Stand By Your Man

by Susan Fox

  “I like what I’m doing. Not everyone wants to be a desk jockey.” He gave his friend another scowl. “Old man.”

  The two men reminded her of her and her brother: affection and respect, a shared secret or two, and issues they had no qualms about poking at.

  “You’ve lost me,” Brooke said.

  Karen explained. “Generally, as you rise through the ranks you do less active duty. You coordinate others rather than doing the street work yourself.”

  “And you’re in less danger?” Brooke asked.

  “That’s usually true,” Karen said. At least if the member didn’t keep going out undercover the way Jamal still sometimes did.

  “If a promotion means being tied to a desk,” Brooke said, “I can see why Jake wouldn’t want it.” She sent a humorous glance in Jamal’s direction. “Though I’d hardly call you an old man myself.”

  “Nor I,” Karen agreed. There were a lot of adjectives she’d apply to Jamal Estevez. Smart, responsible, sexy, perceptive. “Old” was nowhere on the list.

  He glanced at her, an eyebrow cocked, his dark eyes gleaming.

  Her breath caught and she couldn’t look away. She was so freaking naïve about male-female signals, but she’d swear—almost swear—this man was interested in her.

  This man, who was so damned hot and fascinating that he made her want to strip off her tee and jeans, toss her undies after them, and jump his bones . . .

  A corner of his mouth kinked up knowingly as if he’d read her mind.

  “Dessert?” The question, spoken softly and almost seductively, came from Brooke.

  Oh yeah. Bittersweet chocolate, all hers to nibble from head to toe. And in between.

  “I made chocolate-mint layer cake.”

  Mmm-hmm, chocolate . . . No, wait, what was that? Layer cake? Grateful that she’d never been a blusher, Karen quickly said, “Sounds delicious.”

  “Delicious,” Jamal echoed. With his gaze focused on Karen’s mouth, he murmured in that rich molasses voice, “I confess I have a sweet tooth.”

  Karen blinked at the subtle undertone that seemed intended for her. Was he talking about cake? Did she want him to be talking about cake? Flustered, she pushed back her chair and jumped to her feet. “I’ll clear the table while you get dessert, Brooke.”

  Jamal’s chuckle was a low, knowing rumble.

  Chapter 2

  Watching Karen MacLean eat chocolate cake gave Jamal a hard-on.

  Observing people closely had become automatic, even when he was off duty. And this observation was sensual torture.

  The slicing off of a forkful, an act of grace and deliberation carried out by a tanned, nicely shaped hand with short, unpainted nails. The lift of fork to mouth, showing off toned arms. The tiny pause of anticipation, then the slow parting of full, pink lips. The slide of fork into mouth, of cake off fork. The slow, sensual chewing and the pure pleasure on her striking face.

  Yeah, watching her eat cake was maybe even sexier than actually having sex with the last woman he’d hooked up with. When had that been? Four, five months back? Marion, an outgoing redhead he’d met in a sports bar, spent a couple of nights with. The sex had been uncomplicated and fun. Yet remembering it wasn’t half the turn-on of watching Karen’s sensual, methodical attack on that piece of cake. If she paid that kind of attention to a guy in bed . . .

  His cock pressed painfully against his fly. Trying to distract himself, he concentrated on Brooke, who was talking proudly about her granddaughter’s cowgirl skills. The attractive blonde sure didn’t look old enough to have a ten-year-old grandchild. Though he didn’t know Brooke well, he’d quickly realized that she was a woman to respect. He got why Jake seemed so smitten.

  Karen reached for her coffee mug, drawing his attention back to her.

  He liked Karen. Everything about her. She looked as good as any woman could in the unflattering RCMP uniform, but tonight, in a tee and jeans that hugged sleek curves, she was killer. Tall—he put her at five ten—she moved like an athlete and looked like a model. High cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth, long-lashed eyes, shoulder-length hair now free of the uniform hat that had confined it all day. In a police report, her hair and eyes would be noted as brown and brown. In reality, her gleaming hair was a dozen different shades, from chestnut to mahogany to bittersweet chocolate, and her eyes were a tawny golden brown.

  Oh yeah, there was lots to keep a guy looking.

  But there was more to her than killer looks. Corporal MacLean was a damned fine cop. A cop who, at her best, operated by that special combination of intellect and instinct that you either had or didn’t have. Because she had it, she’d busted Jake’s cover. Because she didn’t fully trust her instincts, she hadn’t caught on to Henry Miller’s criminal activities.

  She set high standards for herself and others, which he respected. And she hated bad cops.

  If she knew how badly Jamal had fucked up, she’d write him off. Bottom line: his drinking had gotten out of control on one U/C assignment and Jake had taken a bullet because of it. It was sheer luck that the shot had merely winged him. Yeah, shit happened, as Jake had said earlier, and if you had any brains and decency, you learned.

  Jamal had been sober for two years now.

