Her Master Defender Read online

  A battle-hardened marine and a driven NCIS agent join forces to survive…

  Though survival training is Master Sergeant Tristan Michaels’s specialty, one of his students has been murdered. And sharing quarters with the ravishing NCIS agent sent to investigate is a challenge his expertise hasn’t prepared him for. Tristan has his reasons for distrusting NCIS agents, but Amber Dalton is stirring unwelcome feelings of a different kind…

  Despite the fierce attraction between them, Amber is determined not to let it distract her from the mission. But when they’re captured by the killers, escape means combining forces and daring to survive freezing mountain terrain.

  Their eyes held and Amber’s lungs compressed.

  It was too much. Amber’s body melted and her breath jammed 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. The only sound was the crackle of snow in the air and the sound of 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 so 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 voiced in a puff of air. He brought up his gloved hand and bit down on the tip and removed it. Very gently, he caressed her cheek.

  Be sure to check out the next books in this exciting miniseries:

  To Protect and Serve—A team of navy miltary operatives and civilians are called to investigate…

  * * *

  If you’re on Twitter, tell us what you think of Harlequin Romantic Suspense! #harlequinromsuspense

  Dear Reader,

  My To Protect and Serve series has brought you a murder investigation on an aircraft carrier, a kidnapped navy scientist and a drifting Coast Guard cutter with six dead men aboard. My next offering, Her Master Defender, dishes up suspense with a little bit of thriller on the side. When NCIS special agent Amber Dalton is waylaid just as she’s about to head to the white sandy beaches of Aruba, she finds herself handling what is supposed to be an open-and-shut case of friendly fire at the Mountain Warfare Training Center.

  But as Amber and her grumpy and gorgeous USMC liaison Master Sergeant Tristan Michaels delve into the mystery of what happened to one of his scout sniper students, it becomes clear it was no accident. As the two of them work together, the sparks fly and they find themselves struggling to remain professionally detached. The deeper they investigate, the closer they get as danger stalks them—until they are running for their lives in the cold, unforgiving Sierra Nevada Mountains.

  Best,

  Karen

  HER MASTER

  DEFENDER

  Karen Anders

  Karen Anders is a three-time National Readers’ Choice Award finalist and an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award finalist, and she has won a prestigious Holt Medallion. Two of her novels made the Waldenbooks bestseller list in 2003. Published since 1997, she currently writes romantic suspense for Harlequin. To contact the author, please write to her in care of Harlequin, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, or visit karenanders.com.

  Books by Karen Anders

  Harlequin Romantic Suspense

  Five-Alarm Encounter

  To Protect and Serve Series

  At His Command

  Designated Target

  Joint Engagement

  Her Master Defender

  The Adair Legacy

  Special Ops Rendezvous

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  To white, hot sandy beaches of Aruba,

  pool bars and mai tais.

  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

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Colton Bodyguard by Carla Cassidy

  Chapter 1

  The Sierra Nevada, California

  “One point six degrees is all that stands between us and death.”

  There was complete silence from the nine snipers USMC Master Sergeant Tristan Michaels was training on a mountaintop in the Sierra Nevada. They knew all this information, but there was nothing like driving it home.

  “At 97.0 degrees there’s mental impairment, poor judgment. One degree is all it takes to lead you to death’s door. At 86.0 degrees, there’s no more shivering—there’s coma and lights out.”

  The frigid air and this trek into the clear, cold mountains drove home the truth of Tristan’s lesson today. He exhaled, the heat from his breath fogging the air, and there it was again...that feeling, a heaviness in the pit of his belly and in his head, too, the backs of his eyes hot, a weight across the nape of his neck. As a member of Force Reconnaissance—known as both Force Recon and FORECON—Tristan heeded his gut feelings.

  He’d felt this off-balance sense right before a battle, right before an explosion, as if the molecules of air were bracing themselves for conflict. With the snow-covered trees and the heavy snowfall, these training grounds were far from a winter wonderland.

  All of those millions of lace-patterned water drops piling up on top of each other... The sound of it had a way of impeding hearing, just a bit, with a tone that came from everywhere and nowhere while creating a strange sense of urgency.

  It felt like a pent-up breath.

  It felt as if something was about to happen.

  The only worry on his mind right now wasn’t that these guys wouldn’t hit their targets. It was about survival, as they were going to be out in these conditions for the next three days with no tents in the middle of January.

  Crouching in the snow, Tristan said, “You all face a unique situation when you’re sniping in this environment. The cold weather acts as an adversary that can be as deadly as an enemy soldier.”

