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

  “She has evidence in the form of eyewitnesses who place the painting in her childhood home throughout her life.”

  A vein throbbed in Chambers’ forehead, a vivid mark of temper. Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. “She’s lying, but she did promise to screw me one day.” Suspicion entered his gaze as his fingers closed tighter on the shot glass. “Where’d you say you found it?”

  “I didn’t.” Marsh didn’t give out details to anyone during investigations. “So how do you two know each other?”

  Annoyance puckered the man’s brow as he sipped his drink. “Knew. I haven’t seen her in years and good riddance.” He turned away again, stared at the velveteen green lawn sprinkled with this year’s dead leaves. Sweat glistened on his brow. “She’s evil.”

  Marsh ignored the bitter observation, wanting more information. “You slept together?”

  “No.” The admiral’s tone grew dark as he glanced toward the oak paneled door of his study. “But I fucked her for a few weeks.”

  “Looks like she fucked you right back.” Marsh rose to his feet, feeling nauseous that this was his father’s best friend. He walked to the casement window, put his hand against the cold pane. “We figure that painting you two both claim to own could fetch as much as fifty million at auction today.”

  Chambers’ face lost all color. Marsh wished he had the grace to feel sorry for the old fool, but he didn’t. “I think it’s time you told me the whole story and then maybe the FBI won’t press charges about you falsifying the report of a crime and wasting police time.”

  * * *

  The old church was boarded up, windows cracked and splintered, wire mesh enforcing the exclusion order. Grime coated each pane, blocking light until nothing but gray silt pervaded the empty nave. Echoes of an old life competed with the drums inside his head. The floor was smooth hardwood, worn down in places by the tread of long forgotten bodies, a lost congregation, a failed faith.

  He lit three candles. One each.

  God be with you…

  And also with you.

  Thick dust coated everything, spider webs shrouding the old pulpit where his father had once preached faith and charity. His mouth tightened with memories belonging to another lifetime. His family had been excited by their first trip to the US, away from their sanctimonious mud hut existence to the bright lights of America.

  They’d never been the same again.

  Darkness stirred. Hatred burned for the woman who’d started all this—a woman he’d already killed.

  The man on the floor groaned, attempted to reach out a bound hand and ended up face down, writhing on the floor. A black nylon hood was strung over his head. Taking a small syringe he tapped it to get the air out and stuck the man with another dose of liquid codeine.

  He didn’t want to kill him.

  Pru had gotten him into her car before he’d succumbed to the drug she’d put in his wine. He smiled. Everything was going perfectly, though Pru didn’t fully appreciate the endgame yet.

  “When are you going to kill him?” Her voice was breathy.

  “After. You can do it.”

  A gleam of anticipation lit her eyes in the darkness. She’d never been involved this intimately before and was excited by it. They’d been sexual partners for years before she’d guessed his unusual sideline. Instead of turning him in, she’d been turned on by the fact he had a lethal hobby. So he hadn’t killed her.

  But she was high risk. Once Brook was nominated as a presidential candidate, which looked more and more likely, the chances of being caught exploded exponentially. Pru lived for the thrill, didn’t really care about getting caught.

  She’d become a liability.

  The candle flames fluttered like they’d been disturbed by a ghostly presence. A shiver ran along his forearms, tingled across his shoulders.

  Pru’s hands trembled and her breasts heaved like she’d run all the way here. She was aroused. Riding a sexual high. A kindred spirit who called to him—like a parched flower called for rain. The thought of doing it here, inside this church where his father had preached deceit, where he’d first seen Margo Maxwell and her anemic-looking daughter made him shake.

  Perfect symmetry in an imperfect world. He touched his knife, painfully aware he needed to leave it behind this time.

  “You know what to do.” He kept his voice flat. Dampened the emotion because he needed the details to be perfect. She swept past him with a knowing look. The thought of blood brought the drums to full volume inside his skull. The desire to touch her was almost tangible, but he held himself in check and let his groin ache.

