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

  As his vision adjusted Marsh watched Josie take in the Italian style Palazzo. Red brick archways ringed a courtyard, ancient carved stonework augmented by the natural beauty of grass and flowers.

  Her eyes brightened, sharpened and a half smile of wonder played across her lips—lips he’d spent most of last night tasting. The centerpiece was a Roman mosaic tile floor picturing the Gorgon, Medusa, appropriately surrounded by statues. Nearly two thousand years old and the colors were still lucid.

  It was quiet as a graveyard inside the cloisters.

  “In March 1990, two thieves dressed as Boston PD officers strolled in here and stole eleven paintings and two artifacts valued at more than three-hundred million US dollars.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, stared at an ancient marble sarcophagus carved with beautiful women gathering grapes and thought of the plain wooden box in which his brother had come home.

  “I’d just finished my BA in Art History at Harvard and was supposed to carry on the family tradition where the second son becomes a lawyer.” A shudder ran through his body. “Jesus, can you imagine?”

  Josie swept a gaze down to his highly polished shoes, touched the wool of his gray suit with one finger, and cocked one brow. “Yes.”

  He captured her hand and held it still. He wanted her to know who he was. Who he’d been. It had been a chilly day. Colder than usual. He still felt the bite of frost and the imbalance of ice, slick beneath the soles of his shoes. “I’d done a few months of law school and loathed every second of it.”

  Gently squeezing his hand, she turned to face him. “And you’d just lost your brother.”

  Clenching his teeth, he nodded. He didn’t know how she’d linked that detail and didn’t want to know. He’d come here that day because this had been Robert’s favorite place, the spot where his brother had proposed to his girlfriend, Julianna, before he’d gone off to war.

  The dean had pulled Marsh out of classes and told him the news. Marsh recalled the uncomfortable sensation of being cradled in a stranger’s arms. Maybe that was why he’d never gone back. “Who’s your favorite painter?” Marsh rapidly changed the subject.

  Tugging her hand, he urged her along. He needed to get this right, needed to show her that they weren’t so different. She let him guide her, a wonder in itself.

  “Technically? Rembrandt. Use of light? Turner. Use of color? Vermeer. And for originality on top of amazing draftsmanship? Picasso.” She bent forward to peer closer at the scrolled base of a ruined column. “Though I might give you different answers if you ask me tomorrow.” Not that she was fickle…her smile assured him.

  Their steps rang softly on the smooth stone floor.

  “Close your eyes,” he ordered.

  “Why?” she questioned. But he slowed his pace when he realized she actually had closed her eyes, a subtle sign of trust that both gratified and spooked him.

  Cautiously, he guided her down a couple of steps until they stood in a dark hallway. The air was cooler here. Above their heads, out of visual range, a surveillance camera guarded a masterpiece that hung in brilliant isolation.

  Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her to face the far end of the corridor. They couldn’t be seen or heard by the security system—he’d had a hand in all the updates they’d installed and knew all the weak spots.

  He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered softly in her ear. “This is my favorite painting.” He bit gently into the cold fleshy lobe of her ear. Felt tense anticipation morph into dazed passion as she slowly shuddered out a breath.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, looking at the painting and absorbing the sensual bite all at the same time. Grasping onto his forearms, she gave a funny little quiver that vibrated through his flesh to his bones.

  He held her tight against him, cupped her breast as she took in the artfully lit canvas painted by John Singer Sargent. El Jaleo.

  It was more than three meters wide by two meters high. A flamenco dancer in a small town cantina.

  With those clear blue eyes and loyal spirit, Josie was more stunning than any painting. Stroking her puckered nipple through the thin cotton of her dress while golden light reflected from the painting bathing the floor, the Moorish walls, the silhouette of Josie’s profile in burnished fire.

  “I love the way the light moves through the picture.” His other hand slipped lower, the coolness of her dress spilling over his wrist. Blonde hair trailed over his shoulder as she tilted her head to the side and he tasted the pulse hammering in her throat.

