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

  So, why did he feel like such a bastard?

  Probably because he damned well knew she’d been lying.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Maggie's scream echoed off the glass walls of the lookout tower. She bolted upright on her sleeping cot and brought her hands to her eyes, shielding them from the bright glare of the morning sun.

  An animal. In her dream, she had been an animal!

  A caribou, to be exact.

  And that damned Cree poacher had shot her. With a bow and arrow.

  Dead.

  Her heart pounded furiously. Beads of perspiration soaked her brow. She was stunned. Not in all her twenty-eight years had she ever been killed in a dream. Killed dead.

  It was just too weird and scary. She hugged the quilt to her chest.

  And it was all his fault.

  Blue Wolf Cooper.

  She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and tried to recall the details of the dream.

  She had been a beautiful caribou with aristocratic antlers, running with a large herd, savoring the warmth of the beautiful summer sun. At a small stream, she had stopped and dipped her muzzle into the cold, clear water to drink.

  She looked up. The herd had vanished. On the other side of the stream sat a warrior astride a striking roan. The warrior was resplendent in soft golden buckskin pants, and a beautiful beaded chest-cloth partially covered his naked torso. His face was painted red, with black rings drawn around his eyes and black scratch marks down his cheeks. The wind played with his waist-length jet hair and the two feathers tied in it. He held a hunting bow in one hand, and an arrow quiver graced his back.

  She ran.

  The warrior followed swiftly behind, expertly guiding the roan with his muscular thighs. He trailed her into the woods, threading through the trees until they reached a meadow. There, stood a huge black bear. The warrior's horse circled her, the caribou, as she halted, quaking in the grass, afraid to go back, terrified to confront the bear. Her legs collapsed when the warrior lifted his bow and reached back to his quiver for an arrow.

  Then, suddenly, she was filled with an inexplicable longing for what was to come. She gazed on the warrior, yearning for him, full of desire for him. She sank to the ground and lay in the grass before him.

  As he nocked the arrow, he smiled. “I will kill you because I know you love me. You are coy, but you desire my arrow in your flesh. When I have killed you, let your spirit fly to Memekwesiw and tell him I am a worthy hunter, that it is good to be killed by me.”

  The handsome warrior took aim and shot the arrow true, straight into her heart. She felt her life's blood seep out and mingle with the wildflowers of the meadow.

  The warrior leaped off his horse and came to her. He stroked her cheek as she died, whispering words of endearment.

  Lifting her lifeless body into his powerful arms, he walked with it to the bear sitting at the edge of the clearing. Gently, he lay her in front of the giant bear.

  “Grandfather, honor me and accept my gift.”

  The bear lifted its muzzle and bellowed, then raised a huge paw and placed it on her motionless shoulder, its long claws hanging to either side of the protruding arrow. The bear gazed into the eyes of the hunter.

  That was when Maggie woke up.

  Screaming.

  Raking unsteady fingers through her hair, she pulled it away from her face. My God. She had actually died in her dream. Freud would have a field day.

  But...what could it mean? Was her subconscious warning her about a possible threat of danger? The warrior had killed her, but he had gifted her to a symbol of greater power.

  Whitney, maybe?

  Could Cooper be working for her former boss, after all? She had dismissed the notion out of hand when she first saw him because he stood out too much with his long hair and distinctive motorcycle.

  Could she have been wrong?

  No. That was just the paranoia talking. If he were working for Whitney, she’d already be dead.

  She did her best to block out the fear. Slowly, she calmed her racing heart. She had no intention of becoming Whitney's next victim.

  Sweeping back the quilt, she rose on wobbly legs from the sweat-drenched bed, and headed for the stove. “Coffee, I need coffee.”

  She almost dropped the glass carafe twice, and she did drop the coffee grounds into the sink before she was able to get the machine perking.

  At her pint-sized dresser, she reached under the bulky sweaters in the bottom drawer and pulled out her small pistol. Its holster was designed to go around a thigh or ankle, like the knife she always wore in her boot.

  On Dinny Paxton' orders, she had started carrying the semi-automatic when she'd gotten involved with the FBI case. She’d also gone to the gun range and practiced until she could actually hit the target each time she fired. Dinny had insisted she take an intensive self-defense course, taught by a formidable female ex-army sergeant who had shown Maggie every vulnerable spot on the male anatomy.

  But after coming to the isolated Trinity forest, she'd put the gun in the drawer and left it there, thinking she was safe here.

  She fingered the gun, then replaced the weapon under her sweaters and slammed the drawer shut.

  It was just a damn dream.

  After pouring a coffee, she went out and sat on the narrow deck, trying to gather her wits. She was being irrational. She knew that. But she was too superstitious to dismiss the dream as totally insignificant. And she didn't need Carl Jung to tell her who the Indian warrior had been. Red horse, and all. Seriously?

  If anything, the dream was warning her about him.

  Blue Wolf.

  He was the one who had filled her with desire and killed her. He was the only dangerous one around here.

  Good thing he'd be gone any minute now.

  She looked down at his camp and spotted him taking a morning swim in the lake. Irritation swamped over her. He shouldn't be swimming, he should be packing.

