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

  Time to reverse the flow of news. Time to start directing an operation.

  * * *

  Josie put the phone in the cradle and stood up, determined to feel energized instead of scared stupid. Weeping in a closet was not how she was going to live her life, but clearing out all the excess crap felt good.

  The positive news was she had a new commission. The bad news was she had to go out and meet with the client this afternoon. She made a valiant attempt at a smile, but caught her grim reflection in the glass of a framed photograph on her mantel.

  “What’s going on?” Vince’s bass rumble reached out from where he sat on the couch.

  She glanced at the telephone, wondering if Marsh would call or if they were over. They didn’t feel over, but they didn’t feel together either.

  “Are you in love with Laura?” The words got through the knot in her throat with difficulty.

  His chuckle made her want to smile.

  “Honey, can’t you tell?” he said, raising a thick brow.

  “The way you checked out that flight attendant’s ass?” she shot back at him, wondering if she was way too uptight when it came to relationships.

  He chuckled again, unperturbed. “Laura and I have a look, don’t touch policy.” He grinned up at her. “Although I’m not dumb enough to look when she’s around, nor do I want to. To answer your question, yes, I’m in love with Laura.”

  Josie noted his happy expression. “So why does being in love suck so much for me?”

  Taking his time, Vince started reassembling the gun he was cleaning. “I take it your little shot at Marsh on the plane this morning was an attempt to provoke some sort of a reaction?”

  “Ya think?” Okay, so sarcasm wasn’t something Vince deserved, not after he’d rocked her and wiped away her tears earlier. Not when he’d protect her with his life.

  She slumped next to him on the sofa and pressed a cushion to her face. “He can’t even look at me. Not since he got the call about Dancer.”

  Vince stayed quiet for so long Josie didn’t think he was going to answer. Despite her sweater, cold trickled through her, stealing her earlier determination.

  God, she hated the cold…

  “In the teams, when we found out we were about to go on a mission, most of the guys would get very quiet and introspective.” She heard a metallic snap as he finished with the Desert Eagle Pistol. Smelled the bittersweet scent of gun oil in the still air.

  “Guys who are about to go into combat don’t want sex. They don’t want to jack off. They focus on the mission and on the job they need to do, so they can celebrate all that other shit when the job is done.”

  She frowned at him. “He was pissed because we were in bed together when that monster was killing that poor woman—”

  “Of course.” Vince nodded, tugged one corner of his lips up in a mirthless smile. “Marshall Hayes is a good man and was an excellent naval officer—a rare commodity, believe me. I’d imagine he’s got a gutful of remorse that he allowed himself to be distracted during an important investigation.” Vince raised his hand to stop her from interrupting. “And now he’s trying to focus on getting the job done, rather than sitting around holding your hand, or any other part of your anatomy for that matter.”

  She smacked him with the cushion.

  When he grinned his white teeth were luminous against his dark skin. “He’s trying to keep you safe and get the job done.”

  Could it be that simple…?

  “You told Marsh you love him yet?” Vince asked, stuffing the gun back into its holster and snapping the clasp closed. “Because that might go some way to easing the situation.”

  The bright afternoon light reflected off the walls and made her squint. She hugged her arms tightly around the cushion. “No.”

  “He ever say anything to you?” Vince asked.

  The sigh deflated her chest. “No.”

  “So you’ve got into some pretty heavy shit with this guy, but you don’t really know how you feel about one another?”

  Swallowing back tears she nodded.

  “Then why the fuck don’t you pick up the phone and tell him?”

  Josie laughed even as tears filled her eyes. It should be that simple. But it wasn’t. Because she was terrified. She’d spent a lifetime erecting barricades around her heart and only letting a few people even touch the outer surface—not because she was tough—but because she was weak. Marsh had rammed his way through her defenses and left her completely vulnerable.

  And it terrified her.

  Because what if he didn’t love her back? What if she took a chance on him but all he’d wanted was a quick fling? A lifetime of insecurity was hard to fight, but dammit she was going to try to be braver. Try to be more worthy of a good man like Marshall Hayes.

