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

  The rice-burner nearly tail-ended him, then zoomed up alongside the Indian, slowed, and rode with him for a few seconds before looking over. The other biker stared at him for a long moment through the dark, tinted visor of a full-face helmet before raising a glove in greeting.

  Jeezus. The guy had decent taste in bikes, but that get-up was an out-and-out insult.

  Coop smiled pleasantly under his half-visor and gave the Yamaha a thumbs up.

  “Nice outfit,” he murmured, knowing his sarcastic comment couldn’t be heard over the hiss of the wind and the whine of the motors.

  Seconds later, the other bike accelerated with a jump, and disappeared from sight.

  * * *

  Nice outfit.

  Maggie fumed. The mocking words on the man's lips had been as clear as an obscenity bleeped on Monday Night Football. The really obnoxious part was, the jerk had only spoken the truth. Her stiff canvas coverall was truly hideous.

  The jerk, on the other hand, was nothing short of gorgeous.

  Oh. My. Hunkiness.

  She had been in imminent danger of ramming into his bike's antique backside from the shock of seeing the perfect symmetry of his magnificent body from the rear. Broad shoulders and muscular arms flexed under a well-fitting T-shirt. The raven locks flying out from under his helmet must be the same ones Tommy had reported seeing tied up in a ponytail, and the face looking back at her would set any woman’s heart aflutter. But what she’d found almost impossible to tear her attention from was the tight, hard musculature under various portions of his snug jeans.

  Holy cannoli. The dude really was killer handsome.

  Handsome...but rude.

  Nice outfit, indeed.

  She'd show him a nice outfit.

  Undoubtedly, he was under the misapprehension that the driver of the Yamaha was some hopelessly nerdy kid of the male persuasion, for whom a motorcycle was a means to improve an incurable image.

  Ha.

  The corner of her mouth curled up in anticipation. Oh, yeah. She'd show him a nice outfit, all right.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Six

  The Yamaha roared up and stopped at the only traffic signal in Marigold, right next to Coop's Indian. Yet again, he endured being given the once-over by the biker who'd been dogging him for the last half hour.

  He gave an annoyed nod, then stared straight ahead.

  The other rider tipped his chin guard in Coop's direction. “Indian?” came the muffled question.

  Coop slowly turned his head and raised one eyebrow. He wasn't sure whether the question referred to his ancestry or his bike. There weren't a lot of people these days who could identify an antique Indian motorcycle.

  He nodded noncommittally.

  “Nice shape.”

  Okay. So, did he say thanks, or slug the guy?

  Coop stared into the suddenly empty space where the Yamaha had been seconds before. He thought longingly of the neat, round sweat hut he'd constructed earlier when he moved his campsite closer to his newest poaching suspect. He needed a sweat, bad.

  Up ahead, he spotted Marigold’s village diner, the Caf, and pulled into the parking lot in front. Maybe lunch would improve his mood.

  Sitting astride the Warrior, he yanked off his helmet and hung it over the narrow handlebar. Naturally, the Yamaha glided like a shark into the spot next to his. He groaned inwardly. The last thing he needed was some pimply-faced moron with a pocket protector disturbing his meal.

  With a scowl, he got off the bike, looking up as one huge tan glove eased off a slender, milk-white hand. Brilliant red nails on the long, tapered fingers instantly grabbed his attention.

  What the—

  The other glove came off with a flourish.

  With uneasy fascination, he watched those sexy nails reach up and remove the black helmet. His jaw plummeted—along with a jumble of golden curls that cascaded over the rider's shoulders and face.

  A face that was definitely not pimply.

  The Warrior slipped from his grip and crashed to the pavement. He blinked down at it, then up again at the woman.

  Pursing her lips seductively at him, she unzipped her coverall. All the way down. He swallowed. Slowly, she slipped it off her shoulders, then slid it over her ample curves and down her long, long, long legs.

