Stand By Your Man (7 page)

Could he see himself fitting into her life here? Hell, he'd blended into the roughest gangs and he'd once infiltrated an evangelical church to prove that the leader was a pedophile. Despite the little blond girl's censure over his footwear, he could fit in in the country. If he wanted to.

“How are you liking it?” Karen's voice drew him from his thoughts.

“Not bad, but do these horses have only one speed?”

“I've been taking it easy on you, letting you adjust.”

“Adjust to a horse walking? Oh yeah, big challenge.”

“All right, tough guy, we'll kick it up to a trot and then try a lope. Plant your butt deep in the saddle, keep your back straight, heels down in the stirrups—which is one reason for wearing boots. Don't be afraid to grab on to the horn or the cantle.” She patted the back part of her saddle.

“Got it.”

Her horse sped up, with his following along. The first gait, the trot, was a bone shaker, but he kept his balance without grabbing on to the saddle. Then, when the horses loped, he quickly caught on to Smoke Trail's rocking motion.

Karen tossed him a smile. “Okay?”

“Okay!” Though they weren't going all that fast, it was exciting. In its own way, even more exciting than riding a motorbike. It was more primitive and raw, just man and beast. He smothered a chuckle. Here he was, going all Wild West. Next thing he knew, he'd be buying cowboy boots.

As the horses ran side by side through a patch of sparse trees, Karen said, “We need to pull up because this trail crosses another up ahead.” She called, “Tennison! Come!”

The horses slowed, heads tossing as if to make it clear they weren't happy about it, until they were walking again. The dog bounded up and fell in beside them. Ahead, through the final few trees, Jamal saw another country road with a parade of maybe ten riders approaching. “Man, it's a crowd.” These were adults, not kids, and they all wore riding helmets except for the leader, a pretty woman with glossy chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, riding a near-white horse.

“That's the group from Riders Boot Camp, coming back from their Saturday trail ride.”

“Another riding school?”

“An intensive residential one. Students sign up for one or two weeks, and come from all over Canada and the States. Whereas Sally gives lessons to local kids and adults.”

On reaching the spot where the roads intersected, Karen stopped Montana. Smoke Trail and Tennison halted on either side.

The ponytailed woman stopped her group too. Moving her horse a few paces ahead of them, she said, “Hey, Karen. Who's your friend?” Her gaze rested on Jamal with open curiosity.

“Hi, Jess. Jessica Kincaid, meet Jamal Estevez. Jamal, Jess is the owner of Riders Boot Camp and she's also Brooke's daughter-in-law. Jess, Jamal is—”

“You're Cousin Arnold's—I mean Corporal Brannon's—RCMP colleague,” Jess finished. Her eyes sparkled. “You're in Caribou Crossing tidying up details on the Miller arrest?”

He glanced at Karen, looking for a cue. Did she worry about people gossiping?

“No,” she said, “this is purely a social visit.”

“Nice.” A smile widened on Jess's face. “Very nice. I hope you have a wonderful time, Jamal.”

“So far, so good.”

“Karen, you gonna bring him to the Wild Rose tomorrow night?” Her smile tilted into a grin.

Karen grinned back. “I'll do my best.”

“See you then.” Jess waved them on, to proceed ahead of her group.

When they were out of earshot, Jamal asked, “What's at the Wild Rose tomorrow?”

“Line dancing.”

He winced. “Did I mention, I think I'm coming down with the flu?”

“Ha ha.” She slanted him a seductive gaze from under the brim of her hat. “There'll be slow dancing too.”

“Hmm.”

“Slow dancing can be a lot like foreplay, don't you think?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Okay, you win.”

She grinned. “I like a man who can admit when he's wrong.” Then the smile faded and she gazed at him with an expression he couldn't read.

Next thing he knew, she'd stopped Montana. When Smoke Trail halted too, Karen shifted her horse closer so that her leg brushed Jamal's. “I like you, Jamal.” She leaned toward him in a clear invitation to kiss.

