Stand By Your Man (3 page)

Karen started driving again. A couple of turns and they'd left the center of the picturesque town and were in a residential area with rancher-style houses and double-wide trailers. She pulled up in front of a plain duplex with wire-mesh fencing around each half. “I rent.”

“I hear you. No point putting down roots.” When you joined the RCMP, you agreed to serve wherever they sent you.

They exited the truck, went through the gate, and headed to the front door. A German shepherd came running from the backyard and made a beeline for Karen, tail wagging. The dog pulled up in a hurry at the sight of Jamal.

“Hey, Tennison.” Karen bent and patted her hand against her thigh, urging the dog forward. “It's okay, girl, this is Jamal. He's a friend.”

Eying him, the dog ventured forward to head-butt Karen and accept her pats.

Jamal liked dogs, of the canine officer or the pet variety. He squatted down and held out his hand to be sniffed.

When he stroked the animal's brown and black coat, Karen straightened. “I found her two years ago at one of the campgrounds. She was just a pup, and she'd been left behind. No one got in touch so it probably was deliberate.”

“And you took her home.” He stood up too.

“By the time I drove her to the vet's, she'd won my heart.” She led the way to the front door with Jamal and the German shepherd following.

“Tennison,” he said as Karen unlocked the door and flicked a light switch, and the dog bounded inside. “That's a poet, right?” He hadn't figured her for the poetry type.

“Yeah, but that's not who she's named for.” She toed off her leather sandals. “You know the British TV series
Prime Suspect
, with Helen Mirren? Her character's name was Jane Tennison. A very committed cop.”

“Haven't seen it but I've heard of it.” He took off his runners and socks and followed her into the living room. Plain, practical furniture, basic TV setup, neutral colors. Likely, she rented it furnished. She'd added personal touches: a multicolored quilt folded across the back of the couch; a couple of leafy green plants; half a dozen pieces of art ranging from a little-kid finger painting to a First Nations hummingbird watercolor to a photograph of a woman on a horse.

“Nice place.” He walked toward the photo.

“You think?” She sounded surprised.

“Oughta see mine.” His small rented apartment was bare bones. Used to be, he was away on U/C assignments much of the time. Even now that he mostly worked the desk, he hadn't fussed with the place. It had what he needed. He wasn't exactly the type for quilts and pictures.

He studied the photo. Karen, her hair loose past her shoulders, sat atop a horse with a coat roughly the shade of her own hair, and a black mane and tail. Tennison stood beside the horse. “You ride.”

“Yes. That's my horse, Montana.” She came up beside him, not touching but close enough that his skin tingled. “He was already named when I got him.”

“Huh. You own a horse.”

“Let me guess—you've never been on one.”

“Nope.” Nor ever thought much about them.

“I rode as a kid and loved it. When I was assigned here, I started again. It's relaxing, great exercise, and it's also a way of keeping an eye on what folks are doing. Montana, Tennison, and I cover a fair bit of country.”

“Cop on horseback. You really are a Mountie.”

She chuckled. “Horses are a way of life in Caribou Crossing. If you want to fit in, you ride. Now let's get that drink.”

He followed her to the kitchen. She took two classic brown bottles from the fridge and handed him one. His hand curved around the chilly, damp surface like it belonged there. The label read “Caribou Crossing Pale Ale” and had a stylized caribou on it. Saliva filled his mouth and he fought the powerful urge to raise that bottle to his mouth.

Here was the real reason he'd cut back on undercover work. Yeah, it was true that a U/C had to think about how many years he could push his luck, and Jamal, at thirty-five, had been pushing it for almost ten years. It was also true that he found challenges in running things rather than being the guy on the street. But, bottom line, he'd been working U/C when alcohol got the better of him and he sure as hell didn't want to fuck up again.

If only that damned craving would go away.

He swallowed and forced himself to hand the bottle back to Karen. “No, thanks. What else d'you have?”

When she opened the fridge door to put the bottle back, he leaned past her to gaze in. His cheek brushed her silky hair, and now he caught her subtle, intoxicating scent. Like lemons in the sun. For a moment he forgot what he was looking for, forgot even the craving for booze.

“Anything appeal to you?” she asked.

