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

  Dropping his gear in a heap in the middle of camp, Coop stomped over to his tent. His first order of business was to call Jack and find out about last night's kill. There was probably a message waiting. He grabbed the phone and punched the on button.

  Nothing happened. Odd. He gave it a shake and pressed it again. Nothing.

  His brows dipped. He couldn't have left it on, he was never that careless. But, sure enough. The battery was dead.

  Sitting back on his heels, he contemplated the phone. Then it hit him. Only one person could have done this.

  Maggie Johansen.

  Damn it! It must have rung while she was waiting for him earlier. Which was why she'd had such a look of satisfaction on her face when he'd walked back into camp. She hadn’t been thinking about him, at all. Not in the way he’d imagined. The way he’d hoped...

  He cursed her, cursed himself, and especially cursed the part of him that steadfastly refused to believe she was guilty of anything more than bad judgment. Cursed those sadly misguided instincts that kept telling him, “Just wait, she'll have a good explanation for everything.”

  Sure, she would.

  Not.

  He forced the maddening instincts back into the dark recesses of his heart, reached for his keys, and stalked up the path.

  The Indian started with a howl. He twisted the throttle savagely and churned the bike out from under the tower, dirt flying and gravel spraying—just as Maggie burst from the stairway.

  “Are you nuts?” she yelled, jumping out of the way, batting angrily at the black dust and sharp rocks pelting her bare legs.

  Coop pinned her with an icy stare. “You hurt?”

  “No thanks to you, Dale Earnhardt,” she fumed.

  “I’m in a hurry, all right?” His voice came out thick and angry. Really angry.

  “Hey,” she barked, poking an index finger at her tank top, “I'm the fire lookout here, and I don't see smoke anywhere.”

  “Just watch,” he said hotly, “and you'll see mine.” With that, he hit the gas and the bike leaped forward.

  “Good!” she shouted after him, huffing and swiping irritably at her dusty shorts. “Not soon enough!”

  That’s it.

  Drawing a figure eight on the ground in front of her, he laid the bike on its side in the dirt, letting the engine die. He ripped off his helmet and threw it, then planted his boots firmly in an open stance, hands on his hips. “Excuse me?”

  She gave her shorts a final swat before meeting his eyes, challenge for challenge. “No need to apologize, Cooper,” she said scathingly. “I'm getting used to being scared out of my wits and pelted with gravel.”

  She stood there, giving him a look that would paralyze a lesser man. A rivulet of sweat rolled from her temple down her cheek. She bunched her tank top in a fist over her hip.

  Cooper wanted to rip it off her.

  He vaulted over the bike, landing within inches of her. Teeth and hands clenched, with an iron will he held back the violence within him. She stood her ground, eyes locked with his.

  Never had he had a greater urge to smoke a woman. To wipe that righteous mockery right off her face and replace it with pure adoration and abject submission. He drilled his gaze into hers, and reached out with a tendril of his will, testing, probing, trying to fill her mind with the sacred smoke.

  She slammed her mind’s door on him with such force that he was literally knocked backward.

  Shocked, he surged forward and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck.

  Her chin went up and she glared at him. “Won't work, Wolf. Not this time.”

  In her eyes he saw the truth of her words.

  He banked his glowing anger to a smoldering cinder. To hell with her. He didn’t want her. Didn’t need her. Not for a single, blessed thing.

  All he was interested in was putting her behind bars—her and her pretty-boy poacher lover. Let them rot in jail like the carcasses they’d left in the forest.

  It was personal now.

  He slowly, intensely, drew his thumb along her firm jaw. His hands shook slightly as the tips of his fingers drifted down her throat, over her chest. He hooked a forefinger in the neck of her tank top, burying it to the second knuckle in the valley between her breasts.

  Her body shuddered, and her eyes darkened to green velvet. Sensual and tempting as cool satin sheets.

  “Wolf...” The anger dissolved and uncertainty crept into those pretty eyes as she struggled to decipher his mood.