He stretched over to meet her lips with his. The kiss went deep, fast. His body's response was fast too, tightening, swelling.

Smoke Trail moved restlessly, jarring them apart.

“Have mercy, Karen. A Western saddle's not designed to accommodate a hard-on.”

She gave him a saucy, pleased look, then got their horses going again. How did she do that, with no obvious signals? Riding clearly took skill. And, as he was learning, strong thigh muscles. His own, which had no problem running ten miles, felt a little sore.

“So that was Brooke's daughter-in-law,” he said.

“As of a year ago. Brooke acquired a granddaughter, and now Jess is pregnant again. Hard to believe Brooke's a grandma, isn't it?”

“Yeah, she's so young and pretty.” And she'd survived an amazing amount of shit—bipolar disorder and alcoholism—and come out strong.

“She and Jake seemed pretty close,” Karen mused. “And yet she said they agreed it was just short term.”

“Yeah. He's a loner.”

“Just like you were,” she pointed out.

“You know how you said your mom's life changed in five minutes? Well, that night you and I stayed up talking, you got me thinking. Seeing possibilities. Jake's not thinking that way.”

“Then Brooke's better off without him,” she said sadly. “It just seemed like they really cared about each other.” She shook her head bemusedly. “Listen to me. I'm turning into a romantic.” She shot him a wink. “Words guaranteed to scare off any guy, right?”

“I don't scare easy, Corporal MacLean.”

The only thing that terrified him was how she'd react if she ever found out his guilty secret.

But she wouldn't. Only he and Jake knew what had happened on that assignment two years ago. Jake would never tell anyone. It was the past, and it would remain dead and buried. It had nothing to do with Jamal's relationship with Karen. She was his fresh start.

 

 

As Jamal and Karen left the dance floor at the Wild Rose pub, he, breathing hard, said, “Does this prove I'd do anything for you?” He still had trouble believing she'd talked him into line dancing.

Not appearing the least bit winded, she said, “Oh come on, you love it. And you're good at it.”

“You said there'd be slow songs. Foreplay songs.”

“We've had a couple. They'll play another one soon.”

“No dancing with anyone else this time,” he warned. For one number, she'd wanted to swap partners with Brooke and a sandy-haired guy a few years younger than him. Brooke looked particularly pretty, almost glowing, and a secretive smile played around her lips. She didn't ask about Jake. Maybe she'd already moved on. Jake was a dickhead, letting her get away.

“Deal.” Karen bumped her shoulder against his. “I need to hit the ladies' room. Get me a beer?”

“Sure.”

He watched her walk across the room, exchanging greetings as she went. At least forty people crowded the Western-style pub, many still dancing, most clearly regulars. A white-haired couple, Jimmy B and his wife, Bets, were the line dance instructors. They'd kept the group hopping—and Jamal's feet tangled up—for much of the last hour.

As he headed toward the bar, he was aware of being the only guy in the room who wasn't wearing boots and a Western shirt. His jeans fit in fine, but his tee and Nikes made him stand out. Not that there was any chance of him blending in here, not with everyone knowing everyone. And each one as curious as hell about his relationship with Karen.

A couple of men watched him approach the bar. Karen had introduced him to one of them already: Evan Kincaid, Brooke's son, who was there with his wife, Jess. The other was the swap-partners guy.

Evan introduced the two men. “This is Dave Cousins, the owner of the Wild Rose. Dave, Jamal Estevez.”

So this was the friend Karen shared dinner and movies with. Tall and fit, he was good-looking in an all-Canadian-guy kind of way. Karen had said there were no sparks between them, yet she'd wanted to dance with this guy and they'd looked pretty comfortable in each other's arms.

Dave's gaze wasn't exactly unfriendly, but it was definitely assessing. “Came up to see Karen?”

“I did.”

“She's a terrific woman.” There was a warning note in his voice. Maybe a hint of possessiveness or jealousy?

“I know she is.”

