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

  Marsh grimaced and looked up at the wannabe First Lady. What was she doing on this side of Manhattan? As far as he knew, the Duvalls had an apartment in the exclusive echelons of Gramercy Park.

  “You are a fast worker, Special Agent in Charge, Marshall Hayes.” Pru raked her eyes up and down Josephine’s figure. “I see you like them young, skinny and blonde.”

  Josephine’s muscles vibrated like a strung bow. He let go of her hands, which fisted into bony knots, and placed his palm on her knee.

  “Mrs. Duvall, what a pleasure.” Marsh didn’t bother to stand. “Let me introduce a very good friend of mine, Miss Josephine Maxwell.”

  Pru Duvall smiled tightly at Josephine, who stared mutinously back at the older woman.

  “Ahh, now I recognize you, my dear. You’re the victim of that awful person who’s running around Manhattan with a knife.”

  Flicking her blonde hair over one shoulder, Josephine pushed his hand from her knee and stood, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. “I’m nobody’s victim.”

  Turning her back on Pru—bad move—she stared down at him, the light in her eyes forged from hellfire. “Coming?”

  The alarm and frustration of the last twelve hours were wiped out by admiration for her indomitable spirit. Without a word to Pru, he stood and followed Josephine down the path out of the park, knowing that if she truly wanted him to, he’d follow her anywhere.

  * * *

  “Where are we going?” Marsh’s gruff question irritated the hell out of her. She didn’t know what to do with the feelings he evoked by racing to her rescue and then holding her hand while sitting on a park bench in Washington Square.

  The terror that had gripped her after she’d left the apartment had knocked her off balance. And she wasn’t happy about the fact that when she’d panicked she’d phoned Marsh, rather than dialing 911.

  She looked over her shoulder, waited for him to catch up. Pru Duvall watched them with a catty expression on her face—she’d looked at Josie like she was something nasty scraped off the sole of a shoe.

  “She’s got the hots for you.” Josie glanced up into hazel eyes that sparked with amber and jade like fall leaves scattered about the city.

  He shook his head, “She’s a power-monger. She wants me on my knees groveling.”

  “She wants you on your knees all right, but I don’t think groveling is what she has in mind.”

  He grinned and she looked away.

  He disturbed her. Made her thoughts scatter. Made her think about sex.

  Everything about him appealed to her senses, from the way his suit molded those wide shoulders, the strong length of his legs, and that perfect face with the lean cheekbones and full bottom lip. He even smelled great, clean and fresh like the ocean.

  She wanted him.

  Her mouth went dry. She was stunned to think this way. The whole time she’d been growing up “sex” had been a dirty word. Her father’s favorite nickname for her had been whore and that was on a good day. All these years later, her father’s vicious words still hurt. She made a fist, clenching her fingers so tight her knuckles pulled at her skin. She’d done everything to prove him wrong, to prove she wasn’t a whore and that she wasn’t going to get dragged into the gutter like her mother or the whisky-soaked alcoholic who’d spawned her. That’s why she hadn’t touched a guy until she’d seduced Marsh last year. That had been a disaster, but at the time it had felt amazing.

  Somehow this ultraconservative government agent had flipped a button inside her that made her want to get naked and busy, and it scared the hell out of her. But not as much as the man with the big knife did.

  She shivered.

  He put his arm around her shoulders, startling her, and guided her around a group of college students all wearing shorts despite the cold weather. Some of the guys were checking her out. She knew she should be flattered by the stares and murmurs, but the scars that branded her flesh reminded her how superficial beauty was.

  So maybe it wasn’t the desire to prove her father wrong that kept her from indulging in physical relationships. Maybe it was nothing more than simple vanity. Touching Marsh like this, pressed so close against him, made her heart speed up and excitement flutter along her veins. She’d always pushed heterosexual males away because she was afraid to let anyone see her scars. But right now she had a heterosexual male by her side who’d seen all her many flaws. It didn’t seem to be such a problem anymore.

  But if scars had been her only issue she’d have just turned out the lights.

  She was screwed up and the bottom line was she didn’t want to let anyone close. Relying on anyone but herself was dangerous. She pushed away from Marsh. He only looked surprised it had taken so long.

