“Don’t disappoint me, Amy. You walk with me and get in the car.” The silken threat caused her nipples to bead painfully behind her practical bra, purchased to support the enlarging future sustenance of her child. Her child.
As if he read her mind, Dean said. “I’m still fucked up over the fact you’re pregnant and weren’t planning to tell me. Who in hell has been taking care of you?”
Was he fucking insane? His behavior just underscored her reluctance, the prick. Amy breathed against energy sucking rage. She stared at him, not trusting herself to answer without bursting into impotent tears.
His voice gentled. “My ass nearly hit the ground when I found the test box in the trash, sweetheart. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. Let it go. Please. Let me make it up to you.”
She said nothing, bound by necessity, the skeins of love notwithstanding. Those, she was sure, would soon permanently turn to the chains of hate. She’d been right in telling Sandra that Dean would see this child as his duty, his particular call to honor. At least her friend hadn’t gone over to the enemy. How could she have forgotten about the package in the garbage? Dean shrugged and draped her jacket over her shoulders. He picked up her stuff, correction, her shit, and tugged her out the door.
Helping her into that SUV parked closest to the entrance, naturally in a loading zone, Dean buckled her in. Amy heard him put her things in the back before he rounded the front of the vehicle to climb into the driver’s seat. She felt him looking at her, but it was easy to ignore him in the darkness. Staring straight ahead she concentrated on her breathing, slow and steady, tired unto death. Dean cranked the engine over and pulled out into traffic, then onto the freeway, and Amy didn’t dare to look back at the little motel she thought might be the fresh start of her life. Leaving tore at her. Would he ever lose the ability to hurt her?
****
Dean drove steadily into the deepening night, the road’s middle line ratcheting out in increments within the scope of his lights. He pushed the vehicle right along, but not too far over the speed limit to attract the attention of the police. He wondered if Amy would turn him in, and he’d be forced to look for her all over again. The overwhelming relief flooding him when he walked into that crappy little motel and saw her rounding the counter, alive and well, still left some residual weakness in his knees. He thought she was coming to him, and his heart beat insanely in his chest. But the look on her face instantly crushed his hope, and despite his attempt to hug her right inside his body, express his love and need through the kiss of a starving man, Amy resisted. Her stubbornness was indeed profound. Dean knew he’d been correct in overwhelming her, not giving her time to think or plot, instead pushing her into returning with him. He blessed the darkness. It was his friend. He’d get Amy home under its cover.
Amy looked beautiful. Tired, but beautiful. Her hair was the same bountiful mass, her lips pink and soft, despite her fury. There was a little more fullness to her sweet breasts and he’d felt the slight swell of her belly where his baby grew. He longed to press his lips there before kissing down to her apex, pushing her thighs wide to lick and explore his pussy, finding that little nub to nibble and suck until she closed those full thighs around his head to prolong the sensation, her cries stifled by her fists or a pillow. His cock thickened again and Dean shifted his position, the leather seat squeaking beneath him. He risked a glance at Amy, wondering if she was recognizing the strength of his will and coming to accept it. She was still his woman, would always be his woman, and he was going to take the best care of her from here on in.
She was asleep, slumped slightly against the door, her profile softened, reflected in the glass, hair in drifting tendrils catching the intermittent light from oncoming traffic and from the dash lights. His possessiveness and the need to protect her, have her close by and take care of her, outstripped his own desire and he turned his attention back to the road. He’d do well to cultivate those emotions because he doubted Amy was going to welcome his carnal attentions, at least not immediately. Dean forecast some personal time in the shower, and cold showers at that. He debated making a stop for food, but they’d be home in under an hour. Fumbling with his cell, he called Randy.
“I’m an hour out. Is there food in the condo? Amy will be hungry.”
A low chuckle filled his ear. “So she agreed to come back. Must say I’m surprised, buddy. You always did have the power of persuasion.”
“There was no need for discussion, Randy. Amy agreed.” Because she didn’t want you around her new friends. For once he was overtly grateful for the shadow he cast.
