Mission: Christmas. Lindsay McKenna

was in his early thirties, she guessed, as she gazed into the glacial blue eyes trained on her. There was no welcome in his square face, his thinned mouth. Tension radiated from his body, which had to be six feet tall. Still, Dallas found his craggy face handsome, even shadowed as it was by a five o’clock beard. His green flight suit showed off his powerful male body, the sleeves carelessly rolled up to just below his elbows.

      “Agent Murdoch,” Dallas said, stepping forward and thrusting out her hand. She deliberately maintained eye contact, and by the way he tensed his hard jaw and flashed her a steely look of competition, she knew she would have her hands full dealing with him. She saw his gaze flit from her face to her proffered hand, obviously weighing whether to shake it or not. Not to do so would be a flagrant sign of disrespect.

      Dallas waited. She wasn’t about to take no for an answer from this pilot. A few strands of his short, black hair fell across his furrowed brow, giving him a boyish look. Where was the boy within him? Dallas wondered. Could she reach that hidden side of him, instead of the cold male who clearly didn’t want her to step into his world?

      “My hand is getting tired, Agent Murdoch,” she said with a slight smile, hoping to break the ice.

      He thrust his arm forward. Surprised at the warmth and firmness of her handshake, he jerked his hand away, as if burned. “Major Klein, welcome to the Wild Bunch,” he muttered, though he knew he didn’t sound the least bit sincere. Slanting a glance to his left, where Jake and Bob sat, he saw their jaws had dropped over the fact that a woman was going to be their X.O.

      “Thank you, Agent Murdoch.” Dallas turned, and as her boss introduced the other two pilots, they shook her hand promptly.

      Bennington smiled quizzically. “This morning you’ll give Major Klein your reports on the activity you encountered. She needs to get her feet wet.” Then he looked squarely at Mike, whose scowl was deepening by the second. “Murdoch, you’ll no longer be flying solo. I’m assigning Major Klein to team with you.” He glanced at the other pilots. “Jake and Bob will continue to fly together. ATF regs require a pilot and copilot on our missions, so Major Klein’s involvement will bring us up to speed. As soon as she’s steeped in your drug interdiction routines, and trained up through your experience, she’ll take over strategy and tactics on missions.”

      “Yes, sir,” Mike said gruffly.

      Dallas felt the rage churning in Murdoch as he snarled out the words. Bennington didn’t react, nor did she. Okay, he’d thrown down the gauntlet, judging from the look in his icy blue stare. Dallas got the message and the challenge. The flash in his slitted gaze was enough to chill anyone. She wouldn’t call it hatred, but damn close. Girding herself internally, she told Bennington, “Thank you, sir. I think we’ll work things out between us.” She eyed the other two seemingly less hostile pilots. Jake and Bob appeared more stunned than angry. That was fine. She would use her gender as a way to open up a positive front with them.

      “Excellent. I’ll see you later, Major.” Bennington excused himself.

      Jake and Bob quickly scrambled to their feet. They both made excuses and hastily left the office. Dallas felt the coming confrontation with Murdoch. His shoulders were tensed, his hands clenched at his sides. But she wasn’t about to let him walk all over her.

      Once the door closed, she held his glare. “Let’s sit down, Mr. Murdoch. I’ve got a lot to learn, and Agent Bennington said you were the go-to person.” She pulled back a chair near where he had been sitting. “Shall we get to it? I’ll only take about an hour of your time, because I know you’ve been out flying for five hours and you must be tired.”

      Puzzled, Mike jerked back the chair at the end of the table. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. Her voice was husky and warm at the same time. She’d just given him an order, yet framed it in such a way that he couldn’t take umbrage. He sat down and tried to disregard her beauty. Right now, he felt like a dog circling a cat, wary and distrustful. Who was she? And what kind of background did she have to be an X.O. in an elite operation like theirs?

      “Can you fill me in on this latest flight?” Dallas asked, folding her hands on the table and holding his gaze. She saw shock mixed with confusion in the depths of his blue eyes. Good. That’s where Dallas wanted him. Still, he was ruggedly handsome, with those rebellious strands of black hair falling across his broad brow. So much about him called to her on a feminine level.

      Dallas hid her reaction to Murdoch, who epitomized the American cowboy. There was a swagger in his stride, a weathered look to his darkly tanned face. And if she was honest with herself, she’d have to admit she was drawn to his firm mouth, tight with emotion. She liked the shape of it, how the upper lip was slightly thinner than the lower one. His nose was lean and aquiline, reminding her of the profile of a Roman general on an old coin. Yes, there was a lot to like about Murdoch in the looks department, but Dallas knew better than to go there. She had to work with this guy and needed to gain his confidence. Could she?

      Mike grabbed a map of the Sonoran desert area and threw it on the table before her. “I don’t expect you know anything about this type of operation,” he began in a gravelly tone as he spread it flat. “This is the real Wild West, Major. We’re the good guys, trying to stop all the Latinos trying to bring marijuana, cocaine and heroin across our border. They’ll use any isolated airstrip they can find as a place to unload their drugs.” Jabbing at one section with his finger, he said, “This is the Vicente Guerro area, about fifty miles south of Nogales in the Sonoran mountains. It’s a real hotbed of activity right now, because me and my friends have been flying to the west, near Altar, and forcing them to this new region. The Mexican pilots fly Cessna Stationairs, same as we do, what we call C-206s. They’re an ideal aircraft for the terrain, able to navigate short landing strips in the middle of nowhere, and still carry huge loads of drugs. Recently, we interdicted 836 pounds of marijuana at that strip. We flew our own 206s in at dawn and caught the bastards on the ground, just loading up.”

      Hearing the satisfaction in his tone, Dallas nodded. “That’s excellent, Agent Murdoch.”

      Not expecting praise, much less understanding from the new X.O., Mike stared at her. She was only three feet away, and he could smell the scent of roses. Was it her perfume? Or maybe the shampoo she used on her shiny, dark brown hair. He hated that he even noticed. Hated even more that he was affected by her. “Do you have any idea what this type of operation entails?” he growled, shooting her a dark glance. He wanted to put her in her place, manipulate her into being a quiet mouse in the corner when their team decided on tactics and strategy.

      As she examined the map, Dallas saw a lot of red dots scattered across the mountainous regions of Sonora. “Are the dots landing strips?” she asked, disregarding his question completely.

      Frowning, Mike said, “Yes, they are.” Okay, maybe he’d underestimated her alertness. But no woman could possibly know what danger they faced daily, or manage the crazy flying they did as they chased these hombres.

      “The Turbo Cessna 206 needs 835 feet to take off in,” she said, pointing to the topo map. “Its service ceiling is 27,000 feet, so the druggies can use strips in the valleys or high deserts to their advantage. But with that type of ceiling, they can use mountain strips as well.” She traced a line of dots with her index finger. “From my experience in Peru, I know the druggies like to take off from such areas, fly low and fast, below radar range. Down there, once they made it into Bolivian airspace, they would land at similar dirt strips, to off-load their bales to awaiting trucks, or other aircraft that would take them out of South America.”

      Sitting down, Murdoch stared at her. “You flew drug flights in South America?” Shock ran through him. She was too attractive, too clean, her flight uniform too pressed and neat, to do that kind of grungy, dangerous work.

      “Yes, I did, Mr. Murdoch. I was part of a U.S. Army black ops for six years down there.”

      She noted his stunned expression. Good. Dallas wanted Murdoch to be properly impressed by her knowledge, which she felt was equal to his own. She was going to turn the tables on him, gently but firmly.

      Glancing