  “What happens next?”

  “I’ll set up protective custody,” his voice went deeper, seductive and compelling, “get you into a safe house—”

  “I’m not going to a safe house.” He drew in a breath as if to argue, and for the first time in her life she felt compelled to explain. “Look. Social Services made it their mission to take me away from the one person in the world I trusted.” A piece of lint clung to his lapel; she concentrated on brushing it off rather than the emotions that went hand-in-hand with thinking about Marion. Her gaze settled on the strong column of his throat, above his starched white collar. “There’s no way I can stand to be locked up again.”

  “You’d rather be dead?”

  “I wanted to leave, remember? To disappear? You’re the one who wants me to stay and, yes, frankly I’d rather be dead than locked up in some ‘safe house’ waiting for someone to kill me.” A lump swelled in her throat. “But I’d rather not be either.”

  The wind blew her hair in a wild flurry around her face. “I thought you wanted to catch this guy?”

  “I want to nail him.” His fingers squeezed her shoulders and her gaze rose to meet his. “But not if it means you getting hurt.” His fingers were warm through her jacket, the pressure increasing, as if compelling her to trust him.

  Slowly, he leaned forward and touched his forehead and nose to hers, hot flesh against cold. This was the most intimate gesture she’d shared with anyone, this one-on-one stare with a G-man she’d spent months hating, months fantasizing about. Flecks of gold glinted in his hazel eyes, and the banked heat of desire glowed deep and hot.

  “I’ll hire private protection—”

  “I can pay for my own damned protection.” She was unhappy at being vulnerable to a killer and inexplicably disappointed Marsh wouldn’t be the one watching her. Watching her. Right. She drew back.

  “There’s no way I can protect you 24/7. I’ll stay with you at night, but I have a job to do. And I’m hiring the bodyguard, so get over it.”

  Frustrated, she blew out a breath and remembered what Elizabeth had told her about Marsh’s core sense of honor and justice. Poor deluded bastard.

  “Where are you going right now?” He looked along the street as if suddenly noticing the throngs of tourists and shoppers.

  “There’s an art gallery on Mercer that sold two of my paintings last week, I was going to talk to the owner about what they might want to replace them with.”

  He glanced at his fancy wristwatch, as if mentally tallying up the minutes he needed to spend in her company. Sliding her teeth against one another she narrowed her gaze at the cracks in the sidewalk. Why was she so angry at him for doing his job? Why was she so angry, period?

  “I’ll walk you there. Dancer can swap with me later if I can’t get hold of a friend of mine who lives in the city. You remember Steve Dancer, right?”

  She nodded. Hard to forget Marsh’s sidekick with his techno-gadgets. Steve Dancer had been nice to her even when everybody in the world, including Marsh, had hated her guts. Not even Nat Sullivan, Elizabeth’s new husband, had wanted her around after she’d inadvertently brought Andrew DeLattio to his remote ranch. She could hardly blame him. Elizabeth had almost died and it had been her stupid fault.

&nbs
p; Her shoulders sagged as Marsh herded her toward her appointment, already on the phone to a bodyguard whose number he knew by heart. She wanted her life back. Her nice, safe, insular little life that now seemed as cold and desolate as a wasteland.

  There was a hot dog vendor on the corner of West Broadway, the aroma invading every particle of air she breathed, reminding her she’d only had one measly piece of toast since lunchtime yesterday.

  “You want a hotdog?” she asked Marsh, groping for change in her purse.

  The sun flared between clouds and light flowed over his dark hair, catching a hint of silver she hadn’t noticed before.

  “You’re going to eat on the move?” Disapproval in every word.

  “Yep.” She wished she didn’t find him quite so attractive, wished she’d never discovered what she’d been missing as a twenty-seven year old virgin. Life had been fine before that.

  “Let’s go somewhere decent—”

  “This is decent.” She shook her head, blew the hair out of her eyes. He was such a snob.

  One hand on her elbow he pointed to the flies hovering on the ketchup dispenser. “This is a health hazard,” he said.