  Not a pocket protector in sight. There wasn't a single spot on her tight jeans or clingy tank top that had enough unfilled space to hold one.

  He was having a hard time breathing.

  Or thinking.

  “Those kick-stands can be tricky,” the woman purred as she secured her helmet and coveralls to the seat with the snap of a bungee cord.

  Stifling a groan, he watched her bend over slightly and shake out her strawberry-blond mane with her fingers. Then she pivoted on the toe of her boot, and with a not-so subtle swing of her hips, strolled into the Caf.

  The screen door slammed behind her, jolting him out of his daze.

  Holy hell. He'd been had.

  The biker was a woman.

  The woman.

  He let out a long breath as he retrieved the Warrior from the ground. His mind was horrified. His body was more turned on that it had been in recent memory.

  Damn, she was sexy.

  And she'd counted coup on him.

  Under any other circumstances, he'd consider it an irresistible challenge to get the better of her in return. But after what he'd seen at the kill site yesterday, a much smarter idea would be to climb right back on the bike and not stop riding until he got to Sacramento. Let Jack take over this part of the investigation.

  His mind in a whirl, Coop perched a hip on his bike. It did look bad for her. She had not turned in that evidence she'd picked up yesterday. Plus, Jack hadn't been able to shake anything loose about her from the Forest Service, other than that she was living in Lookout Tower Eight, and her name was Maggie Johansen.

  Which meant Maggie Johansen had just become his number one suspect.

  Even so, he had mixed feelings about her. The reason for his long ride this morning was to wrap his mind around dealing with a possible female perp. The cover he'd adopted as an outdoor sports writer would be of little use with most women. She might be impressed that he was a writer, but undoubtedly wouldn't want to spend hours swapping fishing stories while he eased her into trusting him enough to spill her guts about the poaching ring.

  But here, grabbing him by the balls, was another obvious way to get close to her.

  If he was any judge of women, that short walk into the Caf had contained an invitation. Any man worth his salt would not let it go by. Honor demanded it. No doubt, she expected him to rush in after her. She'd probably tease him a bit, then apologize and buy him lunch. Maybe invite him home for dessert...

  So, why the hell was he hesitating?

  Unfortunately, he didn't think he could stretch his ethics far enough to do that. He might work undercover, but he always conducted himself with integrity.

  He eased out a frustrated breath. What was a woman like her doing involved in this ugly business, anyway? Her suspicious actions in the clearing yesterday contrasted starkly with the playful, sexy image she’d shown him today. She’d sighted him on the Indian, apparently liked what she saw, and given pursuit, deliberately setting him up for that revealing little striptease.

  It was enough to inflate a man's ego. Amongst other things.

  The boldness of the woman excited him. If it weren't for those minutes at the kill site yesterday, he'd already be in the Caf trying his damnedest to excite her right back. It had been a long time since a woman had made his pulse pound this fast. A very long time.

  Damn it to hell. Why did it have to be this woman who had finally succeeded?

  The ultimate irony was, she was unaware she was stalking her own stalker. That should be making his life easier.

  He cast a hooded glance toward the door of the Caf. What the hell. She was the only lead he had on the poachers. His job came first. He would just have to keep a tight
rein on his hammering heart...along with a few other body parts.

  So, he pushed off the bike, took a deep breath, and strode in after her.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Seven

  Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome sauntered through the nearly empty diner to the counter where Maggie sat, the slight clenching of his fists at odds with his leisurely stroll. Her stomach did a somersault as he slid onto the stool next to hers.

  A small oscillating fan clipped to an overhead light twirled the heavy air in a pitiful attempt to reduce the heat around the lunch counter. Lori, the waitress, flashed the man a two-carat smile and tossed her dark hair as she finished taking Maggie's order.

  “Be right with you, Coop,” Lori cooed, handing him the menu that was sitting right in front of him.

