing look over his frame and tossed her hair over her shoulder with a derisory flick. Like he was nothing. Like he was no one. He almost smiled. One thing was for certain, she knew how to push every one of his buttons. He stuffed his fists into his pockets, waited for her to exit in front of him.

  They made their way through security, then to his car, their footsteps echoing across the plaza and ringing off the tall building. The Stars and Stripes snapped in the brisk wind and Marsh welcomed the chill on his skin. A foghorn sounded across the bay, mournful and sad. New York, New York.

  Josephine caught her heel and stumbled slightly, but Marsh caught her arm. Some primal triumph pumped through his blood when she didn’t shrug away. Pathetic. He was totally pathetic. What he needed to do was use his brain and figure out how to catch this killer.

  A thought struck him. “Are you listed in the phone book?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “I can give you my number—”

  Marsh already knew her number. He’d chosen not to call it because he was a stubborn ass. “Assuming this is the same guy from your childhood, how did he know where to find you?”

  Traffic was light, the air faintly tinged with brine.

  A puzzled expression c
reased her brow. “I’m not listed anywhere. I have a website, but it doesn’t give my address.”

  That’s what he’d been afraid of.

  “You a registered voter?”

  She shook her head and they carried on walking. “Elizabeth is. I don’t vote.”

  Marsh shook his head, pissed. People died for the right to vote and it irritated him when they didn’t bother. But it wasn’t important right now.

  She walked around to the passenger door of his car. “Politicians are all the same anyway.”

  He ignored that sentiment because she was probably right. “He might have hired a professional to track you down.” Marsh wondered if it would give the investigation a lead or waste more time.

  It was better than nothing.

  A siren whooped, a flash of red light in the distance.

  “He could have gotten my name from the newspapers all those years ago. They reported everything in all its glory.” Josephine climbed into the car, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Can we stop talking about this now? I have a headache.”

  Looking at her strained profile, he kept silent and started the engine. It responded with a smooth purr and he pulled out onto the almost empty street, heading toward the Village. They didn’t speak. Not even when they reached the relative quiet of Grove Street.

  Parking the car, he cut the engine, but Josephine didn’t stir.

  The glow of streetlights swept over her face and gilded her with gold. The gentle rise and fall of her chest told him she was asleep and a kernel of satisfaction moved inside him because he knew damned well she wouldn’t have slept if Agent Walker had driven her home. Though what the hell that said about his sex appeal he didn’t know.

  He wanted to lean over and brush his lips across hers. She wasn’t as cold as she wanted the world to believe and some days it broke his heart, how ruthlessly she pushed people away. Since the day he’d first seen her, she’d stirred a ferocity inside him that no one else skimmed, no one else even guessed existed.

  A strand of hair fell across her cheek. Gently he brushed it aside, absorbing the soft skin and ignoring the ache in his body. What he felt for her wasn’t just physical; that’s why it scared him. She opened her eyes slowly and for a moment he thought he saw his conflicted desire reflected in their depths. She jerked at the door handle and got out.

  He blew out a breath before following her, stopping to retrieve an overnight bag out of the trunk. It was nearly three a.m. People were still on the street, between clubs or walking home after a night out. Drunken laughter tumbled down the avenue, curiously lighthearted for an evening filled with murder.

  “What were you doing in Queens eighteen years ago, Josephine?” It was a question that had nagged him since he’d found out about her childhood attack.

  She stopped in the middle of the street, raised her face to the sky. “Can we leave it alone?”

  She was hiding something—nothing unusual there. Everyone lied to the authorities; it was a question of figuring out which lies mattered. Something told him this one mattered.

  There were no lights on inside her redbrick tenement. Marsh climbed the steps beside her and inhaled the subtle hint of citrus from her hair. Consciously he held his breath as she inserted her key in the lock and pushed the door wide. Tried to hold onto that soft fragrance rather than the faint odor of blood that clung to the ground floor apartment. It wouldn’t surprise Marsh if the other residents stayed elsewhere until the stench of violent death faded enough for them to regain the illusion of safety. He’d suggest a hotel but knew she’d never go for it.

  Josephine stood stiff and uncertain on the threshold. Her skin looked waxy. Marsh reached forward and flipped the switch and light flooded the hallway, shining off the mosaic tile floor and white walls that were smudged with patches of fingerprint powder.

  The door to the lower apartment was taped shut—it could be days before evidence response teams released it.

  The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

  “Did the feds clear your apartment before you left?”

  “No.” Her eyes blazed at him. “Why would they? He left through the ground floor window.” Pointing at the sealed off door, she looked like she wanted to hit him. “Are you actively trying to freak me out or does it come naturally?” She closed the front door behind him.

  “A killer comes after you with a knife yet I’m the one scaring you?” Hoisting his bag over his left shoulder, he popped open his holster and took out his SIG-Sauer.