  Sinking to her knees, she pressed her cheek to the grunt’s stomach, lips pouting.

  “Use your mouth.” An experienced whore in the abandoned house of God, but she wasn’t the only sinner here. “Let him go out with a bang.”

  Excitement curled along his nerves, unfurled like fire in his fists. Need clawed and bit and savaged his control like a wild animal half-starved and cornered. He reined it in. First she had a job to do because there were some things he didn’t want to relive. Some actions he never wanted to repeat.

  Drums thrummed along his veins, faster and faster.

  God be with you…

  And also with you.

  Lying fucking assholes.

  Walking up behind her, he handed her a plastic cup. Pity about the White House, but he had a greater goal now. Everything had shifted into place. He could finally see the big picture. Survival. Escape. A fresh start.

  * * *

  “So you don’t even know if there was a crime?” Josie laughed so hard she forgot to breathe. Streetlights filtered through the open drapes to showcase pure masculine beauty, but left her enough darkness to be comfortable with her disfigured skin. Kneeling naked on the bed was pretty empowering for a woman who usually averted her eyes getting into the shower.

  “It isn’t funny.” Marsh threw his arm over his forehead.

  But it was and she saw a smile twitch the corner of his mouth.

  “So, the she-devil gave the admiral her late daddy’s very expensive painting when they were doing the dirty, but when the admiral broke it off because his wife was getting suspicious, she stole it back?”

  “But the admiral never knew for sure it was Prudence who stole the picture, even though he suspected it was her, he still had to report the theft, or face an inquisition from Mrs. Chambers.”

  “That’s pretty funny.” She grinned.

  “Not when you imagine them naked it isn’t.” He squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her.

  “Damn.” His hot gaze slid over her body and the evidence of his arousal made her blush. Again.

  “He must have been pretty good in the sack to warrant a 17th Century Dutch Master,” Josie mused, trying to keep her distance because she wanted so desperately to touch him and didn’t recognize herself.

  “I’m thinking you’re a Cezanne. Vibrant and unusual but perfect nevertheless.” Dark eyes glittered at her, intense and unsettling. “So how’d you rate me?” The voice was teasing, but being an expert on the subject, she recognized basic insecurity.

  “Hmmm…” She tapped her finger to her lip as if considering. “Maybe the grand master himself? Leonardo?”

  “DiCaprio?” His chest shook as he laughed.

  “No. DaVinci.” She felt foolish and hid her unease by running her fingers over the satin covers, enjoyed the cool shiver that sparkled along her nerves. Wished she didn’t prefer touching his warm sleek muscles. She was getting needy, and that suggested weakness she couldn’t afford.

  Marsh had arrived home an hour ago, but rather than sit down and eat, he’d wordlessly taken her hand and led her up the stairs, locked the door and jumped her.

  It nagged at her that his parents were in the house and knew they were up here probably screwing each other’s brains out. But the glitter in Marsh’s gaze had warned her not to question him and not to bow to convention the way
she wanted to. She’d never cared about meeting other people’s expectations before, and didn’t like the guilt it wreaked on her conscience.

  Role reversal with a twist of red-hot sex.

  Marsh rolled away from her and she admired the carved planes of his back, rock solid columns flanking his spine and that tight ass she liked so much.

  And it wasn’t only lust that invaded her mind…

  But their relationship was too fragile, her survival too uncertain to examine those growing feelings. Needing a distraction she ran her hand across his smooth skin, fascinated by the way his muscles bunched and played beneath her touch.

  Grabbing his cell phone, he jabbed a speed dial number. “I wish I knew where the hell Dancer had disappeared to…”

  “You’re not really worried about him, are you?”

  “Not really. Not anymore,” Marsh admitted. “He’s a smart guy, too smart to get tangled in any of Pru Duvall’s schemes.” But he frowned as he got bumped to voicemail yet again. “We could press charges against Pru and the admiral for wasting FBI time, but the powers that be would probably snuff them out before they even got to the AG’s Office.