“Holy shit. Okay. Maybe you’ll give me the goods later. There’s food. And I’ll ask Andrea to drop off some milk for your pregnant hostage right away. You take care.”
“Hardly a hostage. Although it’s gonna take some convincing for her to stay.”
Rather than considering the possibility that convincing Amy might prove to be impossible, Dean smiled at the note of envy in Randy’s voice. His friend wanted a baseball team of kids and Andrea wasn’t convinced. He’d told Randy about his true identity when the shit with Andrea went down. Randy had planned to give up the life for her, and Dean jumped at the opportunity to tell his lieutenant. Despite his decision to go straight, Randy was pissed with Dean’s actual job—no one liked to be taken in—but soon came around. The other man shone in his position in the business, a schemer at heart, and willingly stayed as Dean’s right hand. Dean decided he’d be sharing a fundamentally important piece of information with Amy in the near future, that of his undercover status. He’d blown her trust because he hadn’t trusted her, a vicious cycle, and now he couldn’t think of anything more important to trust her with. He would willingly put his life in her hands, although probably not right away. He wasn’t blind to how furious she was with him, and while he didn’t believe she’d out him, their present relationship would hardly withstand another body blow.
The exit loomed in the darkness and Dean followed it, navigating the streets to his home. The entire complex housing him and his crew, like a medieval fortress, interspersed with a few naïve young couples, came into view. No families, no children. It gave him pause. His child wasn’t going to be raised there. But that was a ways down the road. He had a woman to placate and gentle.
Pulling into his drive he shoved the gearshift into park. The lack of motion likely woke Amy, because she jerked upright and he could see her hair flow around her shoulders as she looked around.
“Home, sweetheart. Wait until I come and get you.”
She didn’t respond, and Dean sighed inwardly as he exited the vehicle. He was tired, worn out from the pressure and exertions of the past weeks. However, she would expect him to act out. He was going to do the exact opposite and kill her rage and hurt with kindness. Grabbing her purse and the garbage bag, he opened her door, reaching in to click open her seatbelt, not really concerned Amy would try anything. She knew who lived in the complex and that she wouldn’t find any support here. His men, and their women, would follow his orders, not matter the friendships Amy had forged. He took her elbow once she swivelled her legs out, and held her in place until she was steady on her feet. She was probably exhausted despite her nap.
Guiding her to the stairs, he felt her steps hesitating, but he urged her forward, wondering what was going through her head, but well aware it wasn’t anything he really wanted to hear. As she approached the door, her lithe body stiffened and she yanked her elbow from his grip. Dean punched in the door code and turned the handle, ushering her inside. She stopped in the middle of the room and looked at him, one golden brown brow arched. Dean closed and locked the door behind him, and Amy’s eyes tracked the movements but remained blank and aloof.
He took a step toward her and she wheeled away, heading toward the bedroom. Dean beat her to it with two lengthening strides and held out his hand appeasingly. Amy brushed past and went into the bathroom, closing the door against him. After a time he could hear water running in the shower. Blowing out
a breath of relief, he sagged to a seat on the bed, setting her belongings beside him. That had gone far easier than even he’d expected. He dared hope she still felt enough for him that they could build on it, move past his utter stupidity.
Then he heard it. It was hard to discern above the beat and hiss of the water and through the closed door, but the faint sounds of his woman crying, sobbing in despair, permeated his head. He scrubbed his face with his hands, then hardened his heart. He’d done what he had to do. He got up and went to put together something to feed her.
The shower shut off but Amy didn’t emerge from the bathroom. Dean rapped on the door, reluctant to invade that slight privacy despite the total openness they’d shared previously. When she didn’t answer his worry spiked and he opened the door. Amy sat on the closed toilet seat, wrapped in a bath sheet, drying her hair with a smaller towel. She didn’t look his way and Dean tamped down his annoyance, aware it was a more palatable emotion than what he was really feeling—worry that he wasn’t going to be able to fix this.