  Seriously… She rolled her eyes at him.

  The sun broke fully through dissolute clouds, glinting warmly off his tanned skin. He tugged her away from the succulent aroma and reluctantly she fell into step beside him.

  “Well, it better be quick—”

  “Why, Josephine?” He stopped and looked down at her, a hard light in his eyes. “I thought artists were Bohemian, free spirits? Why are you always in so much of a damn rush that you don’t look after yourself?”

  “I’m hungry, you idiot.” Angry at being so unfairly judged lit a fuse within her. “And I know how to look after myself.” She planted her finger on his chest. “I’ve had plenty of practice looking after myself and aside from this stupid freaking serial killer on my tail, I do a pretty good job of it.”

  People streamed around them in the street. Marsh swept a pitying glance over her frame, from her Doc Marten boots to her favorite army jacket. She glared back, wanting to cross her arms over her chest, but knowing that would put her on the defensive rather than the attack.

  “You’re too damn thin. I could push you over with one finger.” He copied her move and stuck his index finger in her sternum, between her breasts.

  The world stopped. Time hovered. The people rushing past them ceasing to exist. There was nothing but the heat in his eyes and the energy that sizzled and circled between the points of contact of each finger on each chest, round and round, firing sparks through her heart and breasts, making her breath squeeze tight into a tiny ball.

  Suddenly it was the flat of her hand against his white cotton shirt as if holding him off—but she wasn’t and he knew it. He dropped his hand slowly away from her.

  Speechless for once in her life, she finally let her hand drop away.

  “Come on, woman.” He took her elbow gently and steered her down the sidewalk. “Let’s get some food.”

  * * *

  They settled on a small Irish pub. Marsh ordered a steak sandwich. Josephine ordered beef pie, French fries and orange juice.

  Marsh sipped water as they sat in silence. That pulse of desire that had rushed them on the street rattled him. Six months ago, he’d let her get way too close and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get over it. Lust for her had clouded his judgment, affected his thinking and made him break the law. Not to mention nearly gotten his agent killed. Right now, he couldn’t afford distraction, because this time it would be Josephine who wound up dead.

  A huge mountain of food arrived in front of them and they both dug in. No way was she going to be able to eat all that. First she smothered the fries in vinegar, then ketchup, and she started eating like she was ravenous. One French fry after another disappeared between those delicate lips. She licked salt off with a darting pink tongue.

  She looked up. “What?”

  Marsh shook his head and stared at the rapidly disappearing food. “I hope you’re not doing that to impress me.”

  “I’m starving.” Wiping a napkin over her mouth, she paused. “And you know I rarely do anything to impress anyone.”

  “Except Marion?” He watched her reaction.

  The fork paused in midair, and she went completely still. “I’d have done anything for Marion” she admitted.

  “What happened to your real mother, Josephine?”

  Pain was buried beneath the angry look she threw him and he immediately regretted pushing her when she put down the fork and stopped eating. The woman needed building up. She was thinner than she had been in the spring. Couldn’t afford to drop another pound.

  He didn’t understand why she attracted him so much. She was too skinny and had issues the size of the Empire State Building. The pulse above her collarbone fluttered delicately as she shrugged and he wanted to kiss her there.

  “She took off.” Her eyes flicked right, which would have been great except Marsh knew she was left-handed and the physical clues for lying usually got twisted around.

  So why lie?

  “How old were you when she left?” He watched her lips pucker as she thought about his question.

  “Nine.”

  Same age as when she’d been knifed.

  “So what? Your mother abandoned you just after some psycho attacked you?” What kind of woman did that?

  Silver blonde hair fell around her face as she shook her head. She picked up the fork again and stabbed a piece of beef out of the rich fragrant gravy.

  “She left before that.” She put the meat in her mouth and chewed. “Ran off with some guy from our church.”

  “Did you say church?” Marsh raised a shocked brow.

  Josephine gave him a bad-ass grin. “Yeah. I was a devout little Catholic girl right up until the day I found out it was all bullshit.”

  “And you never heard from your mother again?” He persisted, unsure why, except for the desire to find out what made her tick. The blank expression on her face made him wish he could read minds.