  Lying down, her breasts pressed to his back, she slipped her hand around him, felt power shimmer through her as he groaned and dropped the phone. Tension and heat erupted from every pore of his body. Hot naked flesh pressed against hot naked flesh and she explored him in painstaking detail.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked with a smile. “I’m hungry.”

  “Starving.” His voice broke as Josie scraped teeth over smooth skin.

  “You want to call him again?” she whispered.

  “He’ll be fine,” Marsh muttered, jerking her to him and kissing the breath out of her.

  * * *

  Dancer felt sluggish, his arms heavy. For a moment, his worst nightmare rose inside his brain, dark and ugly—that the disease that had destroyed his mother had also taken control of his body. But he clenched his fists, felt the very solid connection of hard fingernails pressed into the palm of his hand and knew that wasn’t the problem. A hood covered his head and panic gripped hard to his heart. Had he been abducted? He listened hard, trying to figure out whether or not he was alone. Couldn’t hear anything except the creak of the wind against windows. Slowly he eased the hood off his head. There was something in his mouth—he spat out a rag covered in dirt and grime and tried to figure out where the hell he was. He lay on a filthy wooden floor. The boards were warped and rotten, mouse droppings scattered everywhere. Rusty nails wavered close to his face. Memory was hazy. He felt like he’d gotten shitfaced, but didn’t remember going out. He squinted and vaguely remembered the Statue of Liberty raising her hand to him…

  Rolling onto his back he realized his zipper was undone and he was exposed to the world.

  Shit! What the hell…? Pulling his zipper closed, he rifled through his pant pockets frantically searching for his cell phone. Where was it?

  Giving up, he staggered to his knees, relieved when the giddy sensation receded and he was able to raise his head.

  A strong scent hit him and he gagged. He knew the pungent odor of violent death. He might only be a glorified technician, but he’d been involved in some serious cases—not least Elizabeth being pursued by the mob last spring. And he’d been right there when scumbags Andrew DeLattio and Charlie Corelli had had their faces blown off.

  Bracing himself he turned around. He wished he hadn’t. He wished he hadn’t woken up that morning. He wished he’d kept on sleeping like a baby, lids welded shut for as long as it took.

  Prudence Duvall lay stretched across what would have been the sanctuary of the church, immediately beneath the altar. Duct tape covered her mouth. Handcuffs restrained her wrists above her head.

  His handcuffs.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, but they didn’t pierce the fog of his brain.

  Blood streaked her body, escaping from deep wounds that crossed her chest and abdomen. Her blouse was shredded and hung like a rag from one of her arms. Her skirt was bunched around her hips, leaving her completely, brutally exposed.

  Blood dripped slowly down one side of her torso. In a daze, Dancer moved toward her.

  Was she still alive?

  How could she be?

  He knelt by her side and checked her carotid. Noticed the knife lying beside her thigh one second before a voice called out, “Freeze!”

  A flicker of something moved in her eyes, he was sure of it.

  “I’m with the FBI, I think she might still be alive!” Jesus.

  “Get away from the body, spread out on the floor and don’t move a friggin’ muscle.” The voice boomed in his ear so loud he flinched. Shit.

  Dancer eased away, his ears ringing, but repeated quietly, “I’m with the FBI.” He lay on the floor, slowly. Tasted dust and shit in his mouth. “I think she’s still alive.”

  “Shut your mouth, dickwad.” One officer patted him down hard enough to hurt, but Dancer simply stared at Prudence and wondered what the hell had happened between the restaurant and here.

  Another cop knelt beside her and put his fingers on her neck the same way Dancer had. “Nah, she’s dead.”

  Dancer started to struggle as the cuffs snapped against his wrists, catching flesh. He didn’t give a shit about the pain. “Give her CPR, you stupid prick! Get the EMTs in here! She’s still alive—”

  The first officer nailed him with a punch.

  “Like to cut up women, do ya?” The beat cop blasted him again and pain shot through his skull as his nose split open and he collapsed to the floor.

