Line of Fire Read online

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  Line of Fire

  Cindy Dees

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  Published by Silhouette Books

  America's Publisher of Contemporary Romance

  Tex Monroe was a throwback to another time, Kimberly thought.

  The men she was used to wore suits, and battled with words and money and power. But this man was a warrior….

  A thrill of purely female appreciation swept through her. She traced his rib cage, counting the bones beneath slabs of heavy, hard muscle.

  A low warning growl rumbled in his chest, but she ignored it.

  She moved against him, lifted her mouth to his neck, tasting the salt on his skin, smelling the lightly musky scent of him.

  She couldn't get enough of it. She pressed even closer to him, dying for more.

  Then, suddenly, she was on her back with him looming above her, his hands pinning her arms to the jungle floor. "Enough," he growled. "No more games…."

  Dear Reader,

  This is a month full of greats: great authors, great miniseries…great books. Start off with award-winning Marie Ferrarella's Racing Against Time, the first in a new miniseries called CAVANAUGH JUSTICE. This family fights for what's right—and their reward is lasting love.

  The miniseries excitement continues with the second of Carla Cassidy's CHEROKEE CORNERS trilogy. Dead Certain brings the hero and heroine together to solve a terrible crime, but it keeps them together with love. Candace Irvin's latest features A Dangerous Engagement, and it's also the first SISTERS IN ARMS title, introducing a group of military women bonded through friendship and destined to find men worthy of their hearts.

  Of course, you won't want to miss our stand-alone books, either. Marilyn Tracy's A Warrior's Vow is built around a suspenseful search for a missing child, and it's there, in the rugged Southwest, that her hero and heroine find each other. Cindy Dees has an irresistible Special Forces officer for a hero in Line of Fire—and he takes aim right at the heroine's heart. Finally, welcome new author Loreth Anne White, who came to us via our eHarlequin.com Web site. Melting the Ice is her first book—and we're all eagerly awaiting her next.

  Enjoy—and come back next month for more exciting romantic reading, only from Silhouette Intimate Moments.

  Leslie J. Wainger

  Executive Editor

  Books by Cindy Dees

  Silhouette Intimate Moments

  Behind Enemy Lines #1176

  Line of Fire #1253

  CINDY DEES

  started flying airplanes, sitting in her dad's lap, when she was three, and she was the only kid in the neighborhood who got a pilot's license before she got a driver's license. After college, she fulfilled a lifelong dream and became a U.S. Air Force pilot. She flew everything from super-sonic jets to C-5's, the world's largest cargo airplane. During her career, she got shot at, met her husband, flew in the Gulf War and amassed a lifetime supply of war stories. After she left flying to have a family, she was lucky enough to fulfill another lifelong dream—writing a book. Little did she imagine that it would win the RWA Golden Heart Contest and sell to Silhouette! She's thrilled to be able to share her dream with you. She'd love to hear what you think of her books. Write to her at www.cindydees.com or P.O. Box 210, Azle, TX 76098.

  My sincerest thanks to all of my incredibly knowledgeable instructors at the Air Force Aircrew SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape) School at Fairchild AFB, Washington. Thank goodness I never had to use my training for anything except writing this book!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 1

  "Pick a target," the man beside her ordered quietly.

  There was no mistaking it. The man lying on the ground, cradling his rifle like a lover, had just shifted into killing mode. Instinctive fear of him, of his innate violence, broke over her, drenching her in her own nervous perspiration.

  Tex Monroe, she'd been told his name was. He was supposedly some sort of genius at murdering people and blowing stuff up. Frankly she'd been expecting an intimidating, vicious-looking, commando type. She hadn't been prepared for a lazy smile, dashing good looks and engaging charm from this killer.

  He could have jumped straight out of the pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine. He had the determined jaw, chiseled cheekbones and intense blue eyes of a cover-model mercenary, and his outdoorsman's tan emphasized the white flash of his smile. Broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped and oozing muscle, the guy wore green camouflage fatigues with the panache of a tailored tuxedo.

  As if that wasn't enough, he had a lazy, graceful way of moving and an easy Southern accent that screamed of Rhett Butler and old school Southern charm. It wasn't the fake, plastic friendliness of so many of the politicians she worked around. He had genuine charisma. Flesh impact. Whatever the label, the whole gentleman-soldier package was devastating.

  He was a huge monkey wrench in her plan. But it wasn't like she was about to turn back. She'd see this thing through. No sweet talking assassin was going to derail her now.

  Kimberly Stanton lifted the bulky binoculars to her eyes, adjusting their focus with her fingertips. Two black blobs converged into a single sharp image of the back of a man's head. Even with the powerful Zeiss binoculars, he was little more than a pea-size dot in her vision, over a mile away.

  "The guy in the black turtleneck with the black hair," she said. Darn it. She sounded all breathless, like some teenage groupie in the presence of her idol.

  In Tex Monroe's world, life and death were held cheaply. Say a few words and a human being was snuffed out. No fuss, no muss. A shudder of revulsion whisked down her spine, but her determination to see justice prevail stiffened it again.

