by Susan Fox
She rested her hand atop his. “I hope things work out the way you want. I know I’ll think of you after you’re gone, Jake. Very fondly. But”—her voice firmed—“I’ll try to think only about our times together. I won’t want to imagine you out on the streets doing your job. Putting yourself in danger.”
“I get it. That’s one of the reasons cops don’t do very well in the marriage department. The spouses worry too much.” He thought for a moment about Karen MacLean. That would be another handicap for her. How could a normal guy handle being married to a woman who put her life in danger every day? It would take a special man. She was probably right, that marriage and kids weren’t in her future. Any more than they were in his. The difference was, she wanted them.
“I’d go crazy,” Brooke said. “You know, Dave’s become overprotective since Anita died. And last year, we had a scare when Robin was hit by a car. Now, he’s even more restrictive with her. And I see it, and my brain says it’s wrong and he should loosen up, yet my heart agrees with him. Our instinct is to wrap her in cotton wool so she’ll never get hurt.”
“If you did, she’d never learn, she’d never toughen up, she’d never be able to handle the world on her own. Trust her; she’s a smart, sensible kid.”
“Easy for you to say. She’s not your grandchild.” She gave a soft chuckle. “Yes, you’re right, I know. But it’s hard for me. Since I cleaned myself up, I’ve become a cautious person.”
“And yet you’re helping me hunt down a murderer.”
“That’s different. It’s not about my family’s safety, for one thing. And it’s not my ordinary life.” She lifted her head from his shoulder and eased away a little, so she could turn and look at him. “This whole thing, including my relationship with you, is out of the ordinary. It’s this little space in time, something special and exciting. Later, I can look back on it and revel in it. But it’s not the way I want to live.”
Her face and voice were so serious, he wanted to lighten the mood. “You don’t want great sex every night?” he teased.
Her face lit and she gave him a flirtatious smile. “Gosh, I don’t know. I haven’t had enough experience to decide. I need at least another couple of nights before I make up my mind.”
“Then let’s start now.”
He leaned toward her, she met him halfway, and their lips touched. Touched, firmed with passion, parted; tongues darted; heat flared. Jake had been feeling kind of relaxed and lazy, but now his blood surged and his cock thickened with need.
When he tugged open the snap buttons of her shirt, she broke away. “Not here. Someone might drive by.”
He groaned, but she was right. Impatiently, he waited while she unlocked the front door and tugged off her cowboy boots before going inside. Once the door was closed, he thrust a hand inside her shirt and bra to find her firm breast and budded nipple. Too impatient to take her up to the bedroom, he said, “The living room couch.”
“I’ve taken your clothes off there before,” she agreed mischievously.
This time, it was a battle to see who could undress the other first, and in mere seconds they were both naked, flushed, and aroused, standing on the rug by the couch.
“I want you,” she said.
He figured his erection was sending the same message, but women needed words. “I want you too, Brooke.” He eased her down until she lay where he had a few days ago, when she’d nursed him. This time, it was his turn to take care of her, in the most sensual way he could.
Chapter Seventeen
An hour later, as Brooke lay draped on top of Jake, she murmured, “It keeps getting better.”
“And we have the whole night ahead of us.” He glanced across the room at the clock. “It’s barely past nine o’clock.”
She sat up slowly and ran her hands through her tangled hair. “It’s been a full day.”
“Tired?”
“Not really. I could use a cup of tea. Want one?”
Coffee was more his drink, but he didn’t hate tea. “Sure.”
He was sorry he’d agreed, though, when she pulled herself off him and onto her feet, then began to put on her clothes. “Hey,” he protested.
She held her shirt across her breasts and shot him a seductive glance. “I’m modest.”
“Sure you are.”
But he let her go to the kitchen, then dragged himself upright and put on his jeans and golf shirt. Oh yeah, he was achy, but that was nothing new. What was new was the same feeling he’d experienced that afternoon: contentment.
From the kitchen, he heard the faint sound of music from that radio station she always had on. It was probably habit for her, because she was used to being alone, to flick on the radio for company. He did that with the TV himself.
He sat down again on the couch, lifted his feet to the coffee table, and noticed the cat peering cautiously around the door frame.
“It’s okay, Sunny,” Jake said. “The coast is clear now.”
The cat stalked in, leaped up on a chair, circled a couple of times, then curled up, all the while not looking at Jake.
Brooke returned bearing a tray with mugs and a teapot. “It’s Irish Breakfast. I figured you’d like it better than Earl Grey.”
Like he’d know one tea from another? “It’ll be fine.”
“Milk, sugar, honey?”
He shook his head no.
“Cookies?”
He chuckled. She really did like looking after people. “I’m still full from dinner. Sit down and drink your tea.”
She put the tray on the coffee table and shifted a pile of books aside. “Darn, that library book’s due on Monday and I haven’t finished it.” She sat beside him and poked an elbow into his ribs on the uninjured side. “I haven’t been doing any reading since you showed up.”
He’d disrupted all her careful routines. The least he could give her was the chance to finish her book. “I can probably live another hour or two without having sex again. Go for it.”
“How about you? Do you like to read?”