  “I'm done playing games, baby.” He stroked his finger down, then up, in its soft sheath of cloth and skin. Knowing he shouldn't. But knowing it might be as close as he'd ever get to her warm, hidden places. He tugged once on the top, desperately wishing it would rip and give him a reason to lose control.

  He regarded her somberly. “The fun is over, Maggie. I'm coming after you now.”

  Before she could utter a word, he spun on a heel, picked up the bike, and started it up again with a roar.

  He gave it full throttle and left her gaping after him amidst a cloud of dust.

  The woman was toast.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Sixty-Two

  Oh. My. God.

  Maggie stood leaning with her back against the thick tower pylon and shook. What on earth did he mean, he was coming after her? It couldn't be about the evidence. She'd already given him what he wanted. He must be referring to their explosive sexual attraction.

  But that didn't make any sense, either. By his own admission, he'd been after her all along, in that way. His scorching kisses proved it every time he got close enough to steal one.

  She didn’t understand. Why had he been so angry with her?

  Their parting at the river had been friendly. Poignant, even. And if he was the one who’d led her into the middle of a snake pit, well, she should be furious with him. Not to mention the dust and gravel-pelting he’d just given her.

  And she was furious. Really furious.

  Okay, so there they were, each of them fuming at the other. For no good reason she could figure out.

  Jane’s words came back to her.

  Sounds like love to me...

  She snorted. Jane had been wrong then, and she was still wrong.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Love.

  Ha!

  How could she possibly love him when the whole situation was so totally, ridiculously, impossibly wrong?

  There was no way she could have just a casual affair with Blue Wolf Cooper. She was already in too deep, emotionally. And she didn't think she could live through the heartache of having to leave him without a word, if the trial went badly. Let alone if he left her, for whatever reason...because that’s what men always seemed to do with her.

  What on earth should she do?

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Sixty-Three

  Coop was in a foul mood. This damn case would be the death of him.

  When he wasn't getting a philosophical slap in the face from the poachers, or a cultural pummel from his warring heritages, he was getting an emotional belt in the jaw from Maggie.

  He didn't know which he needed more—a long sweat or a stiff drink. Today just might call for both. And not necessarily in that order.

  He parked the Indian in front of the Caf, and went inside to grab a bite while he plugged his phone into an outlet under the table.

  “What can I get you, Coop?” Lori asked, her lashes batting coyly. “How ‘bout some sweet cherry pie today?”

  He ignored her flirting, ordered a burger and fries with coffee, and leaned back in the booth, punching up Jack's number on his cell phone.

  His partner snickered. “Enjoying your undercover work, bud?”

  Coop listened in amazement as a burst of guffaws and chortles drifted over the airwaves from the wardens in the background. “Not particularly. Any special reason for asking, amigo?”

  Jack almost choked. “Seriously, dude?” He tried to clear the laughter from his voice. “She said it might be a while
before you called in, but jeez, Coop, six hours? My gawd, man! It's unnatural at your age.” There was another eruption of hilarity in the background.

  Coop squinted at the ceiling fan and counted to ten. Make that twenty. “Jack, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Really?” Jack’s voice lowered to a whisper but lost none of its intensity. “I'm talking about fucking the prime-goddamned-suspect in our goddamned case. That's what I'm talking about.”

  Coop ground his jaw. “Jack, I'm not fucking anyone.” Had the damn woman actually had the audacity to answer his phone when it rang? He had to ask. “What makes you think I am?”

  There was a long pause on the other end. “You’re not?”

  “Jack!”

  “Okay, okay. Then, tell me this. What was she doing in your tent answering your damn phone at nine o'clock this morning, hinting at things that definitely contradict your assertion?”

  Coop pressed a fist to his forehead. Sometimes he really hated being right. “Apparently, messing with my phone. And probably searching my things.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Getting my shotgun from the camper. Seems she took advantage of my absence.”