  Tex lowered his face to the high-tech, computer-targeted rifle. Almost tenderly, his arm settled over the weapon. He caressed a knob on the side of his scope, teasing it to a peak of perfection. His cheek rested against the sleek shape of the weapon, his eyes heavy-lidded as he became one with it.

  Voyeuristic discomfort blossomed inside her as she watched him make love to his rifle. And then he settled into a stillness that enveloped not only him and the cumbersome sniper rifle but also reached out to stifle her breath into complete suspension.

  The sheer presence of the man was overwhelming. How could an act of such cold brutality generate such shocking heat in her? She was supposed to be appalled by men like him. Her life's work was devoted to stopping this sort of killing.

  Pull yourself together! No questions. No doubts. If this gorgeous commando had to be the sacrificial lamb to her cause, so be it.

  She made herself look through the binoculars at the dark-haired head she'd just targeted for execution. Any second now.

  Bang!

  The shot rang out, kick-starting her breathing with an involuntary burst of adrenaline. She jumped hard, even though she'd expected the explosion of sound.

  She registered in a strange sort of slow motion the way the tiny head in the distance exploded into a million pieces.

  Good Lord.

  Shaken, her breath rattled tremulously. She took a deep breath, forcibly calming herself. This was part of the plan. She could do it. Her need to stop men like Tex coalesced into a hard knot of resolve deep in her stomach.

  "Again," she commanded.

  The dazzling sni
per beside her nodded and shifted position, pivoting the rifle gently on its low tripod stand, tugging it close to his chest.

  She choked out, "Let's see you take out a moving target, hotshot."

  He flashed her a slow, intimate grin that slammed into her gut like one of his well-aimed bullets. "Yes, ma'am," he drawled. "Pick me another victim."

  Victim. The casually uttered word made her shudder. Heck, the whole man made her shudder. But with horror or fascination, she wasn't sure. It ought to be the former. She feared it was the latter.

  In the distance a series of caricatured human figures moved across her field of vision, scurrying back and forth like mice trapped in a corner by a cat. "The blond man in the red shirt," she announced. He was moving quickly in and out among other targets and would be extremely difficult to hit.

  "Done," was the sniper's confident reply.

  Bang!

  The blond head exploded effortlessly.

  Her hands shaking, Kimberly lowered the binoculars and stared down at the man beside her, overwhelmed in spite of her resolve not to be. Even if those annihilated heads were only clay targets on a firing range, they just as easily could have been real people getting their heads blown off.

  Problem was, no matter how dangerous he was with that gun in the killing fields, Tex Monroe was potentially even more lethal to her project here today.

  "That's an impressive toy you've got, soldier," she managed to say lightly.

  He grinned up at her. "If you're nice to me, I'll let you play with it."

  A thrill of sexual awareness raced down her spine. Drat. Why couldn't her hormones get with the program and be revolted by this guy?

  The group of journalists behind her chuckled. Double drat. The last thing she needed was this cocky Special Forces type charming the press into doing favorable pieces on the new sniper rifle. Of course, the real purpose of today's demonstration at Quantico's firing range wasn't the gun at all. It was to paint soldiers like Tex Monroe as the cold, calculating killers they were.

  It had taken some fancy maneuvering to set up this outing. She was a known antimilitary lobbyist, and the Air Force hadn't been enthusiastic about giving her this demonstration. They suspected, rightly, that she'd turn the whole thing against them somehow in a splashy media blitz. Of course, she hadn't anticipated that the Air Force would sabotage her campaign with a P.R. savvy poster boy like Tex Monroe.

  She tossed back her tawny locks and flashed her million-dollar smile at the press corps. "As you can see, gentlemen, with one of these new generation rifles, a single soldier like this one can become a nearly unstoppable killing machine."

  The killing machine in question scowled up at her. Good. The meaner he looked, the more impact her remarks would have.

  An audio circuit on one of the video cameras screeched abruptly, and the soldier jumped, his hands flying up into a defensive position.

  "See? That's what I'm talking about," she said smoothly. "Observe the reflexes of the trained killer."

  "Miss Stanton," Tex drawled with a lazy smile, "jumping at a squealing speaker is hardly a demonstration of my propensity to kill people."

  The reporters chuckled again. She had to get these guys away from him and his slick Southern charm before he ruined this day's work entirely.

  Thankfully the sound of a thwocking helicopter became audible in the distance. She announced pleasantly, "That will be our ride, gentlemen. Shall we go? I made reservations at the Watergate Club for us. We can finish our discussion over lunch."

  She'd learned at her father's knee that there was nothing quite like prime rib and a few beers for getting reporters to see things exactly her way. Nobody worked the press better than Senator William Stanton, except maybe his only daughter.

  A sleek, black helicopter settled in the middle of the firing range. She mentally flinched at its sharklike profile. How appropriate to her calculated manipulation of the press. Sharklike, indeed. Like father, like daughter.

  Tex Monroe popped up to his feet, rising to his full six-foot-two height. He shouldered the heavy sniper rifle with a quick bunching of impressive muscles. She gulped. None of the men she knew had the time or inclination to work out in a gym. Those who exercised at all talked on the cell phone while they put in a couple of miles on a treadmill.