Hell, yeah.
But that wasn't what she meant. He studied the contents of the fridge. “Orange juice, please.”

“Sure.” She extracted the carton and poured him a tall glass.

He took a long swallow. Yeah, it tasted good. And it was healthy. Nonaddictive. One day at a time; one nonalcoholic drink at a time. Brooke Kincaid had been sober closing in on five years. A big, tough U/C ought to be as strong as a pretty, blond grandma.

Karen poured her beer into a glass, admired it, then raised it to her lips.

Jamal's fingers tightened around his juice glass.

Maybe he looked envious, because she said, “You sure you don't want one? It's a new business, a local brewery. They make great beer.”

He forced himself to shake his head. “I don't drink a lot. Doing U/C work, around booze and drugs so much of the time, it can get to be a bad habit.” And that was as close to the truth as he'd ever share. Jake was the only one who knew the truth. Though Jamal had wondered about Brooke when she'd made a point of saying that the bubbly was nonalcoholic.

If she did know, she'd keep his secret. He was a good judge of character and he trusted her. She probably wouldn't think less of him either. Not the way she should. Not the way he did. Not like the rest of the world—the people who weren't alcoholics—would.

The RCMP was good about supporting members who were recovering alcoholics. However, if Jamal's superiors knew his secret, he might not be trusted with undercover work, and he did like the adrenaline rush every now and then. More than that, though, he didn't want anyone knowing how he'd let his drinking get out of control. He'd always drank, could always stop—until one day, he couldn't. That was his fucking weakness, a weakness that could have cost Jake his life. He hated that part of himself.

It sure as hell wasn't the way he wanted sexy Karen MacLean, with her high standards, to view him.

The dog came into the kitchen and gazed pleadingly up at Karen.

“I gave you dinner earlier.” Karen took a bone-shaped treat from a box in a bottom cupboard.

Tennison accepted it neatly, walked over to the back door, and gazed over her shoulder.

“Yeah, it's a nice night out there. Go on, enjoy.” Karen opened the door to let the animal out. “Indoor-outdoor dog,” she explained, “depending on the weather and her mood.”

After locking the door, she led Jamal back to the living room and sat down on one side of the couch. He sat beside her, leaving a few inches between their bodies. Being invited for a drink didn't mean an invitation to spend the night, much as that thought appealed. He'd enjoy hanging out with her and see where things went.

She drank some beer and put her glass on the coffee table. “You really like undercover work?”

“Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes. “Expand.”

“Uh, it's living on the edge and doing something worthwhile at the same time.”

“Did you always want to do it?”

He nodded. He wanted to take down the kind of people who'd fucked up his parents' lives. Who fucked up so many lives. Besides, as a tough guy loner, it suited him. Just like it suited his buddy. “Jake and me, we met in training. Discovered we both had the same goal, to go undercover. We fast-tracked the system to get past the grind to the good stuff. Wrote the undercover exam when we were five years in, and we've been doing the work ever since.”

“What I do is the grind?”

“Well . . .” Thank God she sounded more amused than offended. “Your work needs to be done. Sounds like you enjoy it.”

She nodded firmly. “I do. And I like doing it in a small town.”

“You said you're a fixer and some of the problems seem solvable.”

“Exactly. It's not earth-shaking stuff like busting up drug gangs—well, at least not until this week.” Her eyes sparkled and she took another pull of beer. “It's everyday policing like theft, vandalism, domestic violence, drunk driving, bar fights. Kids, drunks, and spouses getting in trouble. But it's bad stuff and it needs to be stopped.” Her tone brooked no argument.

“That it does. And you stop it.”

“When I can, and I try to really stop it, not just slap a perp in jail for the night.”

“Yeah? Tell me more.”

“I get people into counseling or community service, assist women who are leaving abusive situations, scare the shit out of teenagers so they straighten up.”

“Sounds good.” Curious, he studied her, a woman who was beautiful enough to be a model, smart enough to do whatever she wanted. “What made you choose police work, Karen?”

“My family.”

“Your dad was a cop?”

She shook her head. “Social worker.”

“Mom?”

“Environmental activist. They're both people with a social conscience. I take more after my dad.”

“The social work stuff. Wanting to get people help so they won't reoffend.”