  Jack snorted. “Still think she’s innocent?”

  Coop could not believe she'd done all that, then blithely went fishing with him. After which, she'd kept an appointment with her real lover.

  Jesus. He’d really thought they’d turned a corner at the river. Had a moment together—an emotional moment of understanding and growing feelings for one another.

  Obviously, all one-sided.

  She must think him a complete and utter fool.

  Lori brought his plate with a giggle, and refilled his coffee with a flourish, but when he didn’t react, she gave up and flounced away. Jack's next words halted his hands as they reached for the burger.

  “Anyway. We got the ballistics report. The slug in that tree was from a 30.30. Too bad they’re so damn common. Probably a dozen or more in Marigold, alone.”

  Coop grabbed a fry instead as he watched a gray compact cruised slowly by the Caf. “Just so happens I saw a 30.30 today that belongs to a guy I'd dearly love to pin this on.”

  “Who?”

  “A bear researcher. Dr. Roland Timmons.” He told Jack about the project, the bear tags, and also about the battery Maggie had confessed to finding at the kill site.

  “So, what's your take on Timmons? Could he be sabotaging his own study?”

  Coop thought about it. “I’d say that’s a good possibility. The poaching is apparently bringing in mega-bucks from the donors.” He told him about Sally’s letters.

  Jack whistled. “I’d call that a hell of a motive.”

  “Oh, and Timmons and Maggie were talking about a new kill. Know anything about that?”

  “Yeah. One of the Forest Service guys radioed it in early this morning. That’s why I was calling you.” Jack gave him the details.

  “Just two days between kills. Why so fast? That’s not the poachers’ usual MO.”

  “Maybe they’re feeling the pressure. We’re getting close.”

  “Sure as hell hope so.”

  “We’ve got suspects. We’ve got evidence.”

  “Not enough,” Coop grumbled around a bite of burger. He wanted this case over. Now.

  “Let’s find some more, then,” Jack said. “See anything else today that points to Timmons? A match to the boot print, for instance?”

  Well, hell. In his anger over Timmons kissing Maggie, Coop had forgotten all about the muddy boots he'd found. Sloppy. Very sloppy. “Possibly. But I couldn’t get a print. Damn it. I want to nail that bastard.”

  Jack was silent for a moment. “And why are we so hostile to Dr. Timmons?”

  “Because he's fucking my prime suspect.”

  Another silence. “I see.”

  Coop pressed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. He probably shouldn't have said that. “Jack, uh—”

  His partner interrupted. “Dude, you're a pro, through and through. I know you won't let personal considerations affect the way you conduct the case.”

  Coop reached for a fry, which were stone cold by now. “Appreciate your confidence, Jack.” However ill-advised.

  “I’ll run a background on this Timmons character. See what pops.”

  “Good. Run everyone in the project, while you’re at it.”

  “Sure thing. And speaking of backgrounds...”

  “Yeah?” Coop braced himself. His tone of voice didn’t bode well.

  “I've been trying to dig up info on your lady friend, right?”

  “Not my lady friend.”

  “Anyway. I'm hitting road blocks at every damn turn.”

  Coop frowned. “How so?”

  “The Forest Service knows practically nothing about her. She’s a temporary volunteer, so no social, no home address. Not even an email on her.”

  “That...doesn’t sound right.”

  “No shit. I’ve tried running a background on every possible name Maggie could be a nickname for. So far, nothing comes even close to sounding like her.”

  “Huh.”

  “I also traced that phone call she made yesterday. It was to a newspaper office, of all things, down in L.A.. The Pasadena Star News.”

  “A newspaper? What the hell?”

  “God knows. I've got someone trying to track down who she talked to, but it's a big place.”

  “None of this is making any damn sense,” Coop muttered.

  “Tell me about it. I’ll keep digging,” Jack said.

  “Text me if you find out anything interesting,” Coop said, his mind spinning. “Meanwhile, I'll see what I can pry out of her tonight at the barbecue.”