When would he have time to start and finish a book? “Why don’t you pick one of those mysteries in your bookcase?” He’d rather flick on the tube and find a game to watch, but that might disturb her reading.
She popped to her feet again. “Okay.” Then she came back and handed him a paperback by an author called Janet Evanovich. It figured she’d pick a woman writer. He’d bet the book would be heavy on romance and light—and inaccurate—when it came to action. Still, he didn’t want to offend Brooke.
After pouring tea for both of them, she curled up against the opposite end of the couch with her mug and book, then stretched her legs out to tuck her bare feet under his thigh.
He smiled and stroked her calves through her jeans. Then he took a sip of the tea, which was tolerable, and opened the book. He’d barely turned two pages when Sunny leaped up on his lap, circling again and poking sensitive parts, then settled into a purring ball. Jake grinned, stroked the golden fur, and returned to the story.
A while later Brooke’s voice broke in. “Enjoying the book?”
He realized he’d been laughing out loud. “It’s not exactly a police procedural and it sure won’t win any points for accuracy, but it’s pretty funny. Great cast of characters.”
She smiled, seeming pleased rather than smug, and went back to her own book.
He read on until he realized she was shifting position, putting her book on the coffee table, and yawning. “Finished. Ready to pack it in?”
The clock told him it was almost eleven. “Just a couple more pages. Got to find out what Stephanie’s grandmother is up to.”
Brooke leaned over and ran her tongue lightly around the outside of his ear. “I’ll be the one in bed.”
He glanced at her face, then at the book. Nope, no contest. He put the book facedown on the coffee table. “I’ll be the one on top of you.”
If Saturday had been unusual for Jake, Sunday was an eye-opener into life in Caribou Crossing. He p
ut himself at Brooke’s disposal, as Arnold in public and Jake in private.
First they took a brisk hour-long walk on country roads, pausing to stroke horses’ necks, pat dogs, and chat with anyone who happened to be out and about. Then they went to church, which wasn’t his thing at all, but it did give him an opportunity to meet a few other pillars of the community.
Seeing people interact with Brooke reinforced how far she’d come since she’d turned her life around. Now she was not only accepted as part of the community, she was genuinely liked.
Funny thing was, she didn’t seem to realize the depth of people’s feelings for her. She saw civility; he saw respect, affection, friendship.
After church they went grocery shopping and piled up a cartload of food that didn’t include a single frozen dinner or tin of stew. Lots of vegetables and fruit. No cookies, because Brooke said she always baked her own.
Home-baked cookies. His mother had always bought packaged. Neither of his parents had spent much time in the kitchen, and on the infrequent occasions the family sat down for meals together, it was more of an ordeal than a pleasure. His upbringing was about as different from Robin’s as could be imagined. Brooke’s granddaughter sure wouldn’t turn out to be a loner the way he had.
Brooke imagined Jake must have been bored to tears but he hid it as, after a lunch of Mexican omelets, they went to work in her yard. Robin had been after them to go riding again, but Brooke wasn’t about to let her garden get out of control. So she put Jake, wearing Arnold’s golf shirt and khakis, to work pushing the lawnmower back and forth as she weeded borders.
Several riders came along the road and stopped to say hi, and the occasional car passed. A small plane buzzing overhead had both of them looking up. “It’s from the flight school,” she said. “I can tell by the color.”
Thinking what a picture of domesticity she and Jake made, Brooke forced herself to remember who he really was. It was getting harder and harder to recall the man in black leather, the long hair and beard, the bike. The gun. She wondered where he’d hidden it.
She straightened and stretched as Jake dumped the last load of grass cuttings into the compost box. Could she see the real Jake Brannon mowing a lawn?
And why was she trying to? It wasn’t like he was going to stay. It wasn’t even like she wanted him to.
When he came to join her, she said, “Bet it’s a while since you mowed a lawn.”
“When I was a kid my parents made me do it.”
His voice was flat, as it always was when he spoke of his parents. As if he’d schooled himself to not feel, much less express, emotion for them. They had hurt him. They hadn’t wanted to know who he was, only to shape him into what they wanted him to be. Poor little boy.
She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big hug.
He pulled back. “Hey, Brooke, not that I don’t like this, but I’m Arnold.”
“It was a cousinly hug. There’s a difference. Come on inside and I’ll show you.”
Together in the shower, they fooled around as they showered off the sweat and garden dirt, then they made long, sweet love in her bed. After, they showered again and went downstairs to see about dinner.
Jake lit the barbecue while Brooke strung cubes of marinated pork on skewers. Then she started to make potato salad from potatoes and eggs she’d boiled earlier.
Handing him a bunch of green onions, fresh from the garden, to chop, she asked, “Can you handle this much domesticity?”
“It’s sure different.” He paused, then said almost reluctantly, “Kind of relaxing for a change.”
“Tell me about where you live. You have an apartment in Vancouver?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing special. A one-bedroom on the tenth floor of a midsize building. I rent it furnished. It’s got everything I need and I’m hardly ever home anyhow. When I’m undercover I’m out of town a lot, usually living in a hovel somewhere, or on the streets.”