  Open-mouthed, Josephine watched him. Shaking her head, she started up the stairs. He let her lead. Let her unlock her door and then touched her arm and motioned her behind him. Despite the way she rolled her eyes he detected a frisson of alarm pass through her, as if she were only now realizing that she could actually still be in danger. The guy could have come back here. He’d know that her guard would be down after being questioned by the cops. He wouldn’t expect her to have an escort.

  The solid weight of his pistol felt reassuring as Marsh pushed open the door and flipped the light switches. There were no shadows, no monsters ready to jump out from behind the door. Marsh dumped his bag inside and waved her forward, setting the lock behind him. If the UNSUB was here, he wanted to nail the bastard before he hurt Josephine again.

  “He’s not here,” she hissed.

  God save him from civilians. “Unless you want to be terminally wrong, why don’t you stick close to me while we make sure?”

  He held out his hand, watched her reach uncertainly for his fingers. There was a jolt of awareness between them that widened her eyes on contact. Her skin felt satin smooth. He tugged her behind him, searched closets and each of the rooms, ending in her bedroom.

  Releasing her hand, he opened the tall slatted doors and searched the built-in closet, poked his head under the bed and when he was one hundred percent certain that the apartment was clean and secure, he holstered his weapon.

  Josephine sank down onto the bed, shrugging out of her jacket. Her head sagged and she looked as strong as a blade of grass. Her forearm got stuck and she jerked uselessly at the heavy sleeve. He went down on his knees, caught her hand which fisted instantly and eased the cuff over her palm, letting the coat slide off her shoulders.

  His elbow rested on her knee, heat sparking between them like static. The blue of her eyes was half-hidden by the fall of her hair. Her gaze settled on his lips and then shifted away. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He eased away and raised a sarcastic brow. “What? No condom? Wasn’t a problem last time.” It was a mean thing to say, but she brought out the worst of him as she purposefully reduced everything that had happened between them to casual sex. There was nothing casual about his relationship with this woman.

  She hissed and raised a hand as if to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist. She started to jerk up her knee, but he applied just enough pressure with his elbow to protect himself.

  “Kick me in the balls again, princess, and I’ll handcuff you to the bed faster than you can say date rape,” he growled.

  “I didn’t rape you.”

  “You put Rohypnol in my scotch and said ‘Make love to me, Marsh’ and then dragged me off to bed and screwed me senseless. What would you call it?”

  “They were your drugs and you drugged me first. You kissed me.” Her mouth thinned. She strained to pull out of his grasp, but he wasn’t letting go until he got answers. He knew why she’d done it. She’d been trying to knock him out so she could escape protective custody, but things had gotten out of control. Desire had consumed them both.

  He needed to hear the words from her mouth, to know whether or not it meant anything to her.

  “I didn’t mean to have sex. I never meant to go through with it, dammit.” She closed her eyes.

  “Then why did you?” His voice cracked. With one act the woman had ruined him for everything except pining after her like a lovesick puppy.

  “I—” Her chest heaved. “I must have gotten the do
se wrong and then…” She opened her eyes and the stark blueness of them speared him. “I’d never done it before and it felt…good.”

  Dropping his head, he stared down at the hardwood floor and wondered if she was finally being honest or whether she was so skillful at reading men that she was playing him again. He let her go and she turned away, hiding her face behind a blond veil. The delicate line of her throat rippled as she swallowed.

  She rolled over the bed and got out the other side. Her face was white, her eyes flat. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I drugged you and forced you. It was rape. You should have me arrested.”

  He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. Damn. He’d wanted to know if it affected her the way it affected him. He hadn’t meant to attack her with false accusations because they both knew he’d wanted her from the moment they’d met.

  Standing slowly, he dug his fingers into his hair, knowing he had to be honest, knowing he had to try and regain some of the integrity and honor that he strived to live by. He walked over to her, put his hands on her shoulders. Stiff as a Barbie doll she stared into his eyes, pride and shame battling in the tilt of her jaw, clearly expecting a sharp jab to finish the job.

  “It was the best sex I ever had,” he told her grimly.

  Her eyes flashed with surprise as she processed his words. “Are you crazy?” The walls went back up. “Or just trying to get in my pants again?”

  Marsh shook his head and walked over to the door. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He wanted to tell her he never wanted to get inside her pants again, but he wouldn’t let any more lies stand between them. Sweeping his gaze over her body he had one last question about that evening six months ago. “You didn’t get pregnant?”

  Putting a pale, long-fingered hand over her stomach, she shook her head.

  “That’s good.” Marsh held onto the doorknob and said thickly, “Get some sleep.” Closing the door behind him, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood and wanted to bang his head. Good? So much for no more lies.