  The intent young faces hung on his every word and he emphasized enough the first day of class how he would be their savior, his words were gold and he was the god of winter. Freaking Jack Frost had nothing on him and Old Man Winter was just blowing smoke.

  “Every time. Every time you pit yourself against the elements, it’s about survival. Regardless of the job you do, staying alive is all that matters. When we started out, it was clear and sunny—”

  “Yeah, sir, it was downright balmy,” one marine said down at the end of the line, and everyone chuckled.

  “We can go skinny-dipping later,” Tristan said, deadpan. “As I was saying, clear when we arrived, but always prepare yourself for blizzard conditions.”

  Jerking down his bark-colored cap covering his dark hair, he went to one knee and sighted his own scope across the tree-lined terrain. “Tell me why cold is a greater threat to survival,” he said, his breath fogging the air.

  “It decrease
s your ability to think,” one marine replied.

  “It weakens your will to do anything except to get warm.”

  “It sucks moisture, and dehydration is a threat.”

  “Good answers,” he said. “But remember this, if you forget everything else. Cold makes it very easy to forget your ultimate goal—to survive.”

  Tristan didn’t have to instruct these men on how to shoot a target. They were all seasoned snipers, but there was still a 10 percent washout rate for this class. One shot, one kill was their motto. His job was to teach them how to shoot in this terrain and at steep angles and how to survive against the insidious cold. He’d done both numerous times.

  “Your target is the normal one-thousand-yard distance. I want you to work out the coordinates and take your shot.”

  As five successive shots cracked across the white noise of the falling snow, Tristan put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the targets below him. As he went to lower the field glasses, something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

  His breath backed up in his lungs as he stared and adjusted the clarity. It looked... Ah, damn! “Stay here,” he ordered, and he took off at a run through the snow. Navigating the decline with the skill and ease of a pro, he slid slightly on the loose snow but got the traction he needed in his snowshoes. The cold air hurt his lungs as he loped, his muscles loose and pumping.

  As he got closer, his heart slammed hard against his ribs and his mind froze in shock.

  Memories assaulted him of another freezing-cold day, the snow splashed with blood.

  He stopped at the foot of the slope, unmoving in surprise. He looked down to the ground, his mind clear as a bell, sure of what he was seeing.

  So many shots and so many kills and he recognized it in an instant, as if he had been in slow motion and everything just went into real time. Real freaking time.

  It hit him like it always did. As if a conscious thought was needed to drive it home every time. He was breathing his way into it like he’d done whenever he’d sniped. Settling his cheek against the stock, quieting his muscles, quieting his heartbeat and lining up his shot.

  He was going to get only one shot, and like every shot he took, it had to be perfect, a cold zero.

  It was the only truth he knew. It was the only one that mattered, and 2.5 pounds of pressure on the trigger later, a man’s life would leave him in a vapor trail of pink blood and disintegrated flesh. Another millisecond, the shot would sound in the air.

  A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his trance. “Sarge...what the hell...damn,” one of his students said on a choking whisper. Then they all crowded around and that terrible heaviness he’d been feeling only moments ago deepened.

  As his students all shuffled around, looking at each other, their faces contorting in compassion—shock, pain, anxiety—he crouched and brushed at the snow-covered face, revealing the fixed open eyes, the lashes thick with snowflakes.

  Lance Corporal James Connelly, his missing marine student, who stared up at a frosty white sky from a face blue and stiff with cold, frozen in death. The kid had been at the top of his game, highly decorated in his tours in Afghanistan and the Middle East, dedicated to the corps with a recent reenlistment, and had been a complete jarhead through and through. One of his best students ever.

  He liked this kid.

  The body had been almost invisible, dressed in camo and deeply covered in snow. If it hadn’t been for the flap of his jacket caught by the wind, Tristan might have glanced right over him.

  He turned the body and saw it. A bullet hole, blood tingeing the snow beneath him.

  His conscience kicked him hard and his throat burned from the deep breaths he took to mitigate the guilt that slammed heavy into him like a wrecking ball.

  Lance Corporal James Connelly.

  One shot, one kill—a cold zero.

  Chapter 2

  Naval Criminal Investigative Service (NCIS) Office, Navy Yard, Washington, DC

  “Hey, you okay?”

  NCIS Special Agent Amber Dalton cringed at the sound of Beau Jerrott’s voice behind her. Part of the NCIS team, Beau had recently found his true love and was getting married. She loved the guy like a brother, but he’d told her she shouldn’t let Peter—Lieutenant Peter Savich, USN—make her his second priority. A woman should always be number one, and if she wasn’t, said woman should move on. There wasn’t anything that Amber hated more than coming in second. But in this case, she hadn’t even been in the race.