“She's done a lot of good for this community,” Dave went on. “We'd hate to lose her.”

Or did he mean
he'd
hate to lose her? Jamal felt a jealous twinge of his own. What, exactly, was Karen's relationship with this man?

“On the other hand,” Evan said lightly, “Caribou Crossing could use another good cop.”

Jamal figured this wasn't the time to explain why he and Karen couldn't work together here.

The female bartender, a slender, attractive young Native Canadian woman with a rippling sheet of black hair, came their way. “What can I get you?”

“A bottle of Caribou Crossing Pale Ale for me, Madisun,” Evan said, “and a ginger ale for my pregnant wife.”

She served up the ginger ale in a tall glass with ice, handed Evan a beer bottle, and gave another beer to Dave. Those lightly sweating brown bottles looked so damned good, Jamal's breath quickened with need. He intended to order a beer for Karen and a tomato juice for himself, but somehow heard himself say, “Another couple of ales.”

“Coming up,” she said cheerfully.

Okay, no problem. He'd do his dump-and-refill trick.

The bartender handed him two bottles, and damn, they felt good in his hands.

Dave hoisted his drink. “To Caribou Crossing.”

Jamal and Evan clicked their bottles against his, and then all three men raised their bottles to their lips.

Jamal breathed in a crisp, hoppy scent. Irresistible. What difference would one sip make?

It would mean he'd failed again. Fuck, it shouldn't have to be this hard.

Muscles screaming in protest, he forced his hand to lower the bottle, the beer untasted. There. He was sober. A minute at a time. He was in control and he wasn't going to violate Karen's trust, or Jake's.

“I grew up in Caribou Crossing,” Evan said.

“Oh yeah?” Big surprise. And who cared about Evan anyhow? The bottle felt so damn
right
in his hands, like an old friend. Jamal needed to dump the beer quick, before habit—or fierce craving—overcame two years of hard-won sobriety.

“To me, it was a hick town,” the other man went on. “I couldn't wait to get out. I lived in New York and loved it.”

“And then you came back,” Dave said. He and Evan exchanged a meaningful glance that Jamal, in his distracted state, couldn't hope to read.

“It was a shock to my system,” Evan said. “But I soon realized how much Caribou Crossing has going for it. It's a healthy life. Perfect if you plan to raise a family.”

“Karen sure likes it here,” Dave put in.

Both men gazed at him, neither hiding his curiosity.

Yeah, “Mind your own business” did not apply in Caribou Crossing.

He glanced away, across the room, and saw Karen talking to another woman. A moment later, she headed in his direction. Relieved to escape the conversation, he went to meet her. When he handed her a bottle of beer, she glanced at the bottle in his other hand. “You're drinking?”

Panic froze him in place. Had she figured out that he was an alcoholic?

“You're not worried about feeling sick?” she went on.

Relief whooshed through him, along with annoyance at himself. He
never
forgot a cover story. But tonight the craving for a drink had made him forget what he'd told her. He cleared his throat. “Damn, that was stupid. Habit. Yeah, I'd better not. Want mine?”

She shook her head. “I'm a lightweight. Besides, the last thing I want is for the community to think I'm a drinker. That was something I hated about Sergeant Miller. The way he'd hold down the bar, be such a poor role model.”

“Yeah. Right. I'll go dump this out.”

“And then we can slow dance,” she purred. “A little foreplay, but not too much. I don't want you destroying my reputation.”

He forced himself to joke back, “Babe, I'll do wonders for your reputation.”

Unless Caribou Crossing ever found out the truth about him.

On Thursday afternoon, Karen took a break to meet Brooke for coffee. Or, rather, peppermint tea for Brooke and a tall iced mocha with whipped cream and chocolate syrup for Karen. Thanks to her metabolism and her active life, she never worried about calories.