She nodded. “My big brother's a firefighter. When we were growing up, he wanted to save lives. My interest was law and justice. I thought of being a lawyer but didn't want to spend my days in an office or a courtroom. I wanted to be out on the street.”

“Or on the back roads on your horse.” It was a pretty picture, so different from him infiltrating a drug-dealing biker gang.

“That too.” She stacked her hands behind her neck and stretched, catlike, sensual. “It's a good life.”

Her stretch pulled her T-shirt tight against firm breasts and a sleek rib cage. Man, but she was fine.

Jamal's groin tightened and he shifted position, reaching for his juice glass. What did Karen want tonight? Sometimes when she looked at him, the heat in her eyes said “sex.” But everything else about her told him this wasn't a woman to be taken lightly.

Jamal cocked his head. “A lot of women your age would be wanting marriage and kids to make a”—he did air quotes—‘“good life.'”

Karen studied the extremely hot man sitting beside her. Generally, she was a forthright person. She figured it was better to be herself and find out up front if that put others off. Which, in her case, especially with men, it often did.

“I said good life,” she reminded him. “Yes, for it to be great, there'd be a husband and kids. My ideal is the kind of family I grew up in.”

A corner of his mouth kinked up. “Raising kids who aim to change the world.”

Even though she knew he was teasing a little, she gave him the truth. “Exactly.”

“So how come it hasn't happened yet? You have a lot going for you.”

“Thank you. But a lot of men are put off by the cop thing.”

“That's nuts.”

“Tell me about it. But they're intimidated by me, or they don't think I'm feminine enough.”

A slow grin lit his face and sparked his eyes. “I'm not intimidated by you, Corporal MacLean. And anyone who doesn't think you're feminine doesn't have eyes, ears, or a nose.”

“A nose?”

He leaned over until his face was only an inch from the hair that hung past her cheek. “Lemons in the sun.”

“Lemongrass shampoo and soap.” She wasn't into girly stuff like perfume or painting her nails, but she loved the fresh scent of lemongrass. She could also get used to the buzz from being close to Jamal, and to his own scent, which had both tang and spice.

“Lemongrass? Like in Thai food?”

“The same.”

“I like Thai food.” The suggestive gleam in his eyes hinted that he'd like to taste her.

Wishing she'd learned how to flirt, she didn't know how to respond except to take his words at face value. “So do I. That's one of the things I miss about a big city. We don't have a Thai restaurant here. Japanese, Chinese, and Indian, but that's about it.” Great. Now she was babbling.

For a moment she imagined herself visiting Vancouver one weekend, dining at a Thai restaurant with Jamal. Dating. But even if the sex was stupendous, could a relationship lead anywhere? He was a city guy and she really did love the country. Besides, would a man who enjoyed undercover work even imagine marrying and having kids?

“How about you?” She tried to sound casual. “Do you see marriage and kids in your future?”

The question had him sitting back giving a quick shrug. “Never have.”

“I kind of guessed that.” She had a swallow of beer and noticed that he'd finished his juice. “Want another glass of juice? Or a beer? I've got vodka, tonic, Coke. I could make coffee or tea.”

He swung to his feet. “I'll go look. Want another beer while I'm up?”

“No, thanks. I'm still working on this one.” She watched him saunter toward the kitchen. Broad shoulders, back muscles rippling under his tee, great butt. Strong, powerful, but graceful too. Like an athlete. Unselfconscious about it.

She sighed. The one man who appeared to like her for who she was, who understood about her job, and who was totally hot in every way—and of course he wanted a different kind of future. Fine. It was what it was, and she was practical. She had two options, assuming she'd read that gleam in his eyes correctly. First, she could have a one-nighter. Tempting . . . Still, she'd never done that kind of thing. No matter how orgasmic the sex might be, would she feel happy about herself in the morning?

Another sigh, full of regret, as she faced reality. Nope, she wasn't the “casual sex” kind of woman.

Second option: enjoy some time together as colleagues and friends, and then say good-bye. Would she have regrets in the morning? Yes, of the superficial kind that would have her reaching for her vibrator, but not of the deep-down kind that tarnished her self-respect.

Okay, decision made. Pressure off. A colleague and friend. Just like Jake Brannon. Karen stretched back and lifted her bare feet to the lightly scarred wooden coffee table that had come with the rental unit.