  She turned around and one look at her face had Beau taking her arm and dragging her to the conference room.

  “What happened?”

  Her shoulders drooped and she squeezed her eyes closed. “He dumped me right before this Aruba trip. My first vacation in a year.”

  “That slime. Why did he dump you?”

  “He’s...engaged.” It should have been a little more painful to say it, but it wasn’t. She just hated the idea of spending her vacation alone and was mortified that she hadn’t seen the signs.

  “Oh, damn,” he murmured and pulled her into his arms, rubbing at her back. “I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I never liked that guy for you. He was too...bossy.”

  “Oh, really,” she sniffed. “Nothing like you.”

  “No, nothing like me,” he said, squeezing her tight and letting her go.

  “It’s not the end of the world. There’s—”

  “If you say ‘there’s plenty of fish in the sea,’ I’ll slug you,” she said.

  “There’s a silver lining.”

  “Nice save.” She punched his arm lightly. “What exactly would this silver lining be?”

  “You can go to Aruba and have wild, crazy sex.” He waggled his brows.

  She rolled her eyes. Because he was trying to cheer her up, she laughed. “All settled down and that is what you still think about?”

  “Guar-an-teed. I have Kinley at home.”

  “I don’t jump in the sack with just anyone. So I would rule out wild, crazy or any other kind of sex on a seven-day vacation.”

  “Ah, right, you’re one of those. Well, buck up. This is a vacation. There will be no pining or moping over your jerk of an ex-boyfriend.”

  Hours later, after she’d filed her last report and shut down her computer, she was trying to dredge up some pain or even regret about the breakup and she couldn’t. She just felt stupid for getting blindsided, for holding on to something that wasn’t fulfilling or going anywhere. It was her competitive edge. She so hated losing.

  Amber had spent most of her childhood playing second fiddle to her sister, Samantha, or as everyone called her, Sammy. Her older sister was outgoing and beautiful and took the lion’s share of attention from their parents and relatives. Amber had to work twice as hard to get out of her sister’s shadow. She excelled at sports and her studies, garnering scholarships. But no matter what she did, she got the sense her parents thought her second-best.

  Sammy had married a very wealthy man while Amber went into the navy, then became part of the Judge Advocate General’s Corps, or JAG, then finally left to become an NCIS agent.

  She’d passed all her tests with flying colors, especially her PT tests. Because she was considered an athletic girl, Amber often found herself in the pal role with boys at school and was frequently used as a stepping-stone to her sister.

  When Amber rose and grabbed her purse from the bottom of her desk drawer, Vincent Fitzgerald said, “Hey, why don’t you come out for a drink with us?”

  Damn Beau—he must have told Vin. “Us? Like you and Sky and Beau and Kinley?”

  “Yeah, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got more packing to do. Another time.” There was no way she was going to be a fifth wheel to her happily engaged colleagues. It would
make her feel ten times worse.

  “Ah, come on,” Beau said, stopping by her desk. “I’ll let you win at darts.”

  Vin chuckled and turned off his desk lamp. “Right, Jerrott.”

  Amber brushed past Beau and laughed as she headed to the elevator. “Ha! First off, you won’t let me win at anything. I would kick your ass!”

  “Sounds like a challenge to me,” Vin said, getting into the elevator after Beau.

  “Another time,” she said again firmly, and both men gave her sympathetic looks, which she hated. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she said.

  At the parking lot they both hugged her and wished her a safe and enjoyable trip. In her car, her cell rang. She looked to see who the caller was and her lips tightened. Pete. Really? What could he possibly say that she would have any interest in hearing? He probably just wanted to assuage his conscience.

  She pulled into her driveway and entered the house.

  It wasn’t long before she was immersed in a hot bath up to her neck, her long blond hair piled on top of her head, sipping on a glass of wine and enjoying the time to indulge herself. It had been a week of ten-hour days and two difficult cases. She was officially off the clock.

  Her phone buzzed again, but she ignored it. Tomorrow she would be arriving in Aruba and baking in the glorious sun on a beautiful beach.

  She sighed. It would be wonderful.

  After getting out of the tub and crawling into bed, she tossed and turned, waking up before her alarm clock went off. She got out of bed and assembled her luggage. Just as she was about to leave for the airport, her phone buzzed and this time she answered. “Pete, stop calling me, you complete jerk! I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Amber?”

  Oh, damn. She recognized Supervisory Agent in Charge Christophe Vargas’s voice. Her dismay at being an idiot to her boss dissipated when she realized there had been contrition in his voice. Oh, damn, he was calling her in. “Chris...no.”

  “Amber, I need your help on this.”