Her Master Defender

by Karen Anders

  “Dammit,” he cursed, and she turned in time to see him navigate the hill with expert skill. As he hit the bottom of the slope, he slipped out of his bindings and pelted for her.

  “Amber?” he said as he knelt down. With a little bubble of glee she was ready. As he touched her shoulder, she twisted and threw a wad of snow right in his face, laughing and scrambling away.

  Tristan sputtered and then pinned her with a lethal, oh-it’s-so-on look. She reached for more snow, but Tristan was fast. He was up and already scooping and chucking a snowball her way. It hit her hard in the center of her chest and drove her a few steps back. She let her own snowball fly, but he ducked it and came up with more snow. He looked predatory and so sexy as he crouched. The hat covering his head and framing his roughly stubbled face, his blue eyes looking all the more vibrant from the brightness of the sun, the lashes thick and dark. He was cut, powerfully male, and as dangerous in a snow battle as he was up close and personal.

  He feigned a toss and she raised her arms to counter, but he charged her instead, catching her totally off guard, and that was no easy feat.

  He slammed into her and took her down into the snow, his laughter the most carefree she’d ever heard it. That underused, rusty sound gone.

  She made an umph sound as her back hit, but then she recovered, her training and her own honed instincts taking over. Before he could bring his full weight to bear on her, she twisted, used her knees against his chest to keep him off her and shoved backward. Clearing him, she pressed to her feet just as he snagged her around the waist and had her beneath him so fast she didn’t have a chance to counter.

  He pressed her down into the snow, some of it slipping into the back of her collar. But she barely noticed its icy trail as it melted and slid down her spine to soak into the fabric of her thermal shirt.

  She could hear the chopping blades of the helicopter coming back for them.

  She smiled. “You know that I’m going to make you show me that move sometime.”

  He still wasn’t breathing hard after their tussle. There was no returning smile, not even in his eyes. Instead, he was watching her with an intent, steady look, as if assessing the situation. His voice was quiet and low when he spoke. “I don’t give away my secrets,” he rasped, staring down into her eyes. “You should really run. I mean it, Amber.”

  Amber could handle a man with secrets, but the concern in his voice got to her. “I bet you don’t,” she countered, “but I’ll use my womanly wiles on you, as meager as they are.”

  “What are you talking about? There is nothing meager about you, Amber. At all.”

  Their eyes held and Amber’s lungs compressed. It was too much. Amber’s body melted and her breath jammed up in her chest. It was all she could do to keep from giving everything away. All those feelings she’d tried to hold at bay came rushing through her, sending a fountain of need surging up inside her. The tension that had seemed present from the moment they met tightened, and the only sounds were the crackle of snow in the air and the helo.

  “We have to rendezvous.”

  As if trapped by his gaze, she stared back at him, unable to break away—not really wanting to. She was lost in his eyes, in the pulse-racing weakness. “Oh, Master Sergeant,” she whispered. “I think we’re about as rendezvoused as two people can get.”

  He huffed a laugh. “What you do to me,” he said, his voice a puff of air. He brought up his gloved hand, bit down on the tip and removed it. Very gently, he caressed her cheek. “You’re so warm.”

  “Yeah, that’s what happens when you have a two-hundred-sixty-pound heated blanket right exactly where you want it.”

  “Twenty-one Bravo to Michaels. Over.”

  He reached down and pulled the radio off his belt. He didn’t break eye contact. “Michaels, copy. Over.”

  “Wheels down. Over”

  “Roger. ETA five mikes.”

  “Roger that. Angel transport at the ready, over.”

  Amber smiled and Tristan laughed. “Solid copy. Out.”

  “I think those flyboys are sweet on you,” he said.

  He got off her slowly, pushed to his knees, then to his feet. He reached his hand down. She could, of course, easily rise on her own, show him that she wasn’t a damsel in distress. But something made her deliberately take his offer. She reached her hand up to his. The contact was every bit as electric even through her glove. His palm was wide and warm, his grip strong and steady as he tugged her easily to her feet. But rather than let her go as she’d expected, he kept tugging until she stumbled a step closer and came up flush against his body. His free arm was instantly around her back, steadying her, keeping her tucked up against him.

  “I’m not playing games,” he told her, the intensity of his gaze impossible to look away from at such close range. “Just so you know.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It had been a very long time since there was anyone in her life who was so darned direct. She thought Pete was good at communication, but boy, had she been wrong there. Tristan might say he wasn’t into playing games, but she couldn’t risk her heart again with a man who was much too dedicated to being where she wasn’t. The corps was his life and that meant she had to come in second. She didn’t want to play that game again. Not ever again. Was he warning her or preparing her? She wasn’t sure. “I can handle myself and anything you can dish out, Michaels.” Her voice, she was happy to say, was tempered steel, even though her knees were wobbly.

  “I have no doubt. I’m a little rusty with the social skills. Been isolated way too long.”