She tried to picture his apartment. A microwave, tins of stew, beer in the fridge—those were about the only personal details he’d given her. No plants; they’d never survive his absences. Last night, she’d realized he wasn’t much of a reader. “Television, music?”
“The place came with a TV. I watch sports when I’m home.”
Was there a game of any kind on tonight? She’d been worrying about how to entertain him, thinking that another night of reading would have him climbing the walls.
Suddenly she had an idea. A mischievous one. Besides, it would provide him with another opportunity to meet more townspeople. She turned from stirring homemade mayonnaise into the salad. “How are your injuries doing after all the gardening?”
“I’m good as new.” He tossed the chopped green onions into the bowl. “Just a little itchy, where everything’s healing.”
“Hmm. How do you feel about line dancing?”
“Line dancing?” He frowned. “You serious?”
“Sunday nights were pretty slow at the Wild Rose, so Dave had the idea of offering line-dancing classes. I go most weeks. It’s fun, good exercise.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure Arnold doesn’t line dance.”
“Ah,” she said mischievously, “but nor did he ride. If he’s checking out Caribou Crossing, he should be open to our way of life.”
He groaned. Then, “Would I get to dance with you?”
“Not, uh, clinch dancing. But of course as your hostess, I’d look after you.”
“This is sounding better.”
If he’d really intended to open a business in this town, Jake mused that evening, the best bet would be a Western clothing store. Before coming to Caribou Crossing, he’d never seen so many cowboy boots, cowboy hats, Western shirts, and bolo ties in his life.
The forty or so people at the Wild Rose, with the sole exception of himself, all wore some variation of that uniform.
There was some initial socializing, during which he talked to a number of people he’d already met plus a few new ones, but learned nothing of interest to his investigation.
Then the instructors, an elderly couple named Jimmy B and Bets, started the lessons.
They were damned sprightly for folks with white hair, Jake thought admiringly. This line-dancing business was like a cowboy version of an aerobics class, with feet going this way and that in crazy, hard-to-follow patterns. People were laughing, clearly having a great time.
Jake was always up for a physical challenge, but deliberately made Arnold a little stiff and awkward.
Line dancing. Just wait until he told Jamal.
Jake had had some pretty weird U/C assignments in his career, but this was one of the strangest.
When he found a chance to speak a private word with Brooke, he teased, “If I’d stuck with my first cover, the seedy biker, I wouldn’t have to be doing this.”
She flashed a brilliant smile. “But you wouldn’t be going home with me either.” Then she whirled away from him and back into the dance, her boots tapping a quick rhythm on the floor.
Finally, the music changed to something slower and Brooke returned to him. “They took pity on you, Arnold. Care to dance to Patsy with your cousin?”
“I wouldn’t say no.” Patsy, he figured, must be Patsy Cline. As Brooke slipped into his arms, the singer was crooning about being crazy for loving someone. He had to agree; the whole love thing seemed like damned risky business to him.
Lusting after someone was another matter, though. It was tough to force himself to hold his partner at a respectable distance. To distract himself, he glanced around and noted that their teachers were still on their feet too, swaying together. “Jimmy B and Bets look more like teens than seniors.”
“I know. Aren’t they great? So much energy. They’ve been married almost fifty years, you know.”
“Wow.”
“Imagine finding someone whose company you enjoyed that much. It’s about so much more than sex.”
“Bet the sex would have to be pretty great
too, for a couple to last that long together.” Out of nowhere came the thought that with him and Brooke the sex was stupendous. And he really did enjoy her company, whether they were cooking a meal together, reading books in her living room, scheming how to catch a murderer, or discussing how to get a hooker off the streets. Damn it, he really did like the woman. As well as lust after her, respect her, and trust her.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d liked someone this much. The only person he’d ever felt this close to was Jamal, which was a whole different ball of wax.
Brooke was singing softly along with the music now, her voice low and pure.
When the song finished and another slow one came on, he noticed Tiffany, an assertive thirtyish redhead he’d met earlier, bearing down on them. Quickly he said under his breath, “Brooke? Want to head home before we have to dance with a bunch of other people?”
“Hmm?” She glanced up and saw Tiffany. “Yes, I am awfully tired, Arnold. I do think it’s time to go.” She smiled at Tiffany. “Sorry.”
Tiffany winked. “Just talk Arnold into moving here; then I’ll have plenty of dances.”
As Jake and Brooke moved toward the door, she muttered, “Right, like I’d do it for her.”
“Don’t like Tiffany, or you jealous?”
“Tiffany’s fine. Just a little superficial.”
“I see.”
“Okay,” she huffed, “so I’m jealous. You’re mine for the duration, right? That’s the agreement.”
“That’s the agreement.” And he had not the slightest desire to modify it.
They stopped at the bar to say good-bye to Dave Cousins, who’d been bartending and not dancing. The man reached over the counter and tapped Jake on the shoulder. “I’d say you’re going to fit in just fine around here, Arnold.”
“Uh, thanks. But I haven’t decided anything yet.”
“That’s what you say.” Dave winked at Brooke. “Some of us know better.”