Jamal returned, carrying a tall glass holding something that looked like orange juice and tonic. He seated himself beside her, glanced at her stretched-out legs, then raised his own feet to rest on the coffee table.

She stared at his strong, brown, very masculine feet. Tracked up the long stretch of faded denim and noted the way his firm thighs pressed against the worn fabric. Skimmed longingly over the strategically faded fly.

A hungry pulse throbbed between her legs.

Okay, he wasn't just like Jake. What a funny thing attraction was, that she could look at two stunning guys and feel nothing but respect and friendship for one, yet be totally in lust with the other.

“Tell me more about your family,” Jamal said. “You guys still close?” There was something in his voice she couldn't define, perhaps envy or wistfulness. Was he not close to his own family? Later, she'd find out. For now, she'd happily talk about her parents and brother.

“Yes, we're very close. You know, my mom never expected to become a wife and mother. In her twenties, she was really into her work as an environmental activist. That was the 1970s. She traveled, protested, went out on boats to stop whalers, hugged trees to block clear-cut logging. Got arrested more than once. The causes were more important than her personal life. And then she met Dad.”

“The social worker.”

“Yes. They met at the courthouse. She'd been released after an arrest and he was there as a character witness for one of his clients. It was an instant attraction. Mom says her life turned around in the space of five minutes. When she and Dad got together, she realized that, while she cared deeply about the environment, she also wanted love, a personal life, a family. She and my dad have done a great job of balancing things.”

“That can't be easy.”

She shook her head, and settled in to share more family stories.

Jamal listened attentively and asked questions, like he was genuinely intrigued. Even while she was caught up in storytelling, she was intensely aware of each brush of his foot against hers on the coffee table, each touch of his hand on her arm when he reacted to something she said. Casual contact, but it had her constantly on the edge of arousal.

Despite that, she tried hard to not give him any misleading signals.

He didn't come on to her, and she told herself she was glad.

“Enough of my family,” she said. “How about—”

“Caribou Crossing,” he said.

Hmm. Did he genuinely want to know, or had he guessed that she was going to ask about his family? The man hadn't been very forthcoming about his own background. Maybe that was second nature for him, due to his many years of undercover work.

Still, she felt a little shut out. Oh well, she was a cop and she had ways of making a man talk. Right now, she'd try the chocolate method.

Rising, she said, “Brooke's chocolate-mint cake is calling to me. Ready for seconds?”

He gave her a slow, lazy smile. “An offer I can't turn down.”

“Coffee? Tea? Milk?”

The quick glint in his eyes made her realize how close that was to the hokey old “coffee, tea, or me?” line. But all he said was, “Coffee sounds good.”

She went into the kitchen, relieved to have a few minutes on her own. Jamal was just so
much
. Not only big and handsome, but he had a quiet, collected intensity. Sexual, definitely, but more than that.

Automatically, she flicked on the radio as she always did when she was alone in the kitchen. CXNG, the local country and western station, was playing Elvis Presley's “Suspicious Minds.”

Humming along, she got the coffeemaker going and then flicked on the outside light to check the backyard. Tennison lay curled up outside the door of the doghouse in her normal summer sleeping spot. Her favorite winter location was the braided rug beside Karen's bed.

Karen turned off the outside light and took the container of leftover cake from the fridge. She was about to reach into the cupboard for plates when Jamal came up behind her.

He planted his hands on the counter on either side of her.

Her pulse jerked like it had been jump-started. She took quick, shallow breaths, wondering what would happen if she turned around. What if he kissed her? She wanted him to—oh God, she wanted him to—but it was such a bad idea.

He moved closer and his front touched her back. His heat and potent male sexual vibe pricked every cell of her body to tingling arousal. Bending his head, his voice a low rumble near her ear, he said, “Cake and coffee. Are those my only choices?”

She gulped, knowing he wasn't talking about milk or juice. He was saying he wanted her.

Brain whirling, arousal jolting through her, she tried to remember that she didn't want to wake up tomorrow feeling cheap. Empty. Lonely. “Yes,” she forced herself to say. “That's all.”

Immediately, he stepped back. “Got it.”