  “Never saw her again.” She smiled without humor. “Not that I blame her for getting out.” The blue of her eyes deepened. “Well, you met my daddy, right?”

  He nodded. He had indeed met her father, a scumbag who’d been willing to sell his daughter’s life for the price of a bottle of whisky. But what sort of mother abandoned her child into the care of such a man?

  Josephine polished off the last of her fries and downed her juice while he toyed with his food. Walter Maxwell’s tiny apartment had been cockroach ridden and filthy. His stomach rebelled at the memory and he pushed away his sandwich. Josephine had gone through hell as a kid. She didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a psychopath. Then again, who did?

  His phone rang. It was Dancer. “Do you mind if I take this call?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I got a name for the source of the painting, but you’re not going to like it,” Dancer said.

  What else is new? “Go on.”

  A giant walked through the entranceway of the restaurant and searched the room until he spotted Marsh. Marsh waved him over.

  “The company that sold the allegedly-stolen possible-Vermeer is one Blue Steel Trading Corporation. Owned by the wife of Senator Brook Duvall. Prudence.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. Hold on a minute.” Marsh put his hand over the mouthpiece and stood. Looking up at the ebony-skinned colossus who’d once served under him in the Navy, he grinned as he shook Vince’s hand, grateful they were friends and not enemies. “Good to see you, Vince. Vincent Brandt, meet Josephine Maxwell. Josephine, meet Vince.”

  They eyed each other like a snake and a meerkat.

  “I’ve got to go. Don’t let her out of your sight until I get back tonight, Vince.” Marsh looked down at the angelic countenance of the Blade Hunter’s first victim. “And don’t trust a word she says. She’s a liar, and she’s damn good at it.”

 
; Her Last Chance: Chapter Six

  Marsh leaned over the table where the accounting records were laid out. He was back at Federal Plaza and beginning to wonder if he’d ever see his Boston office or home again, although New York City was getting more attractive by the minute.

  Dancer peered out the window twenty-three flights down, where traffic resembled matchbox cars and people were two-legged ants scurrying from point A to B. A sparrow hopped onto the sill and Dancer tapped the glass and the bird flew away. Marsh ignored him, knowing the guy was frustrated with the turn of events in the investigation. They were about to wallow in a political quagmire and couldn’t afford to screw up.

  “Blue Steel Trading Corp sold the painting for $100,000, six months ago?” he asked.

  “Yes. Which doesn’t jive with the assumed value of the painting either.” Aiden Fitzgerald, a renowned art expert who was also an undercover FBI agent, stared at a photograph of the painting blown up on a massive scale. “Even with the De Hooch signature, it’s worth half a million, easy.”

  “Maybe the seller needed fast cash?”

  “Or they knew it was stolen and wanted to get rid of it,” Dancer added.

  “At least someone went to the trouble of having it professionally cleaned.” Aiden leaned back in his chair—model perfect, impeccably dressed. He steepled his fingers together, put the manicured tips to his lips. The New York art scene was his patch and he wore it well. “The De Hooch signature looks like it has been there for years. Assuming there is a Vermeer signature buried there—a big assumption at this point—why did they cover it up?”

  “Maybe because a Vermeer suddenly coming to light would cause an international stir? Maybe they didn’t want that sort of media spotlight.”

  Aiden’s eyes cut to Marsh. Both World Wars had been a time of great disruption when many valuables had changed hands for many reasons. People had hidden their wealth and their spoils in a variety of disguises.

  “The last Vermeer find, which is still doubted by many, sold for thirty-million in two thousand and four.” Aiden placed his hands on the crisp white copy of the bill of sale. “Johannes Vermeer is only known to have created three-dozen paintings in his life. Most are in Museums, one, as you know, is listed stolen from the Gardner Museum.” He blew out a big breath, tugged his lips as he examined the photograph one more time—the painting itself was still being processed for evidence in a nearby lab with more security than POTUS. “I still think, assuming it isn’t a damn good forgery, this could be the real deal. The use of light…” His voice dropped away in admiration. He looked up. “It could go for as much as fifty million at auction today.”