  As he lay face down in the dirt, blood dripping steadily from his broken nose, he knew he’d been set up and these bozos wouldn’t listen to a word. “I need to make a phone call.” He spat out dirt and blood and tried to breathe through his mouth. He was from South Boston; it wasn’t the first time he’d taken a beating.

  The police officer spat on him.

  How can you be so fucking dumb?

  “Give me a phone—”

  The boot connecting with his kidney did what the first two blows had failed to do. Blackness dragged him, pulled him under even as Marsh’s name slipped past his lips.

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Fifteen

  Nelson Landry turned off the police scanner, laughing. He couldn’t believe his good luck. He blew on his cold hands, wished he had time to make coffee before he wrote his piece, but he didn’t. This was fate. This was God smiling and taking down the bastard who’d ruined his topnotch journalism career. They’d see how much weight all that FBI power got him today.

  He could see the front page now. The BLADE HUNTER—a knife-wielding G-man?

  It was better than TV.

  Typing frantically, glancing at his watch, he used one finger to dial his editor.

  “What?”

  Either she had caller ID or she never gravitated from bitch mode.

  “We need a second edition out ASAP,” he said.

  “What have you got?” The switch from pissed to hungry was palpable in those four little words.

  “I’ll email it,” he glanced at his watch, “ten minutes. Tops.” He cut the connection, cracked his knuckles. Christ, it felt good to be back at the top. Pleasure surged through him. He was about to get even with Marshall Hayes and he’d enjoy every second of the bastard’s fall from grace.

  * * *

  “Say that again.” Marsh couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He rubbed his temples as the information was rapidly repeated back to him.

  “What is it?” asked Josie. Sitting up in bed, she looked like she’d spent a wild night having hot sex, all tangled hair, reddened lips and heavy eyes, which was exactly as it should be. But while they’d been trying to exorcise their demons and maybe forge a new relationship for themselves, the Blade Hunter had carefully set up his next move—orchestrating their lives as effortlessly as marionettes on a miniature stage.

  Marsh turned away from her. Revulsion and shame burned him,
blazing away the bubble of contentment that last night had wrapped around him. Sheets rustled behind him, then he heard Josie getting dressed.

  “A broken nose?” This should not be happening in his country, damn it. Not to a good agent like Steve Dancer. Anger coalesced into something stronger, harder, meaner. “Contact Benedict Colavecchia.” He named the best criminal defense attorney in NYC. “Tell him he has a new client and to get his ass to Brooklyn right now. And get me a flight to La Guardia.” Marsh broke the connection to his secretary who’d called him even though it was four in the morning.

  He needed to grab a shower and shave so that NYPD got the full force of his FBI status because this time he was using every ace up his sleeve, every favor he could pull in, every dollar at his disposal. Steve Dancer was not a killer. He’d stake his life on it.

  Whatever Josie saw in his eyes made her swallow, but she narrowed her gaze, lifted her chin and stared him out. “What happened?” She’d dressed in dark cords and a roll-neck sweater that covered her almost entirely. She wrapped her arms tightly against herself, hunching slightly as if chilled.

  He was cold to the bone.

  “Someone murdered Prudence Duvall last night.” His voice was gruff and he cleared his throat. Josie carried on staring at him as if somehow knowing that was only a small part of the story. “The Blade Hunter killed Prudence Duvall—or a copycat—and the NYPD found Special Agent Steve Dancer at the crime scene covered in blood.”

  “Is he hurt?” She picked up her knapsack and held it to her breast like a shield.

  “It wasn’t his blood.”

  Shit. He sat on the bed and cupped his face in his hands. He’d been too busy screwing Josephine to protect his team. Fuck! This was not how the law was supposed to work. Blind justice didn’t have to be deaf, dumb and stupid, did it?

  “Tell me exactly what’s going on, Marsh.” Her words were forceful and determined.

  “The NYPD found Dancer inside an old church in Brooklyn after an anonymous tip was called in.” Her eyes flashed, but he carried on, holding down a fury that was starting to feel cold and deadly inside him.