by Anne Calhoun
Ian plucked three napkins from the holder in the center of the table and folded them precisely down the middle to make triangles. “Tomorrow.”
The glare she shot him was somewhere between infuriated and murderous. “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll let you know. Bye.”
She stared at him, color high in her cheeks. Clearly, the logistics of staying in the same house with him hadn’t occurred to her. Behind her, Isaiah whistled as he transferred the rice into a bowl, then the chicken onto a pretty platter.
“And that,” Ian said, “is why we need to coordinate a plan before we start talking to people.”
Isaiah set the serving dishes on the table with a flourish. “Eat now, fight later.”
The meal was delicious, as good as anything Ian had enjoyed in the city’s best restaurants. The shallots were fresh and sweet, the white wine sauce adding a nice bite. Riva pushed the breadbasket across the table without comment and watched with satisfaction as Ian sopped up the sauce. “I missed lunch,” he said.
“No, I’m just that good,” Isaiah said. He was still eyeing Ian warily, but something about sitting down together and breaking bread had softened the teen a little. “You’re on dish duty.”
Ian started stacking plates. “You’re going to stay here and look after the farm for Riva?”
“Yeah. I’ve got this.”
Ian wasn’t sure if Isaiah was trying to convince himself or Ian, but either way, he was glad. “Good. Pack a bag,” he said to Riva.
“Excuse me?”
He turned on the water, plugged the drain, and squirted dish liquid into the rapidly filling water. “You’re not staying here tonight.”
She glared at him. “What? Afraid I’m going to run?”
“No,” Ian said, when he meant yes.
“Hypothetically speaking, where am I staying?”
“With me.”
“The hell I am.”
“For two reasons,” he said, over her outraged protest. “First, because yes, I want you where I can see you. Second, we need to get our stories straight before we walk into your parents’ house tomorrow.”
“We can do that on the drive to Chicago.”
He rinsed the plates, well aware of Isaiah watching without commenting. “And we will. We’ll go over this again and again, until we’re letter perfect.”
“No.”
She spun and walked away, down a short hall. He slid the dishes into the water and followed her, winding up in the doorway to her bedroom. He looked at her, at the anger and resentment and, yes, lust, too, crackling in her blue eyes, gleaming in her tousled chestnut hair. “Riva.”
He stopped. He’d missed so many things, her connection to the bigger drug trade, her family dynamics, and her. Just her. He had to get this right.
“We are about to go after the man you claim is the link between gangs and drugs and police corruption in this city, and one of the biggest suppliers in the region. They will not hesitate to kill us. In a normal situation, we’d spend weeks getting ready. We don’t have weeks. We have hours. Pack a bag.”
CHAPTER SIX
“If we’re worried about our cover story,” Riva said, clinging to her patience with her fingernails, “you need to stop talking to me like I’m your snitch. Or your flunky. Or your CI.”
She hissed the words at Hawthorn and prayed he’d get the hint and keep his voice down. Isaiah was just down the hall, and right now he didn’t know the full story of Riva and Hawthorn.
“You’re right,” he said unexpectedly. “I’ll work on that. Pack a bag, please.”
He was wearing a look she knew all too well, implacable and all man, prepared to stand there until kingdom-fucking-come. Ian Hawthorn, the control freak. When he looked like that, she stood a snowball’s chance in hell of getting him to change his mind. “Fine. Just … fine. Wait here.”
She pushed past him, ignoring the little shiver that ran up her spine when her shoulder brushed his biceps, and walked back down the hall to where Isaiah stood at the sink. “I’m going with Hawthorn tonight,” she said, extemporizing. “We’ve got some work to do. Don’t wait up. We’ll probably be late, and I’ll just spend the night with a friend in town, then leave tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he said, absently swiping a slow circle on a dirty plate. He was gazing longingly at the bookshelf overflowing with cookbooks and organic farming magazines.
“Want me to pick out some reading material for you?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Riva grabbed three titles and wandered in the direction of the sleeping porch, where a single bed doubled as a napping spot or guest room. Hawthorn was watching as she did this. “What? He likes to read cookbooks.”
She ducked into her bedroom and threw together a suitcase full of clothes she didn’t wear often anymore, skinny dark jeans, ankle boots, fitted sweaters and T-shirts, things she could work in but would also look respectable when she served at the luncheon. Most of her makeup was so old it should be thrown away, but instead she swept it into her makeup bag.
“That’s it?” Hawthorn said when she carried the bag through the living room, into the kitchen.
“What were you expecting?”
“More, I guess. My mother travels with enough luggage for the grand tour of the continent.”
The first woman to come to mind as a travel companion was his mother? That was interesting. He reached for the suitcase, but she picked it up before he could grasp the handle. “I’ve got it.”
Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest. The reaction was ridiculous, given how much time she’d spent with Hawthorn. Getting in a car, in the dark, to do something dangerous … been there, done that, didn’t want the T-shirt.
But this was different, for reasons she really didn’t want to think about. She hoisted the bag into the back seat, then climbed in the driver’s seat.
“I’ll follow you,” she said. “Where are we going?”