Now she dared to turn and face him, where he stood a few feet away. Body still quivering with pure sexual craving, she said, “It's not that I don't want to, Jamal, but we barely know each other.” Jake trusted this man, Brooke liked him, and Karen's instincts said he was a good guy. But that wasn't enough. “For me, sex has to mean something. I have to feel good about myself in the morning.”

“Yeah,” he said ruefully. “I kinda figured. But I wasn't sure.”

She gave a shaky smile. “Never hurts to ask.” And she'd bet that, when he did, he rarely got turned down.

“So. It's after midnight. I should probably go.”

“No.” The word jumped out of her mouth. She didn't want him to slip out of her life so soon. “I'm not tired, and I am having that cake and coffee. It'd be nice to have company.” Maybe it was a test. If all he wanted from her was sex, he'd go.

“Sounds good.”

Pleased, she moved aside, her heart still racing too fast for comfort. “Why don't you cut the cake? Plates are in the cupboard above. I'll pour coffee.”

A few minutes later they sat down across from each other at the kitchen table. She tasted Brooke's cake. Mmm, it was maybe even better the second time around. She took another bite. “I have to ask for her recipe.”

Jamal was watching her, not eating his own cake.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“If you're not into having sex, you shouldn't eat cake in front of me.”

Hmm. Apparently she had feminine wiles she wasn't aware of. She stifled a smug grin.

He picked up his fork and began to eat.

Trying to quell the ache and pulse of unfulfilled arousal, she returned to her former agenda: finding out more about him. “You said you grew up in Chicago? What did your parents do?”

He froze in the act of raising his coffee mug toward his mouth.

Had she said something wrong? It seemed such an innocent question.

Jamal put down the mug with slow deliberation and squared his shoulders. Stone-faced, he said flatly, “Drugs.”

Her lips parted but she didn't how to respond. Still, he had answered her question, albeit succinctly. Cautiously, she said, “Your parents did drugs? That must have been, uh, tough.”

He blinked. “Yeah.” After a moment, more words came slowly out. “Inner city. Puerto Rican dad who was in a gang.” His normally rich voice was cold, without inflection. “Sold drugs, did drugs, got killed in a gang war. Black mom who died of an overdose.” His face was as expressionless as his voice.

“Oh my God, Jamal.” She thought of her own wonderful childhood, and how her parents' social conscience had shaped her life and her brother's. “How old were you?”

“Six when he died. Seven when she did.”

“So young.” She reached over to rest her hand on his bare forearm, warm skin over tense muscles. “Any siblings?”

His Adam's apple rippled as he swallowed. “Baby sister. Four years younger. By then Mom was seriously into drugs and Alicia was born addicted. She had lots of problems and my parents didn't take her for treatment. She died before she was a year old.”

“Oh, God.” She took a deep breath, knowing he wasn't the kind of man who'd welcome gushy sympathy. “What happened when your parents died? Did you go into the system?”

Gazing down at his plate, he shook his head. “My dad's sister and her husband took me in. They lived in Toronto.”

“How did it work out?”

When he didn't answer after a few seconds, Karen said, “I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry. I just . . . I want to get to know you.”

He lifted his head and stared at her, his near-black eyes piercing. “Why's that?”

What an odd question. Why wouldn't someone want to get to know him? “Because I like you. Respect you.” She pressed her lips together, reflecting on this fascinating man. “Undercover work is a tough job and takes a special kind of person. You have to be able to be a loner, to wear masks, to interact with evil people. Yet when I see you joke with Jake, kiss Brooke on the cheek, put your feet up on my coffee table, you're so . . . you know, human.”

He gave a surprised snort of laughter. “No one's ever accused me of that before.”

Realizing that her hand still rested on his arm, where it felt way too at home, she removed it and wrapped it around her coffee mug. “You must talk to girlfriends about this stuff.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “Nope.” A gleam lit his eyes. “Guess we don't talk all that much.”

Again glad she wasn't a blusher, she accepted the change of subject. Curious, she asked, “You have hookups, not girlfriends?”

“Right.”

She'd been wise to not have sex with him. No way did she want sex without an emotional connection, a relationship. As for Jamal, sure, she could understand a guy like him wanting no-strings sex now and then. But as a steady diet? “Don't you want more out of a relationship?”