Sitting across from the blonde in the Gold Rush Coffee Shop, Karen thought how good Brooke looked. In the first weeks after Jake left town, she had seemed subdued. Later, she'd acted anxious and been absentminded. Recently, something had changed again, for the better. The glow on Brooke's cheeks and the sparkle in her lovely blue-green eyes owed nothing to make-up.

“You look fantastic,” Karen said. “You haven't by chance heard from Jake?” She took a long sip of the rich, delicious icy mocha.

Those glowing cheeks flushed. “Karen, let it go. Jake is, will always be, a wonderful part of my life.” Her eyes warmed with an emotion that looked an awful lot like love. “He's an amazing, good-hearted man, but we're too different to have a future together. I'm fine with that. Totally. The kind of work he does”—her face sobered and she shivered—“I couldn't live with it.”

“What if he gave it up?”

Something flared in her friend's eyes. Hope? It was gone in an instant. Brooke smiled gently and shook her head. “I would never ask that of him.” She lifted her mug of steaming tea and the scent of mint drifted across the table.

Brooke wasn't as pushy as Karen. No, she'd never ask. But Jake could choose to change his career.

“Even if he had a job like yours,” Brooke said, “it would be too much for me.”

“I know it's hard being in a relationship with a cop,” Karen admitted. Her friend had been through a lot: an abusive ex, ten years of estrangement from her son, dealing with bipolar disorder, getting and staying sober. Brooke had become a strong woman, but a strong woman knew her limitations and didn't set herself up for failure.

“That's one of the great things about you and Jamal, that you understand each other's work.” Brooke put her mug down. Studying its contents, she said, “You both looked like you were having fun on Sunday.”

Karen wiped her napkin across her upper lip to get rid of her whipped-cream-and-chocolate mustache. “We had a fantastic weekend. I'm trying to turn him into a fan of Caribou Crossing. The scenery, riding, line dancing.”

Brooke moistened her lips. “Even our local brew.”

“Hmm?”

The blonde glanced at Karen. “You introduced him to Caribou Crossing beer.”

“Oh, right.” She chuckled, remembering. “Poor Jamal. He ended up chucking his out.”

“Oh? What a waste.”

“He says alcohol hasn't been agreeing with him lately. I told him he may have developed an allergy, and he should see a doctor.”

“Oh?” Brooke said again. Tiny muscles between her eyebrows pulled together slightly. If Karen hadn't been gazing straight into her face, she'd have missed it.

Body language often spoke more loudly and accurately than words, but she couldn't read this small, probably involuntary, message. “Brooke? What's on your mind? Is it hard for you, talking about beer when you don't drink anymore?”

“No, it's not—” She broke off, glanced away, picked up her mug again. Staring into it, she said, “Well, maybe a little.” Her voice sounded strained, and then it hardened as she went on. “I remember what it felt like holding a chilled bottle. Raising it to my lips.” She swallowed. “It's a hard thing to beat, addiction.”

“But you've done it.” Karen studied her with concern. “Almost five years, right?”

Brooke's tense expression softened. “Right.” A smile, a rather secretive one, touched her lips. “There's no danger I'm going to drink again.” Then that tiny frown returned. “I really need to get back.”

“So soon?”

They exchanged good-byes and Brooke left, her mug of tea still half full.

Odd. Odd behavior following an odd conversation. Brooke's explanation rang true but instinct told Karen there was something more, something troubling, on her friend's mind. If she was uncomfortable thinking about people drinking, why had she even raised the subject of seeing Karen and Jamal with bottles of beer?

Karen sipped her own drink, barely tasting it as she let random thoughts drift through her mind.

Brooke was an alcoholic yet she was fine with Jake drinking in front of her.

When Karen had brought nonalcoholic bubbly to their celebration party, Brooke had mentioned to Jamal that it was nonalcoholic.

Karen had never seen Jamal drink alcohol.

Alcoholics kept each other's secret.

