Stand By Your Man (6 page)

Their kiss was frantic now, a mix of tongue thrusts, nips, and moans. Much of her attention was focused elsewhere, on the quick, irresistible build of arousal that intensified with his every thrust. Sexual tension and need coiled, a tightly wound spring that begged for release.

“Faster,” she panted. “Jamal, I'm so close and I need—”

She broke off as he obeyed her command, driving into her. If she'd been a smaller, less strong woman, his thrusts might have hurt. As it was, she rose eagerly to meet them, reaching down to grab the taut curves of his butt and urge him even deeper.

Tilting her hips to increase the pressure of his shaft against her aching clit, she said, “Oh yes! There, like that. More! Oh God, Jamal, that's—” And she cried out with the pure, sharp pleasure of orgasm as he took her over the edge in a fierce crash, followed by throbbing waves of aftershock.

She'd barely started to breathe again when his hips jerked harder, he groaned, and his climax poured into her. His sharp thrusts crashed her into another orgasm of her own.

Vaguely, she was aware of her heart beating like she'd raced up ten flights of stairs. Of Jamal collapsing in slow-mo on top of her. They lay, sealed together by sweat, chests heaving.

Finally he blew out a noisy sigh and managed to roll off to lie beside her.

She lay flat, arms and legs flung out, limp and used up. Grinning with utter satisfaction. How perfect was that, for a first-time memory?

Jamal reached for her hand and gave a throaty chuckle. “Guess I'm better at taking orders than I thought I was.”

She turned her head on the pillow and gazed at him. Naked and gorgeous, he looked as used up as she felt. “Did it bother you, me telling you what I needed?”

“Hell no. I like it. It's better than trying to guess what you want.”

“You, Jamal Estevez. That's what I want.”

His eyes twinkled with humor. “Again? Now? I'm a little—”

“Idiot. You know what I mean.”

“Oh.” The humor faded as comprehension dawned. “Well, uh, yeah. That's . . . good.” He shoved himself off the bed and headed toward the bathroom.

She rolled her eyes. His communication skills definitely needed work. His sex skills, though, were outstanding. Stretching luxuriously, she ogled his rear view, noting another scar but mostly just appreciating all those firm muscles flexing.

When Jamal came back, he sat on the edge of the bed and offered her a glass of icy cold water. “You know you're too good for me, right?” His expression was surprisingly serious.

Still, he had to be joking. Tongue in cheek, she said, “Totally.” Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she felt the pleasant ache of muscles, inside and out, that hadn't been used for a long time. Muscles that had never been so thoroughly exercised. She took the glass and had a long, refreshing swallow of water.

“Okay then.” He still looked serious. “Just as long as you realize I'm not exactly perfect.”

He was probably thinking about how his two crappy families and his undercover work didn't give him much of a foundation for knowing how to build a relationship. A family. She put the glass on the bedside table and captured his hand. “No one's perfect.”

“You have high standards.”

“And you'll measure up. We need to keep talking, keep trying. Be honest with each other.”

He freed his hand and reached for the glass. “Want to think about dinner?”

“I thought we could go to the Wild Rose.”

“Tomorrow.”

Her brows rose. On the job, he outranked her. If he thought he could boss her around in their personal lives, he had a lesson to learn.

“I brought Thai food,” he said.

“The cooler bag,” she remembered.

“You said you like Thai and can't get it here.”

Okay, not bossy. Considerate. “I love Thai. Jamal, that's so sweet of you.”

He winced, which made her chuckle.

Half an hour later, after Jamal and Karen had shared a shower and a steamy quickie, he sat at her kitchen table. He could get used to this: having great sex; spending time with a beautiful, strong woman; contemplating a future he'd never before imagined. Didn't hurt, either, that the kitchen smelled of spicy Thai food.

They'd heated the tom kha gai soup and spooned it into two large bowls. The rest of the food—chicken with red curry and bamboo shoots, ginger beef with onions and mushrooms, pad Thai, and a big container of jasmine rice—sat on the counter waiting to be nuked.