  “I like the light too…” She gasped when he slipped his finger inside her. She was hot as Hades, as smooth as Chinese silk.

  “I love the energy of the dancer, the intensity of the passion of the audience.” Heat seared the palm of his hand. He could feel the strain of her muscles, taste the salt as sweat appeared on her skin.

  “Oh god. I don’t care about the painting. I want you, Marsh. Inside me. Right. Now.” Her voice got low and then broke as he pressed his palm against her mound and stroked secret flesh.

  “Can’t do it, Josie.” His voice was a low growl. “It’s against the law.” He sank his teeth into her shoulder as she came with an uncontrolled shudder. His own arousal pounded like a beast, but he breathed through the lust and held her gently as she came back to earth.

  Slowly she turned in his arms, clasped her hands around his neck, gazed up, her eyes dark with desire.

  “I bet I could make you forget your principles, Special Agent in Charge Hayes.” Her lips were soft temptation.

  “You already did.” Gently he pulled away. He backed up a step, giving himself time for his breath to settle, his blood to cool. “But you wanted to know why I joined the FBI. What drove me into law enforcement.” In an effort to restrain the emotions that always consumed him inside this building, he led her back through the courtyard and up some steps, past Italian masterpieces and priceless Japanese screens. Into the Dutch Room with its dark-paneled ceiling and heavy oak furniture.

  * * *

  Josie stood in the center of the room, awed to be in the presence of timeless masterpieces. Then she spotted it. “There are empty spaces on the wall.” Iciness stole over her skin, made her scalp prickle despite the sun glaring through the big arched windows and the residual desire that made her limbs weak.

  “Isabella Gardner left very clear instructions in her will about how this place was to be run.” Marsh held his hands stiffly at his side. “The curator can’t make changes to the permanent collection, so we’re left with this…” Marsh strode over to one wall, pointed to the yawning space within an empty frame. “Rembrandt.” He kept on walking, his voice getting fiercer as he circled the room, “Vermeer. Rembrandt. Flinck.”

  There was nothing but depressingly empty space, a sad testament to failed security and human greed.

  “Isabella Gardner spent her life collecting art and left it for the American people to enjoy. My brother gave his life for those same Americans.” His voice echoed loudly off the dark walls, sounding sacrilegious in the rarified atmosphere. “These fuckers didn’t give a shit about any of it. So while my brother was willing to give up his life for his country, they just waltzed in and took what they wanted.”

  When he whirled to face her again, his eyes were brighter than glass. “That is why I dropped out of law school and joined the military, to honor my brother. That…” he pointed his finger at the pillaged walls, “is why I joined the FBI and persuaded them to create a division devoted to art theft, which they didn’t have back then. I wanted the satisfaction of tracking these bastards and shutting them down.” Looking furious and isolated in the big empty room, he took a huge shuddering breath and held it, let it out slowly. Her own breath unfolded from her chest in a jagged wave.

  “I want to catch these bastards and others who don’t care about the rights of a nation. I want to lock them away if they think it is okay to steal what they want at the expense of everything my brother fought for.”


  He stared at her with an unholy glitter in his eyes, totally unlike the sensuous exchange they’d shared downstairs. And thinking about what they’d done in a public place made her cheeks burn. She didn’t understand the justice system. It hadn’t saved her. It hadn’t even glanced in her direction.

  But she understood art, and didn’t think it should be a privilege of the wealthy. Tears pricked the backs of Josie’s eyes. She’d always thought Marsh delusional, the way he believed in the law, and fought so hard for justice. She watched him from behind a veil of hair and thought about her own ideals and principles. It shamed her she had so few.

  But she understood him now. He wasn’t arrogant or conceited. He wasn’t a rich boy playing at being a cop. He was driven and focused and determined to do the right thing for everyone. They couldn’t be more different if she barked and wagged a tail. And here they were trapped, entwined together as intimately as oxygen and fire, as bound for tragedy as any manmade inferno.