“I’ve made a meal.”
“Okay.”
He couldn’t stop the words. “So your attitude doesn’t extend to refusing to eat?”
Her hands didn’t stop plying the towel. “I’m pregnant, Dean. I wouldn’t do that to my baby.”
Fuck. He deserved that. “Our baby, Amy, and I’m sorry. Will you come and eat?”
“I want my nightgown and a robe, some panties.”
Gesturing behind him, Dean nodded. “All your things are here. Help yourself.”
When she didn’t move, he got it. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Amy joined him a few minutes later, bundled into her pink terry towel robe, her scrubbed face and damp hair making her look about sixteen instead of the twenty-eight years old she was. He’d fucking well missed her birthday and had that to make up to her, too. She settled on the stool as far from him as she could get and reached to fill her plate with fruit and cheese, adding a slice of buttered bread. She deigned to accept the glass of milk he poured and ate quickly.
“We need to talk,” he began.
“I’m tired, Dean. Babies do that to a woman. I worked a long day and lunch was a long time ago. I don’t have the energy to hear anything you plan to share.”
He decided not to say all the things that immediately leapt to mind. Like how she could have called him when Sandra told her he was looking for her, wanted her back. She didn’t have to work. She was his responsibility. A few other things came up, but he bit them all back and nodded. He was being an ass, retreating behind selfishness because her comments cut him to the quick. He knew this side of Amy existed, heard it invoked on his behalf, but never dreamed to see it erected against him. Even in those first few days of butting heads, early in their relationship, she hadn’t been so cold. But then the stakes hadn’t been so high. Shit. This was his fault and he had to fix it.
When she got up to carry her dishes to the sink he forestalled her. “I’ll do that. Go to bed. I’ll be there shortly.”
At last she faced him, looked him in the eye and Dean rejoiced inwardly, although took care to shutter his own, a feat, because he hadn’t had to do that with Amy, not since their first time together. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“You are, Amy. I’m not sleeping anywhere you’re not from here on in. I’m going to be there for you.”
She studied him, those violet eyes now impassive, resolute. “I have no doubt you can seduce me, arouse me. We have history and you owned my body. But it’ll be force for all of that, Dean. Rape. You take what you want but you won’t get me. You think on that. And you think on what your child will think of his father.”
Fuck him. Fucked. He didn’t want just her body. He wanted all of her. And he couldn’t let himself ignore the last part of her statement, because he was determined to set a fine example. “We’ll sleep in the same bed. I’m not letting you build any more distance between us.”
Shoulders back, she walked away, but not before he saw the sheen in her eyes. It killed him to make her cry.
Dean cleaned up, listening to the sounds of Amy getting ready in the bedroom. He then made his way to the second bath to clean up, stripping to his boxers. For some reason, perhaps because of the enormity of the day’s events, he checked the coin in his right boot heel that identified him as more than Dean Chambray, the criminal. The one thing he could use to certify the real reason he headed up his small organization—if his handler was even available at such a time as he was forced to reveal it.
Their bedroom was in darkness, Amy’s shape under the blankets delineated in the ambient light filtering in from the street above the window coverings and through the tiny cracks between the slats of the blinds. He climbed in beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist, hauling her into him, tucking her fine ass against his pelvis. He rested his chin on the top of her head, scenting her shampoo, relishing the silken feel of her against him, selfishly resenting the fabric barrier of her night apparel. His cock hardened, instantly, knowing how close it was to his heart’s desire, uncaring of ultimatums and ethics and values, and he willed it into submission. He desperately wanted to touch and explore her whole body, see the changes his child had wrought, to love her, bring her pleasure.
Amy held herself rigid for a very long time, but at last, Dean felt her relax into slumber. He tried to ignore the tiny voice suggesting not only were the battle lines joined, Amy was in possession of some weapons he had never trained in, nor ever expected to wield. She’d be quite the better loser. A frission of unfamiliar anxiety kept him awake considerably longer, and at one point he carefully exited their bed to ease his lonely cock in the bathroom, like a truculent teenager. But not before double checking that the front door was locked, and hiding her purse in his gun safe.