Undercover cops were subjected to a lot of temptation. Drugs, booze, prostitutes, gambling. Jamal had said that drinking could get to be a bad habit—

No! Karen pressed both hands firmly against the table, rejecting that train of thought. Jamal had meant that he avoided drinking so it
couldn't
become a bad habit. He was a good cop. And he wouldn't keep this kind of secret from her. She trusted him.

 

 

Karen left the detachment just after seven on Friday evening. She stopped at the Japanese restaurant to pick up Caribou rainbow sushi—a local specialty using rainbow trout—and ate it as she walked to a meeting of the board of directors of the women's shelter.

During the board discussion, she tried to concentrate but anticipation filled her with a happy buzz. Tonight she'd see Jamal. This week he'd been back at his desk in Vancouver, working regular hours. Preferring to have his own wheels, he'd decided to make the six-hour drive rather than fly. He'd get in around midnight.

That meant it didn't matter how long the meeting lasted. Still, she fidgeted, impatient with the others' inefficiency—particularly that of the President who was chairing the meeting. Volunteering was great, but people should volunteer for jobs where they had some actual competence. She could do more on her own than it took this five-person board to accomplish in twice as long, but if she tried to take over and run the meeting, the others would be offended.

Was she being judgmental again? A high school girlfriend had teased her that all would be well if the world would only appoint Karen as Queen of the Universe, so she could whip everyone else into shape. Although Karen had given the obligatory “Ha ha,” privately she'd thought it wouldn't be a bad idea.

When the meeting finally ended, Karen drove home, took a leisurely shower, and slipped into new lingerie—a cami and shorts set. Used to wearing a uniform or practical casual clothes, she admired her reflection in the bathroom mirror and luxuriated in the silky slide of the rose-pink fabric against her lotioned skin. So much for the guys who looked at her uniform and wrote her off as butch. Jamal had the sense to see, and admire, all sides of her.

As she did with him, she thought when the rumble of an engine sounded outside. Peering out the front window, she grinned. It figured that Jamal's “wheels” were on a motorcycle. A big black BMW built for speed, endurance, and style. Just like the man who climbed off it, dressed in a gray tee, jeans, and black boots.

Aware of her skimpy outfit and the proximity of neighbors on this warm summer night, she didn't rush down the steps but opened the door and stood back.

He took a small duffel from a pannier and sauntered toward her. A white grin widened on his dark face as he came up the steps. “Look at you,” he said in that rich molasses voice.

“It was a toss-up between this and my gun belt and handcuffs,” she joked.

As he bent to put down his bag and take off his boots, he said, “It's only civilians who like to play with handcuffs.” He reached out and big hands framed her face, holding her steady.

Well, not so steady, because her breath caught and her pulse jerked. “That's true.”

“Cops have to find other forms of kink.”

Such as? The thought evaporated as his lips met hers. The kiss was the sensual equivalent of his saunter, lazy and confident as his lips caressed hers and his tongue slid into her mouth. She sighed with pleasure. Waiting to see him had been tough, but now he was here, hers for the next couple of days. They had time. Time for lots of sex, lots of talk, lots of getting to know each other better.

When she could talk again, she said, “I'm glad you're here.”

“Me too.”

“Did you stop for dinner? Are you hungry?”

“Grabbed a snack on the way. It's you I'm hungry for. Is it rude to show up and want to go straight to bed?”

“Not when I feel the same way.” She took his hand and they headed for the bedroom.

She'd never been into fancy décor or girly touches. Yet this week she'd bought candles and now she lit them. Jamal had stirred up new instincts. He'd also revived her long-held dream of creating a home like the one she'd grown up in.

And right now he made her long for spectacular, intimate lovemaking.

He glanced around the room, then said, “I need a quick shower.”

“What? I thought you had sex on your mind.”

“Oh yeah. But look at this. The candles, you in that sexy outfit. I've been working, riding, haven't seen a shower since dawn.”

Before she could say she'd gladly take him now, sweat and all, he'd grabbed his duffel and headed into the bathroom. Last weekend they'd showered together, but tonight the closed door told her she wasn't invited. When the shower came on, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. He'd likely be thirsty after the long ride.