  The look in his eyes told her he’d die for her and she knew, deep down where she buried her secrets, she did not want to exist in a world without him.

  No matter how ingrained escape was, she couldn’t run. Not yet. He needed what comfort she could give, and she needed to offer it.

  Life had been so much easier with her emotions locked away.

  The distance between them was just a few yards, but stepping toward him felt like crossing the galaxy. Feeling his heat, running her hands up through his crisp dark hair, she drew his mouth down to hers. Kissed him with a fierceness that bordered on possession.

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Fourteen

  Dancer bent under the table to retrieve a fork Pru Duvall had dropped and received a totally unexpected flash of her Brazilian wax. Holy mother. He straightened sharply, banging his head on the edge of the table. The ruby-red claret in his crystal glass cost the same amount he and his mother had paid for a week’s rent in Southie. He swallowed half the glass in one gulp. Three-and-a-half days rent in one mouthful.

  “Is the wine all right?” Prudence reached for her glass and sniffed before taking a sip, smiling across at him. The information in her file put her at fifty-two years old; almost the same age his mother would have been had she lived. He’d have guessed thirty-five. On a bad day.

  He’d secretly named her the Barracuda. It was a childish nickname, but it was childishness that got him through most days away from dark memories.

  “It’s lovely, ma’am, thank you.” His cheeks continued to burn. God. He hated his complexion.

  “Call me Prudence.”

  Call me stupid. Fifty-two years old.

  Suddenly he was bombarded with memories. That tiny apartment. His mother’s frail figure stumbling from one room to the next, using the walls to support her wasted limbs.

  Tipping back the glass, he swallowed the rest of the wine. Wiping his mouth he tried to recapture the thrill of having lunch at the Ritz-Carlton hotel.

  “So, I’m pretty curious as to why you wanted to meet up with me for lunch, Prudence.” He gave her a shy smile, knew it made him look fifteen.

  She raised one sharply defined eyebrow. “Do you really need to ask, Agent Dancer?”

  “I’d rather not assume…” He let the question hang. Rather not assume a married woman would screw around on her husband? Rather not assume she would try to insinuate herself in an official investigation? Or that the wife of a potential nominee for the presidency would be so indiscreet?

  Reaching across the table, she rested her hand next to his and stroked one fingernail along his freckled skin. The lines on her hand revealed her true age—no plastic surgery in the world could hide that reality.

  Heat radiated from his cheeks like mini explosions. “I—I—I, I’m flattered, Mrs. Duvall.” Yep, there was his stutter back, the icing on the cake of his humiliation. The Statue of Liberty saluted in the distance, and Dancer found himself grinning back at her. Before he could say anything Pru leaned forward, revealing cleavage as deep and firm as any twenty-year-old’s.

  Fifty-two years or not, she worked out and looked good. And it stirred not an atom of interest in any part of his body. Prudence Duvall was his mother’s age and the idea of being with her repelled him so deeply he thought he might puke.

  So hold it together, Joey. You don’t believe she’s really after your body, do you? She wants something and figures getting you in the sack would be the fastest route to the jackpot.

  “Prudence.” He smiled into her eyes and pretended not to see the unsheathed claws gleaming in her retinas. “I’m flattered, but you are a married woman.”

  The waiter arrived with their main course and Dancer breathed a sweet sigh of relief. Salivating at the aroma of prime sirloin he picked up his knife and fork then noticed a tear escaping Pru’s eye. He knew it wasn’t real, he knew she was putting it on, but the sight twisted his gut and had him placing a hand over hers.

  “He beats me.” Her voice dropped to a thick whisper.

  “What?” Dancer didn’t believe her for a second. “Who beats you, Prudence?”

  Pursing her lips she shook her head, her ash-blonde hair coming down from one of its pins and making her look vulnerable for the first time ever.

  Barracuda, he reminded himself.

  “You don’t believe me. I can tell.” Her eyes were bright and she blinked rapidly at the wetness. Glancing around, she slowly inched back the sleeve of her jacket.