  * * *

  The cop was a hot blonde with a Playboy figure, the top half of which was pressed against Marsh’s shirt. “I didn’t have this much trouble getting solicited in Vice.” Detective Lanie Jenkins sank her fingers into his hair and dragged his mouth toward her, but still he resisted. Her Southern drawl reminded him too much of Prudence Duvall and his gut twisted. He couldn’t do this.

  He used both hands to hold her away from him. “Give me a minute, please.”

  She stood back and rolled her eyes.

  These guys thought Dancer was good for the Duvall murder but he had airtight alibis, involving several FBI agents, for the previous two murders. Pretty much everyone had come to believe he couldn’t be the Blade Hunter.

  Marsh had taken his idea to the captain of the Brooklyn PD—whose acquaintance he’d made last spring when Walter Maxwell had been murdered—and convinced him that the killer seemed to have focused on him and maybe they should set a trap. The plan was to assume Marsh was some doomed Lothario and the real killer would turn his attention to this new target and the cops would be ready for him. He didn’t have much to lose, but this cop was putting herself in the line of fire. He didn’t think he could cope with being responsible for her death too. And if Josie ever found out he was kissing another woman it would destroy what little trust she had left in him.

  “G-men really are duds.” Jenkins scowled at him, then grabbed his hand and stuck it on her ass. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and gritted his teeth.

  “Now look like you know what to do with a woman,” she said.

  Catcalls started from some of the uniforms standing at the end of the alley they’d cordoned off near the Precinct for this particular photo-shoot. Marsh bet most of the guys standing there would beg to fill this role. Meanwhile he’d rather be anywhere else.

  Nelson Landry stood at the end of the alley taking shots as if he was spying on Marsh.

  Marsh had made more deals in the last half hour than he’d made in his entire life and the last one promised an exclusive to a reporter he might have wronged six months ago. Not that he could have let the story about Elizabeth run, but there might have been a better way to deal with the situation.

  He was eating crow, with humble pie for dessert.

  Jenkins rubbed against him. “I won’t tell anybody about your little problem, feeb—”

  Josie being angry with him was better than Josie being murdered in cold blood. So he pressed the detective up against the wall, knee thrust high between her thighs, and kissed her deep and hard, keeping her pinned against the wall.

  Not that she tried to get away.

  The lady was the hottest cop he’d ever met. She was sexy as hell and she kissed him back, tongues tangling as she tried to close the gap. A hell of an actress too.

  Satisfied Nelson had all the material he’d ever need, Marsh stepped back and held her gaze which was a little less derisive. “Thank you for your help, Detective Jenkins, and please be very cautious until we catch this killer.”

  After a moment she grinned. “Let’s hope we can draw this guy out before he attacks your girlfriend again.”

  Their eyes met, guilt and gratitude making him feel like th
e biggest prick ever, even as she grinned up at him and ran a finger down his chest. “And if she dumps your ass, you know where to come for some mind-blowing rebound sex.”

  She winked at him and strode away, every inch of her lush figure squeezed back into cop mode. One of the uniforms dropped to his knees and begged to be next, but she flipped him off.

  Marsh raised his face to the slice of bright blue sky that glowed above him. God help him, he hoped he never had rebound sex.

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Seventeen

  Thirty minutes later Marsh skimmed his eyes over the crowded squad room at the Brooklyn Precinct. The feds were in the corner of the room, as far removed from eavesdroppers as they could get. Walker sat on a table, one foot planted on the floor, the other dangling in the air, swinging backwards and forwards.

  The lieutenant was outlining the plan to the next shift. They’d let the press believe they’d caught the Blade Hunter, but the FBI, Brooklyn PD and NYPD knew better. Not that they’d released Dancer, yet.

  Detective Jenkins would work her day shift and tonight, after the evening edition of The NY News came out, she would go back to her lonely apartment in Bay Ridge. Except tonight she wouldn’t be lonely. They’d have officers all over her apartment building.