  “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “I may not need to, but I do. Just do me a favor and follow my orders up here. This is my domain.”

  Rather than set her loose, his arm flexed against her back, drawing her even closer, making her gasp as she came up against the full, hard length of him. Harder in some places than others. “It’s dangerous up here. Death stalks us.”

  She lifted her chin, giving him bravado. “I’m a survivor.”

  He pulled her hand up to his chest, pressed it there before letting go so he could slide his fingers beneath the hair at her nape and tug her mouth closer to his. And she didn’t do a damn thing to stop him. “You make me crazy, and all that sass and beauty takes away all my defenses.”

  “Tell me you’re not making excuses.”

  “No excuses. Just the facts.” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, and when he spoke, his tone was gentler, completely doing her in, unraveling her.

  “Just...stick close. Do as I say. Okay?”

  Her voice was nothing but a puff of air. “Okay.”

  And then—he tasted like the heat of a hot, scorching day, no chill at all. And all she could do was soften, give up any pretense of trying to control herself where he was concerned.

  Everything was so tangled up in her head and her heart. She didn’t even try to convince herself that she was making a mistake. It didn’t feel like any mistake she’d made in the past. She was aware, knew the score, and, like she’d told him, she was a survivor and a big girl. She closed her eyes.

  His lips retreated and she opened her eyes.

  “The flyboys are going to get antsy.”

  “Too bad,” she said hoarsely and made no move to strap back on her skis. Instead, she turned her mouth back to his. Only this time, as their lips met, they slowed down, gentled the onslaught, which made her feel liquid. She teased, he taunted, and they slipped their tongues more sinuously along the other, tasting, touching. Soft moans filled the cool air. His, hers, she wasn’t keeping track. She was drowning, and she didn’t want to be saved.

  “Twenty-one Bravo to Michaels. We’re burning fuel. ETA? Over.”

  He took a breath and they parted enough for him to grab his radio. As he pressed the mike
switch, she pressed her mouth to his warm, musky skin, breathing him in.

  His voice wobbled when he spoke. “Five mikes.”

  Amber raised her head and froze. She blinked. “Tristan,” she said, her voice holding enough of her dismay and warning for him to turn his head.

  His breath whooshed out as he saw, too. “Randy Mayer.”

  “The guy who tried to run me down?”

  “Correct.”

  He brought the radio back to his mouth. “Twenty-one Bravo, negative on the previous ETA. Alert command. Alert PD. Alert Mono County Sheriff’s Department. We have a body, over.”

  The airwaves crackled. Finally their response came back. “Roger that. Out.”

  She peered at the macabre sight. The wind picked up and blew snow over Randy’s naked body, his skin blue and his face frozen in death.

  Chapter 7

  “That woman is a menace,” the man growled into the phone.

  “So, she found the body a little sooner than we thought. Just means her ass will be out of here that much sooner and it’ll be business as usual.”

  “Is Carl on board?”

  “Reluctantly.”

  “Are we going to have problems with him?”

  “I think we might.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You’d better.”

  * * *

  “Special Agent Dalton, what is your assessment of the situation as you see it?”

  She was seated alongside Tristan in Colonel Jacobs’s office. The colonel’s face was solemn. There was no doubt in her mind that this wasn’t a simple open-and-shut case. Lance Corporal James Connelly had been killed in what she considered a suspicious way.

  “Randy Mayer’s death will be considered suspicious until we also receive an autopsy report. His cause of death isn’t apparent, but the fact that he was naked may indicate he could have been murdered. Master Sergeant Michaels told me that when a victim is in a hypothermic state, that person will sometimes strip all their clothes off. When a body gets that cold, apparently it feels as if the person is burning up. Victims sometimes hallucinate that they are either in front of a roaring fire and too hot or are on fire. I believe that it’s best to wait for the autopsy on Connelly and Mayer before I come to any conclusions.”

  “I see. James’s parents are in the conference room waiting for you.” Amber’s stomach dropped. This part of the job was always the tough part.

  “Colonel, could I get a copy of Mayer’s personnel file and anything else you think might be helpful. I’d also like to speak with anyone who knew him or worked with him.”

  “I will compile a list for you and also get his records.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She started to rise and Tristan said, “Amber...”

  She glanced at him and it was clear to her from the strained look on his face that he wanted to go with her. She put her hand on his arm.

  “Do you want to speak to them?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I would.”

  “All right. If that’s okay with the colonel, let me interview them before you speak to them. This is going to be hard enough on them, and I’m sure what you have to say is going to be emotional.”

  He rose as she did and held his eyes, which were a deep well of meaning.

  She walked out of the colonel’s office and entered the conference room. A middle-aged man was sitting at the table, looking as if he’d been through his own minefield. He eyes were moist and his face showed the devastation of losing a son.

  James’s mother sat with her hands in her lap. She appeared dry-eyed but by no means unaffected by the loss of her son. She looked up when Amber came in.