“My place. We might as well be comfortable while we’re going over this.”
He drove to one of the warehouses renovated into apartments in the SoMa district. The exterior was old brick, the logos for long-gone businesses repainted to add character. He unlocked the door and pushed it open for her. The apartment was new, gleaming granite and brushed steel and track lighting, and preternaturally tidy. Very Hawthorn. Through an open doorway she saw a big bed covered with a dark comforter.
She looked away, cursing the heat blooming on her cheeks. “Where’s the spare room?”
“I don’t have one. You can take my room.”
She was already shaking her head. “I’m not sleeping in your bed.”
He tossed his keys onto the counter separating the cooking area from the living room. “I sleep on the couch all the time anyway.”
“Afraid I’m going to sneak out in the middle of the night?” she asked, only partly kidding.
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
He was dead serious. She leaned back against the breakfast bar and folded her arms across her chest. “We’re not doing this if you don’t trust me.”
“We’re doing this whether I trust you or not,” he shot back. “Know why? Because you’d walk away and flip me off on your way out the door, but you won’t give up Isaiah like that.”
“You’re right. Because he’s a boy learning to be a man, a good man. The kind of man who’s a force for positive change in his community.”
“I’m doing my job. Which is also a force for positive change in the community.”
“The difference,” she said precisely, “is that Isaiah won’t use people to get what he wants. You will.”
“Don’t blame me for the choices you made, Riva.”
She felt her face go white. This, here, now was where she drew the line. “Have I ever … ever … blamed you, or not taken responsibility for my choices seven years ago.” She didn’t frame it as a question because she knew the answer. And so did he.
A muscle popped in his jaw before he answered. “
No.”
“I took full responsibility for what I did. I did everything you asked then, and I’ll do everything I can to help you now, because I’m helping Isaiah.” She left out the little warning bell going off in the back of her mind about her mother, because while every cell in her body told her something was really wrong at home, she didn’t need to tell Ian that.
His jaw was so tight she could use it as a knife. “I know.”
“Good. As long as we’re establishing boundaries, Lieutenant Hawthorn, I won’t sleep in your bed.”
He stood in front of her in what she called the classic cop stance, feet spread, legs braced, one hand on his hip where his gun would be. Over his shoulder she could see the SoMa district, lit up and bustling with spring evening traffic. “We need to talk about that.”
Talk about his bed? If they talked about it much more, she was going to grab his hand and lead him there. “Okay, talk.”
“Say my name.”
What did his name have to do with the sleeping arrangements for the night? “What?”
“Say it. I’m not Hawthorn for this trip. I’m Ian Fallon. If you call me by my real last name after you’ve introduced me, your dad is going to suspect something. If you call me by my rank, we’re in deep trouble.” He leaned forward and braced his hands on either side of her waist. “Our lives are at stake. Yes, I want to find out who’s supplying drugs to the Strykers, but I also want to keep you—us—both safe. You have to call me Ian. Say my name.”
The only sounds in the apartment were the soft hum of the ventilation system and her heart pounding in her ears. Their strange, strained relationship was so intimate in so many ways, but she’d never used his first name. “Ian.”
“Again.”
Her head snapped up. “Ian.”
“Again.”
“Ian.”
“Good. Now use it conversationally.”
“Fuck you, Ian.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Polite conversation,” he said, and straightened to hold out his hand. “Hi. I’m Ian.”
She stared at his outstretched hand. It was just a handshake. Just palm-to-palm contact.
Except it wasn’t. It would be the first time she’d willingly touched him. He’d touched her, frisked her, handled her wrists and her arms, guided her places while she was handcuffed, on one heated occasion wired her up for the night. She’d never, ever willingly touched him. Had avoided it all those years ago.
“Do it.”
“Stop ordering me around,” she snapped.
“Please.”
He’s just a man. He’s just a man in his apartment, holding out his hand. It’s like starting over.
Except it wasn’t starting over. There was no way for them to begin again, not with their history. All she had to do was pretend he was just a man. Who’d said, in essence, please touch me.
Oh, don’t go there. Don’t go to his voice, rasping and quiet, intimate, one step from a murmur, one step from seduction. She’d had the usual range of lovers, the back-to-the-land movement offering up men who approached sex the same way they approached growing things—with attention to detail and a slow hand. But none of them were Ian. None of them were imprinted on her like he was.
“You get why this is difficult for me,” she said.
“Yes. Do it anyway.”
Slowly, she reached out and put her hand in his. It was warm, dry, closing slowly and firmly around her palm.
“Our lives may depend on you not flinching every time I come within six inches of you, much less make contact.”
“I know. I just…”
“I scare you.”
“A little.”
A shadow crossed his face. “You lose something when you lose control of your body like that.”
She inhaled a deep, shaky breath. “Do they teach you that in the academy?”
“Not exactly, but they teach you about power dynamics. I can draw a conclusion. You don’t need to afraid of me. This isn’t like last time.”
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, I’m here in your apartment because you basically coerced me into being here.”
“Try that again, and use my name.”