  Setting the trap and baiting the hook.

  “You really think this is going to work?” The skin under Agent Walker’s eyes looked sunken and heavy. Red veins formed a delta across the whites of his eyes and the stubble on his chin was almost enough to be classified as a beard.

  Marsh shrugged. Maybe not tonight, but given time the Blade Hunter would go after the pretty cop—he was too egotistical not to.

  “You have a better idea?” Marsh countered.

  Walker gave a small laugh that sounded anything but amused. “No.”

  “Dancer is innocent.” Marsh walked over to the vending machine and got black coffee that tasted so bitter he gagged, but it fired up some neurons and he seriously needed something fired up somewhere.

  His brain ached.

  “He was leaning over the body of a dead woman with the murder weapon next to him.” Walker shot him a look full of warning, so Marsh held his silence. “And Special Agent Dancer knew enough about the murders to arrange a copycat killing—if he wanted to.”

  “So why the fuck get caught?” They didn’t get how smart the other agent was. NASA smart. Bill Gates smart.

  “I’m not finished.” Controlled anger battled the threadbare patience in Walker’s tone. “Dancer’s tox screen came back positive for narcotics, but a smart perp could plan that himself. We don’t know exactly how or when he received the drug. Might have taken just enough to be found during a routine screen if he was caught, giving himself an alibi. You said your boy was smart?” Walker’s eyes held his.

  Marsh finished the lousy coffee, crushed the paper cup in a tight fist. “But he’s not a killer. Dancer loves women.”

  “Yeah, so did Bundy.”

  Fury rose in Marsh’s chest with each particle of oxygen he drew in. He got in Walker’s face. He used to be able to control his temper but in the last six months his control had evaporated.

  “Hey, no fighting unless we all get to play.” Cochrane cut it. “Preliminary DNA evidence is in.” The expression on Cochrane’s face made Marsh’s heart freeze. “DNA from the semen matched Special Agent Steve Dancer.”

  Everyone in the squad room had turned to face them.

  This couldn’t be happening…

  Turning away Marsh placed both hands against the opaque glass of the precinct’s window, spread out his fingers. He ground his teeth and felt the pressure build behind his eyes. “This UNSUB is a pro. He’s been doing this all over the world for twenty years and who knows how many people he’s set up to take the fall for him.” Marsh turned back to face Walker and Cochrane, ignoring other prying eyes. “We have got to catch this man before he kills again.”

  “You really don’t believe your guy did it?” Cochrane lowered his face. “Not even Prudence Duvall?”

  “You think I couldn’t get your semen if I wanted it?” Marsh held the detective’s gaze and watched him lose all color.

  “Jeez, there’s a visual I didn’t need,” Cochrane rubbed his bald spot and backed away a step.

  Prudence Duvall had invited Steve Dancer to lunch. If she hadn’t ended up dead he’d have suspected her of setting him up. Something inside Marsh’s mind clicked and suddenly it started to make sense. To understand the crime, you had to know the victim.

  “Dammit.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe Pru Duvall knew this guy.”

  Cochrane paled. “Oh, shit. I can tell I’m not going to like our next move.”

  Marsh grinned at him. Walker looked on, watchful but impassive.

  Grieving or not, future president of the US or not, he needed to talk to Brook Duvall.

  * * *

  About to knock on the huge double doors to the Duvall’s Gramercy Park apartment, Marsh heard raised voices inside and stilled his hand.

  “I want that damn painting!”

  “I don’t know anything about your painting you selfish bastard. My wife just died!”

  He exchanged a glance with Cochrane. Did they stay and listen and maybe learn something, or knock on the door and reveal their presence?

  The scrape of furniture and the crash of something fragile against an unyielding wall forced them into action. Marsh unclipped his holster and Cochrane pulled his weapon as he stood to one side. Ignoring the gleaming polished brass knocker, Marsh hammered hard against the solid wood with the base of his fist.