  Amber already had her badge in her hand, reaching out with the other one. Mrs. Connelly rose and glanced at the badge and clasped Amber’s hand strongly.

  “Special Agent Amber Dalton, NCIS. I am investigating your son’s death. Could I please have a few words with you about James?”

  Mrs. Connelly said, “Yes, of course.” She turned to her husband and reached out her hand to set it against his shoulder.

  He lifted his devastated eyes to Amber’s and she tried to muster all the compassion that was now clogging her chest.

  “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances.” Tucking her badge into her back pocket, Amber sat down in one of the chairs. “Did James mention anything to you that was out of the ordinary here on base? In his personal life?”

  “No, he said it was awesome. His instructor. Sergeant Tristan...”

  “Michaels.”

  “Yes, him. James said he was the best instructor he’d ever had. He was learning a ton and he would be able to take so many practical things that he’d learned back into the field. James didn’t mention anything to us about any problems either on base or in his personal life. He was very popular with everyone.”

  “If you think of anything that could help, please contact me.”

  They both nodded.

  “Speaking of Sergeant Michaels, he is outside waiting in the colonel’s office. He would like to have a word with you before you leave.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Connelly, did James ever mention that he was unhappy with the service?”

  Mr. Connelly startled and his eyes focused then narrowed. He frowned. “What are you saying?” he growled.

  “Was there a chance that James could have gone AWOL?”

  Mr. Connelly stood. The chair hit the back wall. He clenched his fists and shouted, “No! James would never desert! He was dedicated to the corps! He was...he was...”

  He covered his face and sat down heavily in the chair. His wife leaned over and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. She looked at Amber and there were tears in her eyes.

  “Agent Dalton,” she said, her voice thick, “I...we understand that you are asking us hard questions. But the answer to this one is easy. James loved the service. He was going to make it his career. Both my husband and my brother Rick served, and James was very proud of them. He would never have gone AWOL. Never. He would have died before he would even think that.”

  Amber had to tamp down the sympathy and emotion she was feeling right now. This was about getting information about James so she could solve the mystery of his death. Give these people closure. “I know this is difficult, but I have to ask these questions. The more information I have, the more I can understand about what happened to James.”

  “James was...oh, God...maybe about six when my husband came back from his tour of service. We were there when he got off the plane, and as soon as he saw him, James stood to attention and saluted. He said, ‘Welcome home, sir.’” The soft sound of Mr. Connelly’s grief tied Amber’s stomach up in knots. “He said, ‘Daddy, I want to be just like you.’ And my husband said, ‘A soldier?’”

  Mr. Connelly raised his head, his feelings of grief over the loss of his son streaming down his face, and his voice caught when he said, “‘No, a hero.’”

  Amber nodded. “I understand completely. Did James get along with everyone as far as you know?”

  “Yes. He was very outgoing. Well liked.”

  Amber knew it was time to go. “I really appreciate you talking to me. I am so sorry for your loss.”

  “When can we take him home?” Mrs. Connelly asked, her husband clasping her hand.

  “Soon. I will let you know.”

  “Find out what happened to our boy,” Mr. Connelly said.

  “I will do everything in my power to get you those answers. Here is my card.” She slid the card across the conference-room table and rose.

  She opened the door, then closed it behind her and leaned against the wall for just a minute. She looked u
p to find Tristan standing in front of her. His eyes said everything. The door opened and Mr. and Mrs. Connelly came out. Tristan turned to them and she went to walk away, but he put his hand on her arm.

  “Hello, I’m Tristan Michaels.”

  “It’s so good to meet you. James really enjoyed your instruction. Thank you for all that you did for him.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Connelly. I wanted to let you know that James was the best student I’ve ever had in my class. I love everything about teaching what I know to men like your son. He gave more to me than I gave to him. I will always be thankful for that. You should be very proud of him. He was an exemplary student, a fine soldier and an even better man. Thank you for your sacrifice.”

  Mrs. Connelly wiped at the tears on her cheeks and squeezed Tristan’s forearm. “Thank you for taking the time to meet us, Sergeant Michaels.”

  “Tristan, please.”

  She nodded. Mr. Connelly shook Tristan’s hand and then, supporting each other, the Connellys walked down the hall and disappeared around the corner.

  Amber didn’t say anything for a moment, caught somewhere between respect and surprise that Tristan had opened himself up to the Connellys. It had been brewing since yesterday when he’d been drinking all alone at the table, broken that glass and then kissed her so...passionately, as if he’d been saving it up his whole life. She wanted to know more about him. Wanted to explore everything there was to know about Tristan Michaels.

  But that wasn’t why she was here. She was here to solve this incident, find out what happened to James and give those brave, grieving people some measure of peace.

  “Now you want it even more than you did before,” he said softly. His bent head made her want to smooth her hand over his enticing hair.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I want it for them.” She looked back down the hall. Of course they were gone, but her determination was solid. “What do you know about Randall Mayer?”