  Maggie bit her tongue and swallowed a smile. Coop, eh? Well, let the other woman throw herself at ol' Coop. She wasn't about to. Despite what he might be thinking.

  Although...come to think of it, she was a little unsure what that was. His expression seemed to be stuck somewhere between take-me-to-your-tower-and-show-me-your-etchings and it's-pay-back-time-bitch.

  The scent of onion rings and the sizzling sound of burgers hitting the grill drifted in from the kitchen. In any case, it was his move now.

  Her nerves tingled expectantly.

  She was acutely aware of his powerfully masculine body seated inches from her. A soft hum of sexual energy buzzed between them, its voltage increasing for every minute that ticked by. Just when she thought she would crack and blurt out something, anything, to fill the tense silence, Lori walked over with their two plates and sodas. Thank God.

  “Here you go, Coop. And turkey for you, Maggie. Anything else?” Lori's gaze snapped up when a couple of elegantly dressed men came in the front door. She dropped both lunch bills next to Coop's plate, murmured, “Excuse me,” and hurried away.

  Maggie didn't look at him, but snaked her hand out and grabbed her ticket. And once again, the thick silence enveloped them.

  She was familiar with the Navajo custom of waiting quietly for the right moment to begin talking. Maybe this man was Navajo. He certainly had the hair for it. Well, she might not have the raven locks, but she did have the quiet reserve. Scandinavians were used to having entire wordless conversations—even if she preferred verbal communication in most situations.

  She would show him Danes could be just as patient as Native Americans. Whenever words threatened to come out of her mouth, she took another bite of her turkey on rye.

  She was almost startled when, at last, he spoke.

  “You know anything about Indians?”

  Okay. That wasn’t a loaded question at all.

  She blew a damp curl off her forehead, and chose the neutral path. Sort of. “I can usually recognize a Warrior.”

  He shot her a glance before asking, “Ever ridden one?”

  Okay, maybe not. A delicious spiral of heat leapt up her center. The man was playing with her mind. Make that her body. This was the kind of talk that could land a girl in a lot of trouble.

  “Can't say that I have,” she answered carefully. “Not too many Indian Warriors around these days.”

  Nodding, he picked up his soda, swiveled his stool around, and leaned a bronze, muscular arm on the counter. “Yeah. Low survival rate.” He lifted the glass to his chin, letting the condensation drip slowly down the front of his neck. “They were made for country roads, simpler days. Too slow for life in the fast lane.”

  Mesmerized, she watched the drops of water glide down his smooth copper skin and disappear into the collar of his T-shirt, the cool wetness spreading slowly across the soft, white cotton.

  Her tongue crept out and swiped across her lower lip. “Sometimes endurance is more important than speed,” she said.

  His easy, sultry smile might have melted the ice in the glass if he hadn't set it down.

  “Amen to that.” His voice was impossibly erotic, compelling her gaze to lift and meld with his.

  Heat shimmered between them.

  Her heart slammed against her chest. This was so not the conversation she had envisioned. The feral promise in the face of the mysterious stranger sent her running headlong into retreat.

  She was not ready for this man.

  But he was clearly ready for her. He gazed into her eyes. A curtain of long black hair spilled seductively across his cheek. “Ever wanted an Indian?”

  She fought the lump in her throat, trying to convince herself he was still talking about motorcycles. Still? Hell, they’d never been talking about bikes. “Nah. I've always heard they require too much maintenance.”

  “Ouch.” He feigned insult, but smiled. Spooling back to the counter, he picked up a French fry from his plate, put it in his mouth, and languidly chewed it. “Maintenance won't be a problem if you ride my Warrior. I’ve got that covered.”

  Slowly, he licked the salt from his fingers. One. By. One.

  Ho-boy.

  Her lips parted as she followed the movement of his tongue, but she couldn’t have spoken to save her life. She could actually feel the vein in her neck flutter.

  “I like breaking out the tools and getting dirty,” he continued, his tone low and rough.