  Holding her mug to her lips with two hands, she took a fortifying sip of the strong coffee. She was still furious with him over last night. Without even half trying, he'd broken her resolve completely. She'd gone ballistic at him for tipping the bike to avoid a bear she hadn't seen, but it hadn’t been him she was furious with.

  She’d been furious with herself.

  Well. She had been, right up until he'd kissed her. That kiss had changed things right around.

  How dare he kiss her? And keep kissing her, even though she’d said no?

  And how dare he wipe his mouth after he did?

  She was furious with him, all right. But the thing that made her more furious than anything else—furious and terrified—was one supremely irritating fact.

  She desperately wanted more.

  No, no, no!

  She didn’t.

  And she would not fall for the man.

  She couldn't. For myriad reasons.

  But after five minutes on a motorcycle, he’d had her throwing all caution to the wind. Had her kissing him like there was no tomorrow—no dead bears, and no Whitney. Had her wanting him like she actually had a prayer of happiness anytime soon. Longing for what she might never be able to have, ever, if the trial went badly.

  She slammed her coffee mug onto the table and went back inside. How could she be so stupid?

  Not to mention, Blue Wolf Cooper might be a criminal, for crying out loud. She was hiding out here in this isolated tower because she felt strongly enough about stopping crime to help put one lawbreaker in jail for good.

  Even if Cooper turned out to be innocent of the poaching, she couldn't get personally involved with him. Regardless of how tantalizing his body. Or how appealing his sexy laugh. Or how fascinating his personality and heritage. She had to be able to drop her life in a hot minute and run like hell if Whitney found her...or if he wasn't convicted. She had no doubt he’d come after her for ratting him out, and anyone with her would be a target, too. She couldn't risk Cooper getting
hurt because of her.

  With a sharp sigh, she tossed her clothes and knife on the bed, then wandered back to the window. She frowned down at the distant figure gliding through the water. Her arm brushed against the telescope. She glanced at it, then back to the lake.

  Cursing herself for her weakness, she lined up the telescope and peered down at the lake until she had him squarely in view. As her gaze followed him swimming through the water, a low sound of appreciation hummed through her.

  Why did the man have to be so damned gorgeous?

  She savored the sight of rippling muscles easing him across the glittering lake, and watched, captivated, for several minutes, until he stopped, treading water.

  Almost as if he knew he was being watched, he looked up and stared straight into the telescope. She jumped back guiltily.

  Holy crap. She was no better than a peeping tom.

  She quickly stripped off her lacy white nightgown, fumbling with the tiny buttons running down the front, and put on her robe, then gathered up her clothes and jogged down the stairs for her morning routine.

  Both the old-fashioned outhouse and primitive shower sat a few yards away from the tower structure. The wooden sides of the shower enclosure started a foot above the ground and stopped just above head height. It had a swinging door, and the roof was wide open to the warming sun. She hopped in and turned on the solar-heated water.

  It was no use denying that in the short time she'd known him, Cooper had gotten under her skin. The man was too tempting by half. She had to get him out of her life, one way or another, before one of them got hurt.

  Which meant calling Jane today, to find out exactly who he was.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Twenty-Nine

  No dreams had come to Blue Wolf the night before. Once again, the old ways had disappointed him.

  As he waded to shore after his morning swim, he thought about what his grandfather had taught him about the dreams. Dreams had always come so easily to the hunters of his mother's band. Why was Coop never fully able to become Blue Wolf, so he might receive them, as well? The fault must lie somewhere in himself.

  Maybe because he’d never been able to fully believe...

  Of course, the woman from the tower filling him with restlessness was not helping his concentration, either.

  Yeah. Restlessness was a bit of an understatement.

  He'd tossed and turned in his sleeping bag until the wee hours of dawn, unable to shake the anger and frustration of their final minutes together last night.

  Hell, no wonder the dreams wouldn't come. The violence in his heart, the overwhelming physical need to dominate and possess her, had nearly made him lay hands on the woman. Thankfully, he’d been able to control himself. Just.

  The sheer strength of his response to her was more than disturbing. This kind of overpowering hunger for a woman had never happened to him before.

  Granted, it had been a while since he'd been with anyone, since he was always careful to avoid entanglements—because of his job, and because women were so often attracted to his heritage rather than to him. But he was content with his life and didn't spend a lot of time worrying about it. That was why this thing with Maggie came as such a shock. She was messing with his mind...and with his sleep.

  And with the dreams.

  He should have a sweat before he tried for the dreams again tonight. The punishing heat would feel good on his stretched nerves, and hopefully would calm his raging hormones, too. He glanced toward his tiny canvas sweat hut and grimaced in annoyance.

  No way was he breaking camp this morning. Let the woman rant and rave, but he was staying put.

  He strode to his tent, and pulled on the tan buckskin pants he liked to wear when he went hunting, a T-shirt, and his old cowboy boots. Taking a seat in the opening of his tent, he studied Tower Eight as he combed his hair. He’d seen a mysterious flash of light up there while swimming—like a mirror used to send signals in the old westerns he'd grown up watching. He chuckled at the thought. It was probably just some sort of window ornament. He’d have to ask Maggie about it.