  They should have reported the incident, but Jake had covered for him. Jamal’s alcoholism was their secret. A dirty, painful secret that, along with his guilt, ate at Jamal. All his life, he’d survived by being the tough guy who could handle whatever shit life threw his way. It rankled that he’d let alcohol get the better of him. That he’d put his partner’s life in jeopardy. He’d been a fucking failure and he fought the booze craving every day, determined not to fail again.

  Those were ugly truths he sure as hell wasn’t about to share with Corporal MacLean. Didn’t want to lose the respect he saw in her golden-brown eyes.

  She licked the last bit of icing from her fork, drawing him back from the dark place his thoughts had taken him.

  Yeah, she was sexy. She was also a strong woman and a good cop. Not someone to be taken lightly. Jamal had only hung out with women like Marion. Fun women, nice women, women who weren’t looking for more than he could offer. Karen struck him as a person who wanted and deserved permanence.

  He shouldn’t be so attracted to her.

  Her body language said she was attracted too. A lot of women—including RCMP members—thought U/C guys were sexy bad boys. Sleeping with one was brushing up against danger without getting too close. Was that what Karen wanted? A night’s worth of hot sex to remember after she settled down with the kind of man who deserved her?

  His body urged him to go for it.

  “Yes or no, Jamal?”

  “Huh?” Brooke had asked a question that uncannily echoed his thoughts. “Sorry, I was, uh . . .” A glance at his plate showed that, while he’d been musing and watching Karen, he’d finished his dessert. “Just enjoying the cake.” Taking a deep breath, he willed his body to chill.

  “I asked if you’d like seconds.”

  “Couldn’t hold another bite. That was the best meal I’ve had in . . .” He considered. “Maybe forever.”

  He glanced at Jake. Brooke was pretty, strong, capable, warmhearted, and a great cook. She put the kind of smile on Jake’s face that Jamal hadn’t seen in . . . maybe forever.

  Tomorrow, Jake and Jamal would head back to Vancouver. Would Jake and Brooke keep seeing each other? The guy’d be a fool not to, and yet Jake had always been as much of a loner as Jamal.

  “It was a wonderful dinner,” Karen said. “A great celebration.”

  Jamal nodded. There hadn’t been many evenings like this in his life.

  “But I think it’s time for me to head home.” Karen shoved back her chair, rose, and glanced at him from under long lashes. “Jamal, can I give you a ride to your motel?”

  It was only eight-thirty. Either she wanted to be alone with him, or she figured they should give Brooke and Jake some private time. Maybe both. He stood up. “Than
ks.”

  Brooke said, “Karen, let me give you some cake to take home. I’d give you lasagna too, but we ate it all.”

  While Brooke packaged up the cake, Jamal helped Jake clear the table. His buddy seemed preoccupied. It’d be his last night with Brooke, either for a while or for forever.

  Jamal felt antsy too, thinking about being alone with Karen. What did she want? Things would be so much easier if she was a woman like Marion. But if she was, he wouldn’t be so strongly attracted.

  Finally, they all moved toward the front door, where Brooke and Karen hugged.

  Jake held out his hand to Karen. “It’s been good working with you.”

  “You too.” They shook.

  Brooke said to Jamal, “I’m glad I had this chance to get to know you.”

  “Goes both ways.” He kissed her soft cheek, noting a surprisingly exotic flowery scent. You had to love women.

  Wondering what Karen smelled like up close, he followed her out the door.

  The sun was thinking about setting and a slight briskness in the air reminded him it was still May. Brooke’s front yard was full of flowers, laid out all neat and tidy the way his aunt used to do. But generous, warmhearted Brooke had little else in common with Auntie Celeste.

  Hell, why was he thinking of his aunt tonight, when years could go by without her popping into his head? Maybe because Brooke’s house felt like a home and she’d made him welcome the way his dad’s sister and her husband never had.

  Home? What the fuck? He wasn’t a “home” kind of guy. Never had been, never—hmm. Never would be? That was what he’d always assumed and yet tonight had given him a glimpse of something that—

  “Expecting me to open the door for you, Sergeant?” Karen’s amused voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Huh?” They’d reached her truck and he was staring at the passenger door. He shook his head to clear it and climbed into the vehicle, a burgundy Dodge Dakota with a canopy.

  She got in the driver’s side and stowed the cake container behind her seat. The truck had bucket seats. Karen wasn’t close enough that he could catch her scent nor, accidentally on purpose, brush his arm against hers.

  As she pulled onto the road, they waved good-bye to Brooke and Jake, who stood on the porch, arms around each other.

  “Brooke’s good people,” he said.

  “She is. A nurturer.”

  A word he’d never spoken in his life, but it fit. “What about you, Corporal MacLean?”

  “I’m, hmm, a fixer.”

  “You gonna fix Caribou Crossing?”

  “I’m doing the best I can.”