Chapter Thirteen
“So I can’t leave, can’t call Sandra or anyone else, not even my bosses at the hotel, and you’re staying here with me until I give in?” The venom in Amy’s voice made Dean want to check for acid burns. But it was nothing less than he expected—or deserved. He thought back to the previous hour, an equally tense experience, while he waited for her to calm down and process what he’d said, not just react.
Waking later than usual, his body probably recharging after the momentous events of yesterday, Dean immediately noted the lack of warm woman beside him. He’d rolled to his feet in one quick movement, his ears registering no sound in the space other than the hum of the appliances and a drip in the adjoining bathroom. Moving quickly and silently on the balls of his feet, he gained the living area. Amy was curled into a corner of the couch, staring out the window, once again wrapped in her robe. Probably sensing him as his movements disturbed the air, she glanced his way then resumed her perusal out the window. Dean broke the silence.
“Good morning, sweetheart. Give me a minute and I’ll make breakfast.”
“Don’t worry about it.” No intonation, nothing. He supposed the flat affect was her chosen tactic of the moment, although her lack of spirit was alarming.
“You need to eat. The baby—”
“How about if you let me worry about the baby, Dean? I know what my body is telling me, and it’s suggesting I not put anything in my stomach at this time.”
He forced himself to shrug, ignoring the stab of pain resulting from the insinuation he would hardly know what she was experiencing because he hadn’t seen her for weeks. Precious weeks wasted because of his actions. Moving on.
“I’ll shower and dress. You might feel better by then.”
A hint of surprise drifted across her beloved features. Amy clearly expected him to respond in kind, familiar with his refusal to be disrespected. Well, she would learn he could be flexible where she was concerned. Especially when their relationship had suffered a setback. Dean preferred to think of it that way. A setback sounded manageable.
As he quickly showered, he wondered that Amy hadn’t smothered him in his sleep. She’d been angry enough, although this a
loof, resigned posture worried him more. The scratches on his face were scabbed over, but still very much evident. But she loved him too—he prayed she did—and surely it hadn’t turned to hatred. It was up to him to deal with the setback and bring all of that glorious caring back so he could bask in it and return it with interest. He’d tell her he loved her when he thought she wouldn’t throw it back in his face. Deciding not to shave, in deference to the furrows on his cheek, he considered his next step. Probably setting the ground rules after breakfast was best. Amy might revolt, but better to start out as he meant to finish, and she might listen better on a settled stomach. Tossing the towel over the rod, Dean strode into the bedroom to dress, coming to an immediate halt.
Amy clutched a scrap of fabric to her chest, eyes wide and startled. She’d been dressing, presumably taking advantage of his morning ablutions to do so in private. The shirt she held did little to conceal the lace of her bra, and the expanse of skin above her navel glowed in the early morning light. He noted the convex curve of her belly before his gaze travelled to the tiny panties covering her sex, down the long, lovely length of her legs. When he looked back into her face, Amy was pulling her gaze away from his lower half and Dean struggled to hide both his jubilation and response. She might be pissed, and trying to remain distant, but definitely not immune.
Giving him her back, she slipped on the shirt, yanking it around her. He could tell by the way her head tilted and the way her hands worked out of his line of vision she was buttoning it. The conservative cut and color didn’t reflect his Amy. She then sidestepped to the bed where a pair of black pants lay. Dean frowned, while devouring the sight of Amy’s ass, her full buttocks partially cupped in satin. Was she eschewing all the clothes she left behind? Making yet another statement?
“Something wrong with your jeans, Amy?” He wasn’t able to totally hide the little bite in his tone, feeling he was fighting a battle on all fronts, wondering if his plan to be kind and understanding was the best one after all. Fuck, he was never stymied like this.
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 21