She'd just set the glass on the bedside table when the bathroom door opened and Jamal stepped through. Naked. And already semiaroused. Candlelight burnished his dark skin and glinted off drops of water that his hasty toweling hadn't caught. Behind him, lemon-scented steam puffed out the bathroom door.

“Okay, maybe the shower was worth the wait,” she said appreciatively.

“Figure a woman who looks like you at least deserves clean.” When he kissed her, she discovered that he'd brushed his teeth and tasted of peppermint.

She explored his mouth thoroughly, then teased, “Hmm. One big peppermint patty. Do I get to nibble?”

“As long as you watch where you sink those teeth.”

“Maybe I'll satisfy myself with licking. Makes the treat last longer.”

“Or not,” he muttered as she suited action to words and leaned forward to lap a drip from the base of his throat. She followed a trail of droplets down the indentation between his firm pecs. His chest was smooth, almost hairless, under her exploring lips and tongue. She teased his nipples and gave them gentle nips.

Their first few times together, she'd made it clear that sometimes she wanted to be in charge, and he'd better not argue. She'd told him it was a turn-on for her to enjoy his fine body and to arouse him. Now her nipples tightened to buds and her sex throbbed with the heavy pulse of lust.

Lowering herself to her knees, she kissed her way down his six-pack. His erection rose out of a nest of wiry black curls, straight up his belly to his navel. She brushed her breast against his shaft, feeding a tingly ache in her nipple and making him moan.

His hands gripped her shoulders and he widened his stance. She guessed his legs were a little shaky. Her big tough cop, rendered weak by her seductive caresses.

She licked up and down his shaft, moistening it with saliva until it gleamed, then grasped it in one hand and slid the head between her lips. One arm went around him to squeeze his firm butt and the other hand slipped down to fondle his balls.

His fingers dug more tightly into her shoulders and his voice rumbled as he said, “The treat's gonna explode if you do that much longer.”

Tonight, she wanted him deep inside her. So she let him slide free of her mouth. “It's tough being with a rookie who has no staying power.”

He chuckled and released her shoulders. “Then you'll need to train me better, because you're sure as hell not trading me in for another partner.”

“You got that right.” She rose and wrapped her arms around him, trapping his erection between them.

He kissed her long and hard, his tongue thrusting in and out to mimic sex. Then he reached down and peeled the cami over her head. Leaving the brief shorts on, he led her over to the bed and laid her down.

In leisurely fashion, he kissed the spot where her neck met her shoulder, the scar on her arm from where she'd fallen out of a tree as a kid, the triangle of freckles on her tummy, the puckered flesh where the knife had slashed her. Each sensual touch heightened her arousal until she squirmed with needy pleasure. Finally, he moved to her breast, toying with her nipple until a slow, rippling climax shuddered through her.

He worked his way down again, peeling off her shorts in the process. Putting his mouth to her center, he licked across folds that were already slick. Gently he worked two fingers into her and her sheath gripped them, clung, until he started to tease her—sliding his fingers in and out, circling them inside her, using one to tap her sweet spot. Out, in, circle, tap, and repeat. The pattern sent sensual charges darting through her. And when his thumb firmly pressed her clit, another climax, this one sharper, more powerful, jolted her.

She was still riding the lovely waves when he sheathed himself and entered her.

Sighing, stretching, she said, “You're so good at this.”

“Takes the right inspiration.” He stroked her cheek, smoothed back sweat-dampened hair. “Takes being with someone who's special,” he added, his voice soft and a little rough.

Oh God, she was falling for this man. Fast and hard. It was early, their relationship still so young, issues yet to be worked out, but this felt so right. So inevitable.

“Rumor has it,” he said, “that you like riding.” Before she could answer, he'd rolled their interlocked bodies so she was on top.

Accepting the invitation, she pushed herself up to crouch astride him. Reaching up to pull her hair back from her face, she thrust her breasts out proudly.