  Pulling his wet hair back into a ponytail, he braided it tightly, then bound it with a leather band. No more messing around.

  Today he became the hunter.

  After he had secured camp and suspended his food canister on a tree limb, he started determinedly up the hill.

  Time to put his plan into action.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Thirty

  Maggie’s knife fit snugly in her ankle sheath. She smoothed her green uniform slacks over her boots and straightened the collar on the crisp shirt she’d put on over a man's muscle-style undershirt. On her way to the dresser to get her keys, she glanced out the window. A surge of alarm shot through her.

  Cooper was striding up the slope just below the tower.

  She quickly grabbed her purse, locked the door, and started down the stairs. Calm down. He was probably just getting the Indian. His bike was parked under the tower next to the Yamaha.

  As she rounded the final few stairs to the ground, she saw him leaning against her USFS truck, watching her from under the brim of a beat-up straw Stetson.

  She almost lost her footing when their eyes met, and had to grip the rail to steady herself. Her heart was beating so furiously she was afraid he could hear it.

  The tilt of his hat and his nonchalant pose were casual, but she could sense an ripple of danger lurking just below his studied indifference. One look, and she felt completely powerless to stop whatever was about to happen.

  “Hope I didn't disturb you.” He tossed a blackened spark plug up and down in his hand. “The Indian decided to take the morning off. Hope I can find a replacement plug. You heading into town?”

  “How convenient. You're supposed to be moving camp this morning.”

  “Can't very well walk out.”

  She smiled. “Load your stuff in the truck and I’ll drop you off.”

  He smiled back. “I'd just have to come back for the bike. Come on, pup, be reasonable.” He looked at her evenly. “It's not like I deserve this, anyway.”

  She snorted.

  He crossed his arms. “All I did was kiss you, and I stopped when you said you didn't like it.”

  “I didn't—” She balled her fists and turned away. Nope. Not falling into that trap. “You've got your chronology all wrong, Wolf.”

  “If you say so.” His lip curled. “Regardless, that bike's not going anywhere without a new spark plug.” He observed her coolly. “So, how 'bout it?”

  She hesitated for a second too long, trying to come up with a scathing reply.

  “Good.” A look of satisfaction settled over his features. “I knew you could be reasonable.”

  He was still lounging against the truck, arms crossed over his chest, when she reached the bottom of the stairs. His hair was different—pulled back in a braided ponytail. If anything, it made him look even more sinister. All he needed was a pair of those silver reflector sunglasses and he'd be the modern, updated version of a classic renegade warrior.

  “Sleep well?” he asked, companionably.

  She whirled to him in shock. How could he know about her dream?

  That’s when she noticed his buckskins. The same pants he'd had on in the dream.

  She calmed her racing heart, and asked, “Ever do any hunting with a bow and arrow?”

  His brows shot up in amusement. “I think those went out with the buffalo, too.” His mouth quirked. “Strictly a rod man, myself.”

  She yanked open her purse to draw attention from the heat she felt creep over her, and searched for her keys. “You’re obnoxious, you know that?” Her body was all too aware of the buttery buckskin of his pants which molded itself to his muscular thighs and the bulging rod that nestled between them.

  The jerk actually grinned. “Fishing rod, of course.”

  Her purse closed with a loud snap as her fingers contracted involuntarily around the clasp. “I'm surprised you didn't say hot rod,”
she muttered.

  “Fly rod, actually,” he countered, still grinning unrepentantly. “But it can occasionally get pretty hot. Shall I drive?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, thanks. Government vehicle.”

  “Suit yourself.” Sauntering over to the truck, he adjusted the brim of his Stetson, pulled out a pair of silver-lensed sunglasses, and slid them on.

  And didn’t that just figure.

  Cruising down the highway to town, he dominated the truck with his forceful presence, leaving precious little space for her. Even relaxed, with his ankles negligently crossed and elbow resting easily on the rolled down window, his casual attitude seemed deceptive. She sensed his vigilant surveillance of her, almost as if he was waiting for something to happen, prepared to pounce on his unsuspecting prey.

  Her.

  She tried to prod her paralyzed mind into action. She was having difficulty ignoring the drugging effect of the hormones suddenly raging through her veins. The memory of their kiss last night clung stubbornly to her consciousness, and the tense sexual undercurrent of their verbal clashes only made things worse. But she was determined to fight it.

  She struggled for a neutral voice. “I'm driving into Redding this morning. You want me to pick you up on my way back?”

  “Sure. That'd be fine.” His tone mirrored her own measured indifference. “I should get going on the research for my article. Ask around for some good fishing spots.”

  Here was her chance. “What magazine do you write for, anyway?”

  “Freelance. I'm writing this one on spec.” He re-crossed his ankles. “So, what are you up to in Redding?”

  She should have anticipated he’d throw her question right back at her, but was momentarily stumped. She couldn't think of a blessed thing to say except that she intended to check up on him. “I...have an errand.”

  He peered at her quizzically over his shades. “Weren't you coming from Redding yesterday when you...uh, picked me up?”