Karen, again clad in that sexy green sundress, leaned into the fridge. “Beer?”

“No, thanks. I'm good with water.”

“Seriously?” She poured a bottle of Caribou Crossing Pale Ale into a glass for herself and came to sit across from him. “Beer's perfect with Thai food.”

“You think? I like water.” He swallowed, imagining the taste of beer, the way he'd done millions of times in two years of sobriety. Hurriedly, he spooned up some soup. The flavors of chicken, coconut milk, mushrooms, lemongrass, and spices mingled on his tongue.

This was going to get tough, finding reasons to avoid drinking. He couldn't do the empty-the-bottle thing in Karen's kitchen, like he did in the bar after shooting hoops. On the job, he sometimes used that trick, but had other pretenses as well, depending on the circumstances. He might say he was into drugs, and booze was too lightweight. Or he'd pretend to be “above” the pitiful people who needed drugs and booze.

“I'm not much for drinking these days,” he said. “Like I said before, when you work undercover, it can get to be a bad habit. Besides, the last couple times I had a drink, it didn't agree with me.” Back in the bedroom, she'd told him they had to be honest, and every word he'd spoken was true.

“Hmm. Maybe you've developed an allergy. You should see a doctor.” She lifted her glass. “Not that I'm a big drinker, but it's nice to have a beer or a glass of wine when you feel like it.”

“Yeah.” She could say that again. Maybe it'd be okay now—now that he wasn't doing undercover work, now that he'd gotten his life under control—to have the occasional beer.

His fingers itched to reach across the table and curl around that sweating glass of golden brew. Under control? Hah! He was an addict. That meant no more drinking. Ever. He wouldn't give in to weakness, wouldn't fuck up again.

Karen was way too good for him. She thought he was a better man than he was, and damn it, he was going to be that man. No need to tell her about the loser he used to be. This was a fresh start.

She raised another spoonful of soup to her lips. “Mmm. Delicious. Thank you so much.”

“Perks of the big city.”

A nod, then she leveled him with a steady gaze from those tawny eyes. “We've got a long-distance problem in this relationship. If we got serious . . .”

“Commuting between Vancouver and Caribou Crossing would get old pretty quick,” he agreed.

“You really plan to give up undercover work?”

“I do.” A pang of loss, of regret made him pause and reflect. But he knew the decision was right. “On this last assignment, I was thinking there are things I'd rather be doing.”

Her lips curved. “Basketball hoop?”

He nodded. “Eating Thai food with you.” A grin snuck up on him. “Or doing what we were doing before this.”

“Making love with me was more fun than stalking drug gangs? Gosh, I'm flattered.”

They both chuckled.

Karen cleared the empty soup bowls and put the rest of the food in the microwave. Turning to face him, leaning back against the counter, she asked, “D'you hate small towns? All the country stuff?”

He'd put some thought into that, knowing how fond she was of this place. “Don't have enough experience to say for sure. But you know that if we got together, we probably couldn't both work in the Caribou Crossing detachment. It'd be different if it was bigger, but—”

“I know. If you took Miller's place, you'd be my boss. A member can't date her supervisor.”

“Or even work the same shift as someone she's dating. With only a handful of members here, it'd make for a logistical nightmare.”

“Williams Lake is a bigger detachment.” Again with that steady gaze. “The staff sergeant there is retiring in a couple of months.”

“Huh. It's an hour and a half drive. Nice scenery along the way, but it's a long commute,” he mused.

“There are nice places to live between here and Williams Lake. If we wanted to split the difference.” She gave a soft laugh. “And we're getting way ahead of ourselves.”

Funny how it didn't scare him. At least not much. “Well, this weekend we're both here. How about you show me Caribou Crossing, Karen?”

A grin flickered. “Sell you on it, you mean?”

“Hadn't thought of it that way, but . . .”