  If he didn’t throw the damn woman in jail before then.

  Barely Dangerous: Chapter Sixty-Four

  After roaring around the Trinity's twisting mountain roads on the Indian for more than an hour, Coop finally dragged himself into Gina's. He collapsed into a booth and ordered more coffee. He didn't want a drink, he just craved the dark, anonymous atmosphere. He needed a place where it wasn't frowned on to be moody or morose, or just to sit and stare into space for as long as he wanted. Where he didn't have to worry about telescopes, or keeping up his façade of cool, collected, harmonious efficiency.

  Not that anyone around here would recognize that Blue Wolf Cooper. The impression the people in this town must be getting of him was more along the lines of volatile and unpredictable.

  Thanks to Maggie.

  He was on his third refill when two suits strolled in and took a quick inventory of Gina’s clientele. One of them jerked his head toward the booth where Coop sat nursing his coffee.

  They slid into the booth, one next to him, one across, pinning him in the corner.

  “You Cooper Blue Wolf?”

  “Who wants to know?” he muttered. Not that he had to ask. They’d reversed his name, so he knew exactly who they were.

  Well, and the polyester suits were a dead giveaway.

  The first man patted the shoulder holster nestled under his armpit, and the second opened his jacket a few inches to show his.

  Coop snorted incredulously. “Are you kidding me?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

  “Mr. Blue Wolf,” Asshole Number One said, leaning in, “we'd like you to step outside with us for a moment.”

  Coop barked a laugh. “I'll just bet you would.”

  Gina came up to the booth and stood with her hands on her hips. “Would you gentlemen like something to drink?”

  Asshole Number Two shook his head politely. “We're just about to leave with our friend, here.”

  “They're just about to leave without their friend, here,” said Coop. “No drinks for them, Gina.” He gave her a nod that he was okay, and waited until her slow, deliberate steps took her back behind the bar. He swung a narrowed gaze at the men. “What do you want?”

  Asshole Number One la
nded a sideways fist in Cooper's gut, knocking the wind out of him. “Listen up, Cochise, we're only going to say this once.”

  Coop gasped in pain, trying to get his breath.

  “We know all about you and your terrorist cousin. We don't know what you're playing at down here in a civilized country, but you'd best hightail it back to the Great White North before we find out.” He grabbed Coop's shirt front and jammed a finger into his chest. “And leave the damn woman alone.” He shoved him back into the corner.

  “What woman would that be?” Coop gritted the words through clenched teeth.

  “You know damn well. Maggie Johansen.”

  Coop squeezed his eyes shut to buy time. What the hell did she have to do with this?

  “Oh, her,” he drawled, and forced himself to relax, easing open his eyes and giving them a salacious grin. “Don't know if I can do that. Once a white woman's acquired a taste for us savages, they—”

  Asshole Two backhanded his face, hard, from across the table.

  Asshole One gave Coop a menacing stare. “Lay one goddamn finger on that woman, and your dear cousin will be real sorry.” Then he gave Cooper another fist in the stomach.

  The two men stood, straightened their tastefully striped polyester ties, and walked out of the bar.

  Gina hurried over to Coop, who’d grabbed his abdomen and was muttering a string of curses.

  She grabbed a paper napkin and wiped the blood that trickled down the side of his mouth. “Is this going to be a regular thing?” she asked mildly. “Me mopping blood off you?”

  He winced. “Fucking feebs.”

  Gina stared at him, unblinking. “They were FBI?”

  “They were fucking morons. They can never get my goddamn name right.”

  “Why would the FBI do this to you?”

  He eased out a painful breath. “They don't like my cousin, Bernie. And for some mysterious reason, it seems they want me to leave Maggie alone.”

  Gina appeared unperturbed. “You should have told them who you really are.”

  He tried to sit up, but quickly decided against it. “I know. But they dragged up skin color, and I just lost it. Jesus, what year is it, anyway? Nineteen-seventy-three?”