“Dammit,” she muttered. “With all due respect, Ian, I’m here in your apartment because you basically coerced me into being here.” She paused. “Wow. That sounds different when I use your name. Lieutenant Hawthorn has the right to coerce. Ian doesn’t.”
He frowned, as if the subtle shift hadn’t occurred to him before he sent them down this path. “Ian,” she said experimentally. “Ian. Ian Fallon. Ian.”
She was teasing him now, and she knew it. She was still trapped between his outstretched arms, his face inches from hers, his gaze flickering between her mouth shaping his name and her eyes.
“I’m still Hawthorn,” he said.
“Actually, you’re not,” she said quietly. “That barn door is now open, horse long gone. Ian. Is now a good time to talk about me not sleeping in your bed?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You always did know how to push my buttons.”
“Yes, I have to sleep in your bed, or no, I don’t … Ian?”
Something snapped in his eyes, something she’d pushed against and pushed against seven years earlier, something that had been banked back to hot coals but never fully died. He’d been under control before, tightly leashed but vibrating around the edges. A muscle flicked in his jaw as he fought some internal battle. She found herself wondering if this was the time she pushed him too far.
“One of these days you’re going to say my name, and you’re going to say please, and then you’re not going to be able to say anything at all.”
Heat spiked through her, searing all the air from her lungs. His voice was low, potent, lacking the ice-cold deadly precision she remembered. It was a lover’s voice, an implacable, focused lover’s voice, no laughing or teasing or even kindness that she remembered from her previous experiences.
Too far … and not quite far enough.
“Is that what you want, Riva?”
She could see in his eyes that he thought he’d won, that by pushing her as far as he had, he’d tipped the balance of power back to his side. She reached deep for the woman she’d become in the last seven years. “You know it is.”
He froze.
“It’s what you want, too. But we both know it’s a really bad idea.”
“Not as bad an idea as it was then.”
“If that’s how you feel, then kiss me.”
Fearless, he’d said. Fearless and rash. They were both playing with a fire that could burn them to ash before they even left town. But she wasn’t eighteen anymore.
“Just a kiss. That’s all. We’re both adults now. We can handle a kiss.” She tipped her head forward so their faces were mere inches apart, angled just a little to bring their mouths into alignment. “Would it make you feel better if I crossed that line? Give you plausible deniability?”
His breath eddied against her lips. For a dangerous, heady moment she thought he would cross that line and kiss her, a move that would resolve everything and make it so much worse. “No one has to know,” she murmured. “I won’t tell.”
His gaze searched hers. But then the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunched, sending a spike of hot, sweet, adrenaline-fueled desire right to her core, and he pushed himself upright.
Leaving her to seethe in a familiar, seething sexual frustration. “Sleep in your own bed. I’m not sneaking out tonight.”
“Again with my name.”
She didn’t know whether to slap him, kiss him, or scream. The desire to do all three at once while launching herself at him swept through her, momentarily stealing her voice. “Sleep in your own bed, Ian. I’m not sneaking out tonight, Ian.”
“Have it your way,” he said with a shrug.
* * *
Fewer than eight hours into the operation and his self-control was shot.
Ian sat on the edge of his bed and put his head in his ha
nds. On the other side of his bedroom door was his houseguest/prisoner/informant, getting ready for bed. Innocuous sounds like the blinds closing, a suitcase unzipping, feet padding across the floor, water running through the pipes to the half bath off the foyer sent his imagination into overdrive. All he could think about was that at some point in time, she would be out there, taking off her clothes to put on … what?
A nightgown? One of those soft oversized T-shirt things that bunched up around a woman’s hips while she slept? Pajamas? Maybe she wore actual pajamas, the kind that looked like men’s but were fitted to shorter limbs and rounder curves. Soft cotton sleep pants and a faded T-shirt? Fuzzy socks to keep her feet warm?
Maybe she slept in nothing at all.
He clenched his hands in his hair and talked to the floor. Very quietly. “She’s not out there naked.”
He couldn’t be sure of that. This was a new Riva, brashness and boldness dialed up to fifteen on the one-to-ten scale, all woman. It wouldn’t shock him at all to walk out tomorrow morning to Riva’s bare limbs spilling out from under his extra blanket and sheet, her reddish-brown hair tumbled over her cheek, her nape, the tops of her shoulder blades.
Nightgown. Sleep shirt. Whatever would allow him to tangle his legs with hers and keep her warm while she slept.
Three hours. They’d been in each other’s company for less than half a day and the situation was already spiraling out of control. He would have kissed her, was microseconds away from doing it when she’d said I won’t tell. Those three words brought him up short.
He wanted to tell. He wasn’t a man for secrets, for pieces on the side, for crossing lines. If he kissed Riva Henneman, he was going to take that vacation Swarthmore kept nagging him about, take her to bed, and take what he’d wanted for the last seven years. If he did that, he wanted to be able to tell everyone. Not to brag about a conquest—he kept his own counsel when it came to women—but because he wanted her.
But there was no way it could happen. Like Captain Swarthmore had said, the future he wanted depended on being politically savvy.
Face facts. You wanted her the moment you laid eyes on her in Kaffiend. You can’t have her. So you just have to get through this.