She flicked her head. That multicolored dark brown hair slipped and slid over her bare shoulders, making him want to plunge his fingers through it and caress the skin below. Then her chin went up and her eyes sparkled. “I'll accept that challenge, Sergeant Estevez. I bet I can make you love Caribou Crossing.”

Right then, looking at tall, toned, curvy Karen in that little green dress, Jamal figured she could make him love pretty much anything. Including her.

 

 

He should've known there'd be horses.

It was Saturday afternoon and Jamal was in the passenger seat of Karen's truck, on his way to go riding for the first time in his life. A female voice on the radio sang that she knew some guy was trouble from the moment he walked in. Outside the window, the sun shone in a clear blue sky and the scenery unfolded. They'd passed some craggy hills and a low-key tourist attraction called Gold Rush Days Park. Karen told him that the town had its origins in the 1860s gold rush. When the gold died out, a few enterprising men turned from mining to ranching.

They were definitely in ranching country now. Split-rail fences lined the two-lane country road, marking off rolling hills with grazing cattle and fields with horses. Here and there a farmhouse, often with a barn and outbuildings, gave evidence of the humans who tended the livestock.

The morning had started the best way possible, with great sex. After, Karen had gone into the detachment and he'd caught up on rest. Sleep had been scarce the last few days, as he and Jake had tidied up the Black Devils case.

Now, he was glad to feel more rested. He might not have cowboy boots and a Stetson, but if he could ride a motorbike on challenging roads at high speed, he could stay on top of a horse.

On their left, a wooden sign with a couple of stylized horses said “Ryland Riding.” Karen turned. “This is where I keep Montana. Sally is a widow who boards horses and teaches riding. She was a barrel racer when she was younger. I called her, so she knows we're coming.”

The white fence alongside the narrow road could use fresh paint. So could the house and outbuildings, which included a large barn and what he guessed was an indoor ring. It seemed the widow was having trouble keeping up with things after her husband died.

Karen parked in the barnyard beside a Ford truck with a horse trailer attached. Closer to the barn, eight horses sporting Western saddles and bridles were tied to a couple of hitching rails. They gazed curiously as he and Karen exited her vehicle.

She opened the canopy and Tennison jumped out, panting with excitement. With the German shepherd at her heels, Karen strode across to the barn door.

Jamal hung back a moment to watch. Snug-fitting jeans on a good-looking woman. One of life's pleasures. With them, she wore cowboy boots, a Stetson, and a blue-and-green plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up her forearms. Jamal, used to blending in on undercover jobs, felt out of place wearing Nikes and a black tee with his jeans.

When he entered the barn, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. On the ground floor, horse stalls lined a wide center aisle. Karen stood halfway up the aisle talking to a woman clad in Western garb who was squatting to stroke the dog.

As Jamal joined them, the woman straightened with a smile. A couple inches shorter than Karen, she was attractive, with short, curly strawberry blond hair framing an oval-shaped face under her Stetson. Freckles sprinkled her nose and cheeks, as well as the top of her chest, revealed by the round neckline of the gray tee she wore under an unbuttoned blue denim shirt.

Karen made the introductions and he learned that this was Sally Ryland. When she'd said “widow,” he had expected gray hair, but Sally looked to be in her midthirties, like him. Lines of tiredness did no favors to her greenish gray eyes and full, chapped lips. Her well-worn clothing was a size too big on her thin, muscular body.

“I brought Montana in,” Sally told Karen. “For you, Jamal, we'll go with Smoke Trail. He's an appaloosa gelding.”

Gelding, he understood. Appaloosa, he found out when Sally led the way to one of the roomy stalls, meant spotted. Smoke Trail was mostly a dark charcoal gray, but his hindquarters were white with a sprinkling of dark spots. Even Jamal could tell that this animal had good lines.

When he told Sally that, she nodded. “Yes, he does. And nice smooth gaits, and a bit of spirit. You don't look like a man who wants a wussy horse.”

“Nope,” he agreed, wondering what “a bit of spirit” meant.