  Tex's long legs lengthened into an easy, ground-eating jog that bespoke many miles of carrying heavy rifles like the one slung over his shoulder. She pulled out the fuzzy collar of her pink angora sweater and blew surreptitiously down her front, cooling her abruptly overheated system.

  His shoulders were so broad they blocked the entire helicopter door as he approached it. She couldn't help but notice his panther-like grace as he pivoted smoothly to a stop to wait for her.

  She scowled at the picture he made, poised and alert beside the sleek chopper. The last thing she needed in the newspapers were photos of a killer who came across like a knight in shining armor. She made a mental note to discourage the reporters from printing any pictures with this particular story.

  A couple of military police held everyone back while the helicopter finished its landing procedures, but she adroitly slipped past the outstretched arm of the nearest cop.

  She strode after the annoying commando, leaving the surprised reporters to hurry after her once the police let them pass. Rule number three on her father's list of how to manage the press. Always keep them off balance and one step behind you. That way they were much more likely to go in the direction you wanted them to. Rules one and two dealt with never showing fear and never answering the entire question.

  She ducked beneath the spinning rotor blade and moved toward Tex where he waited beside the helicopter door. Her knees threatened to buckle when he flashed her another one of those drop-dead smiles of his.

  "Y'all come back and see us sometime," he shouted over the helicopter noise.

  She scowled into his laughing blue gaze. He knew exactly what she'd been up to today. He also knew he'd thrown her a serious curve ball. The rat.

  "Maybe I will at that, Mr. Monroe," she shouted back.

  He grinned at the threat implied in her words, his eyes glinting in all-male challenge.

  In another place, another time, she might have considered taking up the sexually charged gauntlet he'd just tossed at her feet. But not with a half-dozen nosy, camera-toting reporters straggling across the field to join them. Rule number four: never, ever, make a spectacle of oneself in public, especially if there are cameras nearby.

  She stepped forward in a subtle power play, waiting expectantly for him to get the door for her. But he anticipated her ploy and had already leaned forward, reaching for the black door. The movement brought him close enough for her to see him look down at her mouth in sensual speculation.

  To her utter shock, she found herself leaning toward him in return. His head angled down slightly and she felt her chin tilt up in response.

  Oh, God. Rule number four!

  Reporters. With cameras. Closing in on them. No public spectacles!

  She jerked back, breathing hard.

  She looked up at him, expecting derision in his azure gaze. But what she saw was sex. Pure and simple.

  "Anytime, darlin'," he murmured. "Call me and I'll be there."

  No words would form in her throat. She stared, momentarily dazed. And then the cheek of what he'd just said hit her. "I'll see you in front of Congress," she hissed.

  His eyebrows went up innocently. "It takes an act of Congress to date you?"

  Her gaze narrowed. "Charlie Squad and the other Special Forces teams like yours are done, soldier. I'm the final nail in your coffin."

  She watched with satisfaction as his smirk faded into uncertainty. "What are you talking about?" he asked, his voice soft and dangerous.

  "I've proposed a reform bill to do away with government funding for all trained hit squads. The American taxpayers are done supporting killers like you," she snapped.

  He stared narrowly at her, absorbing her decl
aration. Hard knowledge filled his gaze. Finally he drawled, "Darlin', I hope you never find out why the taxpayers need killers like me."

  His eyes glittered like diamonds, determined and intelligent. He reached out with one hand for the helicopter door and with the other for her elbow to help her inside.

  Without warning, the door flew open. Four black-clad figures burst out.

  Kimberly jumped, violently startled by the unexpected explosion of motion. Out of the corner of her eye, she registered ski masks and weapons slung from men's shoulders. A quick frown flashed across Tex's face. Her mind vaguely processed that this was bad.

  But then someone shoved her between the shoulder blades, throwing her forward into the helicopter in a stumbling half-fall.

  What in the world…

  Someone pushed her down roughly. Her forehead hit the metal floor and stars burst forth behind her eyelids. She distantly heard her own voice cry out in pain. The dreamlike unreality of whatever farce was abruptly playing out around her refused to compute in her brain.

  Something, someone, thudded to the floor beside her, landing with a grunt. A warm, hard body sprawled half across hers. A shock of recognition shot through her as her gaze met Tex Monroe's Caribbean blue one.

  "You okay?" he bit out.

  She was now. His presence eased her terror. Instinctively she knew he would take control of whatever bizarre situation was unfolding here. "Yes," she gasped.

  Then his gaze darted away in all directions, quickly assessing the situation. "I'll take care of you," he murmured. "Stay down."

  Unexpected warmth flowed through her at his muttered reassurance. Somehow she believed him. She watched in awe as he rolled away from her and exploded into action. He threw his fists and feet with lethal precision. Grunts and cursing erupted from behind the black-masked men who surrounded them as Tex fought back with grim determination.

  Hands grabbed her shoulders and a slender, silver aerosol canister descended toward her. Cool white spray misted into her face. The last thing she remembered before she spun away into oblivion was Tex's voice expressing his disgust in a single succinct curse.