Mission: Christmas: The Christmas Wild Bunch / Snowbound with a Prince. Lindsay McKenna

hair, which was caught up in a girlish ponytail. Her olive skin was so smooth, and that mouth of hers made his loins sizzle. Mike couldn’t decide which was her best feature, those large, inquisitive eyes or those sinfully shaped full lips just begging to be kissed…

      Mike seemed to come out of a fog as he saw her eyes narrow speculatively on him and her soft mouth purse. Trouble.

      “Good morning, Agent Murdoch,” Dallas said as he approached.

      “Yeah, it is,” he grunted. He started around the nose of his Cessna to take the pilot’s seat.

      “Hold it,” she ordered.

      Murdoch turned. What the hell? She was picking up her duffel bag from the copilot’s seat and heading toward him. “What are you doing?” he groused. “You’re my copilot.”

      “Not today, with the way you look and smell, Murdoch.”

      Shocked, Mike took a step back as she brushed by him. “What? Hey! Come back here, dammit!” He reached out, grabbed her upper arm and swung her toward him. What happened next, he wasn’t expecting. The moment his fingers wrapped around her arm, she dropped her bag and turned swiftly. In seconds, Murdoch found himself flat on his back. Her knee was in the center of his chest, and she was scowling down at him.

      “Don’t ever grab me again, Murdoch. You won’t live to talk about it with your buddies the second time around. Got it?”

      Blinking twice, Mike stared up into her darkened eyes. What the hell had just happened? “Uh, yeah…”

      Dallas removed her knee from his chest and stood back. She didn’t offer to help him to his feet. The mechanic gave her a brief nod, as if to say she’d done the right thing under the circumstances.

      “Now, Agent Murdoch, here’s how things are going to go on this mission of ours this morning. I’m commander today. You’re copilot. You’re obviously hungover, still drunk. I can smell the alcohol from six feet away. You’re my partner, and I’m not going to allow you to pilot a plane under these circumstances. Are we clear about our job assignments?”

      Murdoch picked himself up off the tarmac, dusted off the rear of his flight suit and grudgingly reached for his duffel and rifle. “What the hell kind of move did you make on me?” he demanded, holding her furious stare.

      “I’m Israeli, Agent Murdoch. I’m on loan to the U.S. government. Every Israeli soldier learns krav maga. It’s how we protect ourselves.”

      Rubbing his stubbled jaw, he eyed her. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. It’s a nasty way to fight.”

      Giving him a brief, cutting smile, Dallas said, “It’s a way to stay alive, Agent Murdoch.”

      “You’re good.”

      “I have a black belt, the highest level in this style of fighting.” Krav maga combined the best moves from different combat techniques and turned them into a lethal back-alley mix.

      “Wouldn’t you know it…” Murdoch muttered, finding new respect for her, as a woman and a soldier. “Damn good thing my ex-wife didn’t know krav maga, or I’d be dead by now.”

      “Then don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I’m her.” The major pointed to her arm. “I’m off-limits to you, Agent Murdoch. You’d never have reached out and grabbed me if I were a man. So whatever rage you feel about your divorce and women, don’t dump it on me. Got it?”

      “Yeah, I got it.” Smarting at her cool, husky tone, he watched her pick up her flight bag and head for the pilot’s seat. Scotty said nothing, just stood in front of the Cessna, waiting for them to climb in and get harnessed up. After running his fingers through his hair, Mike changed direction and walked to the copilot’s seat. Dallas was putting on the Kevlar vest near the open cockpit door. He threw his duffel in the back seat, after getting his revolver and tucking it in the leather holster beneath his right arm. Climbing in, he saw her glare at him. Now what?

      “Mr. Murdoch, I’m assuming you forgot to put on your Kevlar vest because you’re still drunk?”

      He flinched beneath her warning voice and jerked the vest off the seat. “I don’t ever fly with it,” he snarled.

      “You will with me. Put it on.”

      Anger swilled through Murdoch. His mind was still fogged with whiskey and he wasn’t thinking clearly. “Dammit, I told you, I’m not flying with it on. It’s too friggin’ uncomfortable.”

      Fastening the Velcro straps of her chest armor, Dallas met his bloodshot eyes. He was acting like a pouty six-year-old. “Tell me, Agent Murdoch, was your last partner, Randy Grant, wearing his Kevlar vest when he died?”

      Stung, Mike reared back. How did she know about Randy? And then he noticed Scotty’s sheepish look. The mech had told her. Swinging his gaze back to her, Mike couldn’t help but admire her in one way. But he sure as hell didn’t want to take orders from any woman right now, X.O. or not. “Neither of us was wearing one at the time we nailed the bad guys.”

      “And if Randy had been wearing his vest, do you think he’d be standing here today instead of me?” Dallas slid her dark green flight helmet over her head and pushed up the visor.

      Her low voice penetrated Murdoch’s mounting anger, and he saw a flicker of compassion in her gold eyes. He realized belatedly that this woman really was a tour de force, certainly no office pogue who hadn’t been around combat. Maybe that black ops down in Peru had given her the type of experience to see the truth of a situation. Rattled, he snarled, “Yes, Randy probably would be here. He took a slug to the chest.”

      Mike didn’t have to finish the rest of the sentence. If he and his partner had worn their bulletproof vests, Randy would have survived that gunfight. Cursing softly, Mike reached behind the seat and jerked on the stiff garment. “There. Satisfied, Major?”

      “I am now. Do the walk around, Agent Murdoch. That’s what copilots do, unless you think you’re above such an activity.”

      Mike’s nostrils flared. Of course he knew the copilot always walked around the aircraft, looking for leaks, testing the propellers, wing flaps and rudders to make sure they were in working order. After the customary trip, he returned to his seat and climbed in. He let Klein know everything was in working order, and they got down to business. She was already harnessed in and waiting for him. No matter what way Mike looked at her—in profile or full-on—she was pretty.

      As he fumbled with his harness array, Murdoch wondered if she was married. For sure, someone with her looks and body had to have a significant other. Grousing at himself, he shut the door and locked it. “Okay, I’m ready for preflight, Major.” Normally, Mike didn’t wear his flight helmet, either, but he figured he’d better this morning. He settled it on his head and donned his aviator sunglasses. His skull throbbed even more, but he remained silent. Where the hell had he put his aspirin?

      Dallas handed him the preflight card. Moments later, they had finished with the short checklist, and she tucked it back in the net pouch beside her seat. She noticed Murdoch digging into his flight suit pockets, eventually pulling out a plastic Ziploc bag containing white tablets. Aspirin? She refrained from asking as he popped a couple into his mouth and washed them down with water.

      Scotty removed the chocks from the nose wheel and then stood off to one side. He twirled his index finger in the air, which meant she could start the engine. In no time, Dallas had the C-206 idling. The whole plane shivered, and she applied rudders and throttle to take the Stationair out to the end of the short runway. A couple of jackrabbits raced across the asphalt in front of them.

      “I had the opportunity last night to look over the Sonoran corridor, Agent Murdoch,” she told him, fitting the mike close to her lips. “And today I want to make this mission count in two ways. First, I see that Santa Ana hasn’t been checked out in the last three months. Your efforts have been focused in the western part of the state. Secondly, I need to acquaint myself with the whole terrain, and that