“I'll get him ready while Karen tacks up Montana.”

And that, he found as he stood patting Tennison and watching Karen, meant putting a pad on the horse's back, followed by a saddle and bridle.

Karen led her horse, with its glossy dark brown coat and black mane and tail, out of its stall. Sally brought Smoke Trail to join them. The two animals made friendly sounds as they greeted each other. Neither seemed bothered by Tennison, who stayed close to Karen's left side.

The two women led the horses out of the barn into the yard, where a silver Honda CR-V was parking. “The first half of my two o'clock class,” Sally said.

Four kids around seven or eight years old, three girls and a boy, poured out. The children, dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and helmets, headed over to the horses tied to the rails.

“You teach little kids?” Jamal asked. “Or all ages?”

“All ages, but I admit to having a soft spot for the little ones.” A fond smile touched her lips.

He was about to ask if she had kids of her own, but stopped when that smile flickered out and the corners of her mouth turned down.

Briskly, she said, “I need to talk to the carpool mom. I'll leave you in Karen's capable hands.” She handed Smoke Trail's reins to Jamal and headed over to greet the stocky brunette who had exited the driver's side.

Jamal turned back to Karen. “What now?”

“Mount up. Reins in the left hand, grip here and here, left foot in the stirrup, and swing the right leg over.” As she spoke, she demonstrated. Quick and agile, she made it look easy.

He clambered aboard with less grace. As he settled into the heavy leather saddle, something tugged on the bottom of his jeans leg. “Mister,” a piping female voice said, “you're supposed to wear boots.” A pint-sized blonde frowned up at him.

“I don't have boots,” he told her.

The frown turned to a scowl. “Real cowboys wear boots,” she announced, then stalked back to the other kids and the horses.

To Karen, he said, “I guess that puts me in my place.”

“That's okay.” Her eyes, more gold than brown in the sunlight, danced. “I still like you.”

The two horses set out, walking side by side across the barnyard, then onto a dirt road. The animals strode along like they were happy to be outside on a sunny June day, getting some exercise. Their mood was contagious. Particularly when he glanced to his left and saw Karen, her lithe body swaying gently with her horse's movements. Beside her, her well-trained dog kept pace, nose raised to scent the air.

The road ran along the side of the Ryland property. “There's a network of roads and trails going for miles,” Karen said. “Many of the locals give public access to portions of their spreads.”

“That's generous. But I have to wonder, why aren't some of those generous people helping out Sally? She looks worn out and her place could use some work.”

Karen turned concerned eyes on him. “I ask her and she assures me everything's fine. She's proud, a bit of a loner.”

Hard to criticize someone for that, since he was the same way. “Any kids?”

She shook her head. “She and her husband put a lot of work into getting Ryland Riding going. She loves kids and I'm sure they planned to have them, but then he died. He wasn't much more than thirty. The poor guy had a serious heart condition that no one knew about. One day he had a massive heart attack and that was it.”

“Doesn't seem right.” He and Jake had worked undercover for almost ten years and except for an occasional bullet hole or knife wound, they'd survived just fine.

He and Karen rode in silence for a while. This had a lot going for it, compared to city streets. The scenery was spectacular yet peaceful: rolling grassland, low hills, patches of trees, and wild rosebushes in bloom. Birds sang from fence posts; squirrels chattered in tree branches. Occasionally they passed someone else, either on horseback on the trail or out working on their ranches. Friendly words were exchanged, which was kind of nice compared to a city full of strangers. Tennison ranged more freely now, but stayed within sight and responded immediately when Karen called.

It was all pretty impressive, but best was the sight of Karen in her well-worn jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy boots, and Stetson, graceful and at home on her horse's back.

A dedicated, skilled cop; a sexy, surprising lover; a natural horsewoman. He had the feeling that anything Karen chose to do, she did well. She'd be a great mom, raising responsible kids who would also know how to have fun. To play and picnic; to ride and maybe shoot hoops.