  “FBI, NYPD. Open up.” He upped the volume, repeated, “FBI, NYPD. Senator Duvall, open up, please. We know you’re in there.”

  There was quiet, broken by the sound of footsteps slowly approaching the door, the indiscernible sound of whispered instructions.

  “You too, Admiral, don’t bother hiding. We need to talk.” How screwed up was their investigation about to become with so many politicians and bigwigs watching their own backs?

  The lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal a disheveled Brook Duvall, wearing the same clothes he’d had on earlier. Iron-gray hair stood on end and a puffy red mark cruised one cheekbone. Eyes were bloodshot from both tears and alcohol. Marsh smelled the whisky on his breath.

  Although if ever there was a day when a man deserved to drown his sorrows, the day of his wife’s murder would be it.

  “May we come in?” Marsh asked.

  Brook nodded, rubbed his throat.

  Admiral Chambers had two decades on Duvall. He hovered beside an overturned table, fists clenched, murderous rage glittering in his eyes. He took an unsteady step, crunched fine porcelain beneath his Rockport shoes.

  “Admiral Chambers, so nice to see you again.” Marsh felt anything but amused.

  The admiral grunted.

  “The admiral happens to be my father’s best friend.” Marsh gave Detective Cochrane his most plastic smile and was pleased that the detective grinned at him as they holstered their weapons.

  “So you’re up shit creek with everyone, huh?” Cochrane laughed, a deep cynical sound that said he’d been there, done that.

  “Never a dull moment.” Marsh turned to the senator. “Is there somewhere we can discuss things like civilized gentlemen?”

  The senator’s PA barged through the door behind them and glanced at the shattered vase on the dark hardwood floor. “What happened?”

  “Geoffrey, can you get the gentlemen a drink please, and clear up this mess?” Senator Duvall patted the other man’s arm and looked up at Marsh. “I gave the housekeeper the night off. She was devastated.” Tears welled up in his eyes again and he looked away, stumbled toward his office.

  Marsh followed, doubting the senator would get to the White House now, but who knew? If Duvall wasn’t implicated in the murder of his wife, the sympathy vote alone might rocket him into the Presidency. Now there was an angle to investigate—if he want
ed to get strung up by his balls.

  The admiral followed, tailed by Cochrane.

  Cochrane was his new best friend because the rest of his team was busy going through the church records and NYPD wanted him under the microscope. He needed to find the killer and get Dancer out. Then he’d deal with Josephine.

  In the office, Brook poured himself a tumbler of single malt and Marsh wished to God he could have one too.

  “I need to know what’s going on,” Marsh said quietly.

  Duvall sank slowly into a wingback chair as if his body was so weary he might collapse. Admiral Chambers helped himself to a shot of whisky and then leaned against the oak mantle, warming himself before the fire.

  “Nothing’s going on,” the admiral sneered.

  Miserable old goat.

  “Try again, Admiral.”

  Cochrane was wandering around the study, selecting and examining books from the dark bookshelves.

  “Want me to arrest him for assault, Senator Duvall?” Marsh asked the bereaved man.

  “You wouldn’t dare…”

  “Try me.”

  The admiral’s mouth dropped open as he stared at Marsh, the crimson in his cheeks fading to reveal parchment-like white skin.

  “But it’s up to the senator,” said Marsh.

  The admiral glanced down at Brook Duvall who stared sightlessly into the flames. “Can’t prove a damn thing.”

  “The same way you can’t prove Prudence stole any painting from you. Do you know about this painting?” Brook looked up at Marsh. “He says my wife stole it from him years ago and he picks today to come and claim it.” His head swung round to face Chambers. “Did you kill her for it?”

  Brook leapt out of his chair and tackled the admiral to the floor, the whisky glass crashing into the fire with a shattering hiss of flame. Both men landed with a hard thud, but Brook had the advantage of surprise and age on his side and straddled Chambers, gripping the old man’s throat. “Did you kill her?”

  Marsh looked on. If it looked like Duvall was going to do serious damage he’d step in.