right in the heat of battle, and the picture had graced the cover of Time magazine last week.
It was the magazine cover that filled the screen right now as the Savannah station picked up on the Georgia-boy-done-good angle. Melody stared, unable to tear her eyes away from the haunting image. The thick-armed marine—strikingly handsome even while covered with grime and streaked with soot—was heroism personified. In one arm, he cradled a baby while, with the other, he braced an older child against his side. A tiny pair of hands and a little tear-streaked face peering above his shoulder said there was a third youngster clinging to his back.
The soldier’s dusty face was grim with resolve, his body reportedly wounded yet still so strong. The taut cords in his neck spoke of adrenaline, anger and battle—all so stark against the tenderness with which he held the children. Behind him was the outline of a burning building, orange flames merging with streaks of light that could only have been mortar fire.
But it was the eyes that got to her. The dark brown eyes, full of determination, emotion. Anger and mourning. Eyes that said he had seen too much and been cut too deeply for someone as young as he appeared to be.
His image burned itself into her brain, remaining there long after the news segment had ended and the picture had disappeared.
“Mel? You okay?” Paige asked.
She nodded slowly. Then, without having to give it another thought, she whispered, “Move everyone on the list down one.”
Melody didn’t even know the guy’s name or where he lived. Or even if he’d make it back from his next mission in whatever war-ravaged country he was in now.
She wanted him. Passionately. Unequivocally. Undeniably.
“Marine hero on Time magazine. He’s in first place,” she murmured, still visualizing his face.
There was no doubt in her mind that if she ever met the man with the haunting brown eyes—which had seemed to stare directly at her from the cover of the magazine—he’d be absolutely impossible to resist. He was larger than life, a once-in-a-lifetime fantasy man. A hero.
And now, the number-one guy on her Men Most Wanted list.
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
THE REDHEAD WITH the camera was spying on him again.
Nick Walker glanced into his rearview mirror and saw the woman skulking around the corner of the church across the square. Every once in a while, she lifted the big camera that hung from one shoulder, swinging it in front of her face to snap off a shot of the trees. The birds. The sky. The church.
All of which was to hide her real photographic subject. Him.
He sighed deeply, shaking his head, wondering how long he could wait—and how far he could let her go—before his cover was blown. Not too much longer, that was for sure.
He hadn’t figured on going unnoticed when he’d started this undercover assignment a couple of days ago. Nobody dressed in his ratty clothes, with the shaggy beard, and two-days-past-needing-a-shower hair wouldn’t be looked at in old Savannah. Not to mention the car. It was a standard, city-issued, undercover P.O.S—Piece Of Shit—the color showing through the rust falling somewhere between puce and putrid.
But the cover was still a good one, considering the eclectic nature of the population in this area. There were just as likely to be panhandlers as millionaires moseying around some of the city’s famous squares. This getup was noticeable, but quickly forgotten by the busy residents who really didn’t want to think too much about how the “other half” lived.
So yeah, he’d been prepared for some attention. What he hadn’t expected was a frigging Nancy Drew out with her camera, snapping clandestine shots of a suspected bad guy and his license plate. She was about as clandestine as a tank.
“Lady, go home,” he pleaded softly, willing the woman to retreat into the building where she’d recently moved. The building where he was supposed to be conducting this stakeout.
That’d been the plan, anyway, which made the woman’s nosiness even more aggravating. His partner, Dex Delaney, was involved with the daughter of the building’s owner. Dex had felt sure his girlfriend, Rosemary, could arrange to let them use the building. It would have been perfect—discreet, vacant. An ideal place to stake out the first-floor apartment in the building across the street where a suspected drug trafficker resided.
Then, after Nick had grown in a beard and scavenged clothes from Goodwill, the ax had fallen. Rosemary’s father had refused, saying he’d rented the building to a family friend in need. Considering Rosemary’s social circles, the woman probably needed a place to stay so her mansion could be painted.
One thing he hadn’t needed was to have his stakeout made ten times tougher because of a rich woman’s whim. “Why the hell couldn’t she have moved in next month?” he muttered, still frustrated by the change in plans that had him sitting here on a sweltering ninety-five-degree day in a car that smelled like the last ninety-five men who’d been in it.
Sometimes he really didn’t like his job.
“But not often,” he admitted to himself.
Most times, he loved his job. Being a cop gave him more satisfaction than he’d ever dreamed of having in his civilian life. Funny, coming out of the marines four years ago, he hadn’t been sure what he’d do. Going back to his hometown had been impossible. College? A fantasy. He’d gotten used to being in action, to fighting and surviving. To nailing bad guys. On a big scale or on a small one, taking criminals out of commission was what he did best…he’d figured that out back when he wasn’t sure he’d ever give a damn about anything again.
Nick liked to think of it as weeding out the bullies. Pushers or terrorists, they were all the same. Narrow-minded. Violent. Caring nothing for anyone else. Just like any other loud, abusive, small-town bully trying to impose his will on everyone around him.
The one he’d grown up with, for instance.
So yeah, being a cop was a perfect fit. He’d never regretted his choice of careers. Except maybe a tiny bit on days like today. “Come on, Rupert, you punk, come visit Mr. Miller here so I can go home, shave and take a shower,” he said under his breath. Rupert was a low-level dealer. Miller was the big fish who brought in the shit that poisoned kids, ruined lives and sparked crime by addicts desperate to get one more high.
Nailing Miller would help a lot of people…which meant a lot to Nick. Because he’d discovered something else when he’d been fighting half a world away in a war-torn area foreign to anything he’d ever known: he was good at helping people who couldn’t help themselves. That was his talent, his calling.
He’d picked up that burden in Kosovo. And he’d never been able to put it back down.
“Hey, partner, you still awake?”
He slid down, trying not to let his head come in contact with the headrest. His personal ick-limit wouldn’t stand for it.
“I’m here,” he said softly into the small, handheld radio, keeping it concealed by his fingers. “Nancy Drew’s back on the beat, keeping the area safe from miscreants and jaywalkers.”
Dex laughed. He could. He