  Indigo and green bruises encircled her wrists.

  Shit.

  Appetite wiped clean, Dancer leaned back in his chair and looked deep into her eyes. What the hell was going on? “You need to tell me everything.”

  She nodded frantically. “But not here. Someone might see me here.”

  Mentally rolling his eyes at himself, he rose and walked around to assist her from her chair. She pulled down the sleeves of her suit jacket and stood jerkily, spilling her wine with a crash. Red stained the white wool of her skirt like fresh blood.

  “Come on.” He took her arm, looked longingly at the steak on his plate. “Let’s go somewhere quiet and talk.” Maybe she’d tell him where she’d got that painting and why she’d lied about it.

  * * *

  “Well damn and blast, you finally found it.” Admiral Chambers’ brown eyes twinkled like Christmas lights as he examined the color photocopy Marsh held out to him.

  “We got a tip off.” Marsh followed the elderly naval officer into his oak-lined study. The golden wood of the desk shone brightly. The room smelled sweetly of polish.

  “Your father will be proud.”

  Marsh had wondered how long it would take the man to bring up the family connection.

  “When can I get it back?” The admiral moved with a stiff gait, like he was bothered by arthritis or maybe an old injury. But excitement propelled him eagerly to his desk and he was all but rubbing his hands together with glee. Chambers didn’t know the painting had been reassessed in its absence and was considered by the few experts who knew of its existence to be a missing Vermeer.

  Or did he?

  Before Marsh could release it he needed to establish the rightful owner. He saw lawyers on the horizon. Lots of lawyers.

  “Did you miss it that much or are you just anxious to sell?” Marsh wandered around the book-filled shelves, noting a thick layer of dust coating each volume.

  Thick silver brows beetled together and the old man’s jowls quivered with indignation. “None of your goddamned business.”

  “What if I wanted to buy it? As a present for someone?” Marsh examined his fingernails in a big show of nonchalance.

  “You?” The admiral’s eyes narrowed as if looking for a trap as he settled his bulk into a shiny brown leather chair, worn pale around the seams. It creaked with strain as he leaned against the backrest. “Jake said you’d finally brought a woman home. You kowtowing to the need for an heir or just screwing her?”

  “None of your goddamned business.” Marsh smiled at the old coot whom his
father confided in during their twice-weekly golf games. If Marsh ever arrested the admiral, his father would probably disown him, whether the admiral was guilty or not.

  The other man opened a drawer and hauled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shot glass.

  “Want one?” Chambers’ hand hovered over a second glass.

  Deciding it was the best way of keeping the old termagant talking, Marsh nodded. “I didn’t think you were allowed to drink anymore?”

  Chambers grunted, slipped a nasty look toward the closed study door. “What Helen doesn’t know won’t kill her.” His smile was small and bitter.

  “After fifty years of marriage she must love you a hell of a lot to monitor your health so closely.” Marsh kept a bland expression on his face. His private life wasn’t the only one discussed among strangers. Helen Chambers had her husband by the proverbial balls and was slowly strangling him for past indiscretions.

  He filled both shot glasses to the brim, passed one across the desk leaving a small streak of liquid marring the otherwise perfect surface.

  “I’ll give you one piece of advice, lad. Don’t marry a woman who controls the purse strings. Hell, don’t get married period.”

  Lad?

  The admiral tossed back the bourbon and poured himself another. He held up the bottle, but Marsh declined. Chambers capped it and stuck it back in his drawer like a guilty secret.

  What other secrets were locked up inside that devious old mind?

  “So.” Chambers breathed out slowly, the bourbon doing its job. “When do I get my painting back?”

  “We need to establish provenance.”

  A flicker of unease entered the old man’s eyes. As if aware he was giving himself away he turned and looked out of the window. “It was bought years ago. I don’t have any proof of purchase.”

  “Prudence Duvall claims the painting was hers.”

  Chambers’ head whipped around, his mouth drawn back in a snarl. “That woman is a lying bitch.”