  A whip of panic snapped through her. Good lord. This warrior was anything but slow. His moves were fast. Way too fast.

  The air around them sizzled with sexual chemistry, but this scenario was not for her.

  She knew nothing about the man sitting next to her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know anything about him. With that sexy renegade hair and his sultry bad boy eyes, he looked just like a walking disaster for her heart.

  She had to take back control of this conversation. More important, of herself.

  “In that case”—she swallowed hard—”you should probably get a wrench and tighten up that kickstand. Your Warrior took quite a fall earlier.”

  He regarded her for a long moment, then his lips gave an upward tug.

  “Don't you worry,” he assured her. “It's standing up now.”

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Eight

  Coop glanced sideways at the woman, and recognized her retreat for what it was. He was scaring the hell out of her.

  Not necessarily a bad thing.

  Hell, he was scaring the hell out of himself. His unexpected and overwhelming physical reaction to her had long since eclipsed all thought of bears or poachers or prime suspects. Not good.

  A drop of sweat trailed down his back, making him squirm in discomfort. He took a gulp of his root beer and attempted to wrestle his unruly libido into submission. Then he made the mistake of looking at her.

  And got even hornier.

  He clamped his jaw and focused on the long blond hair that she’d shaken so provocatively from her helmet. “Anyway. You ought to watch those sudden transformations,” he said. “Might give some poor guy a stroke.”

  She pursed her lips. “So, your male chauvinist stereotype of who should be riding a motorcycle is my fault?”

  He chuckled. Sexy and sassy, just the way he liked his women. He spun the stool around so he faced her, leaning in close. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't do it deliberately, to knock me right on my stereotype.”

  A curl of hair at her temple stirred when he exhaled, and he had to restrain himself from smoothing it back in place.

  She looked him in the eye. Her lips twitched only slightly. “Pretty perceptive for a male chauvinist.”

  He grinned. “I've done my share of stereotype bashing in my day.”

  “I'll just bet you have.” She swung her stool from side to side, her eyes measuring the depth of his heritage. “By the way,” she added nonchalantly, gesturing down the length of her amazing body, “is this outfit more to your liking?”

  His jaw dropped, then he tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh, yeah. Nice outfit.” He echoed his earlier words, his amusement swiftly taking on a wolfish edge. He let his gaze drift along the contours of her body, hesitating at the tips
of her breasts, which were clearly outlined under her thin tank top. “Very nice.”

  A blush ripped across her cheeks and she lowered her lashes. Her green eyes darkened to the color of the wild forest at midnight.

  Oh, yeah.

  Coup.

  He sat back, and the primitive male in him wallowed in her confusion. There was nothing better than having this kind of effect on a woman who had single-handedly sent his own libido into orbit.

  He lifted a hand to smooth away that errant curl—and caught himself just in time.

  Shit.

  Reality came crashing down.

  This woman was a damn suspect. He shouldn’t even be thinking about his libido, let alone acting on it.

  He had a job to do, a case to solve. He needed to get his head back in the game.

  No, his other head.

  Taking a cleansing breath, he extended his hand. “The name's Cooper,” he said.

  His hand hung in the air so long he was about to pull it back, when she finally took it.

  “Hi. I'm Maggie Johansen. Nice to meet you.” She gave his hand a brief, businesslike shake. “Cooper? That your first or last name?”

  He hesitated. “Depends on who you ask. Friends call me Coop.”

  She tilted her head, taking in his features. “Tell me, Coop, what does your mother call you?” Reaching out, she helped herself to one of his fries.

  He squelched a prick of arousal at her intimacy with his lunch. “Coop.”

  The corner of her mouth lifted as she wagged the fry at him. “How 'bout your grandfather? What does he call you?”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “Nimosom—my grandfather—calls me Blue Wolf.”

  The fry halted an inch from her lips. She cracked a smile. “Hey, that's a great name. Why don't you use it?”