  He studied her as she steered down the narrow country road bordered by fenced fields. “You like it here? Seems like you fit, with your truck, the country music.” He was more of a rock guy, but he recognized Garth Brooks’s “The Dance”—one of those achy-breaky western songs—playing on the radio.

  “Yes, Caribou Crossing suits me.” She glanced toward him, then back at the road. “I grew up in a small town in Ontario, then went to Regina to study justice and policing. When I got accepted into the RCMP, of course I trained at Depot.” She used the common term for the RCMP Academy in Regina. “My first job was in a small town in northern Saskatchewan; then I was sent to Edmonton, and then to Caribou Crossing.”

  Driving with her left hand, she used her right to gesture out the truck window. The sun was setting in shades of pink and purple over rolling, grassy hills dotted with a few trees. “Great scenery, friendly people, problems that almost, sometimes, seem solvable.”

  “Huh.” Problems that seemed solvable. That was way different from what he did, where the moment you took one drug supplier off the street, another stepped in to replace him.

  “Can’t relate? Trucks and horses and country music aren’t your thing? You like Vancouver better?”

  “I like Vancouver.” As much as he liked any place he’d ever lived.

  “What do you like about it?”

  “Uh, it’s scenic.” The mountains and ocean were spectacular. “And, you know, it’s a city.” People left a guy alone, not like in a small town.

  She gave an amused chuckle. “Let me guess, you’ve always lived in cities?”

  “Chicago, Toronto, Edmonton, Vancouver.”

  “You’re American?” she asked with surprise.

  “Not anymore.” His past was a subject he never discussed. Noting that they’d reached the outskirts of town, he grinned at a “Caribou Crossing” road sign—like a pedestrian-crossing one but with the silhouette of a caribou—and said, “It’s early. Feel like getting a drink? Cup of coffee?” Wherever tonight might lead, he wasn’t ready to say good night yet.

  She glanced over, either making up her mind or just making him wait, then said, “Yes.”

  “Pick a place.”

  “The Wild Rose has a nice pub, but there’ll be rumors going around about what’s happening with Sergeant Miller. We’re making an official statement tomorrow, so I don’t want to spend the night fending off questions.”

  Nor, he guessed, spend the next day fending off questions about her relationship with Jamal. “In Vancouver, people wouldn’t even recognize you.”

  “Small-town curiosity means that someone notices when their elderly neighbor hasn’t picked up his newspaper because he’s fallen and broken his hip.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “In Vancouver, he’d have to be well into decomp before anyone would notice.”

  “Charming,” she said dryly, then darted him a glance from under her eyelashes. “I’m sure your girlfriend loves your dinner conversation.” The words came out in a rush, confirming that she was interested in him and suggesting that she wasn’t a pro at flirtation.

  “No girlfriend. How about you? Any men in your life?”

  A pause, then, “Men? Well, there’s Harv and Dave.”

  His brows rose. “You’re dating two guys?” He’d never have figured her for a woman who’d do that. A twinge in his gut told him he didn’t like the idea.

  “Oh, you meant dating.” She shot him a teasing glance. “Harv, the high school principal, is the husband of a friend of mine. I occasionally spend the evening with them and their kids. Dave’s—”

  “Let me guess,” he broke in. “Ninety-five and has dementia.”

  “No, that’d pretty much be Mr. Morton. He escapes from the care home at least every couple months.” She pulled the truck into a parking spot on the main street but didn’t turn off the engine. Pointing to a beautifully restored historic inn called the Wild Rose, she said, “Dave owns this place. He’s young, single, good-looking, and probably the nicest guy in town.”

  Another twinge. The guy sounded perfect, just the kind of man she deserved. Still, he remembered what she’d said. “But you’re not dating him.” He made it a statement, not a question.

  She shook her head, sending that brown hair rippling. “We have dinner now and then, maybe go to a movie. Two single people just hanging out.”

  “Yeah, right.” How could a man “just hang out” with a woman as sexy and appealing as Karen?

  “It’s true. There’s no, you know, spark between us.”

  Did Dave feel the same way?

  And why was he wasting time worrying about this Dave guy when Karen had just told him she wasn’t attracted to him?

  “I know spark,” Jamal said. Deliberately, he leaned over and ran a finger down the back of her right hand, which now rested on the steering wheel. It was only the second time he’d touched her, the first being when Jake had introduced them this morning and they’d shook hands. This time he really did feel a spark, an electric charge leaping off her skin to fire up his blood.

  “I figured you did.” Her voice was low and breathy. Feminine, husky, sexy. It, too, climbed inside his blood and stirred him up.

  Before he got a full-blown erection and maybe did something stupid, Jamal stopped stroking her hand. “So what about that drink? Willing to face the small-town gossips?”


  She gave him a long, measuring look. “No. But I have beer in my fridge.”

  “Sounds good.” And it did. The part about being alone at her place, and the part about the beer. A tall, frosty bottle, the long, chill slide down the back of his throat, the warmth as it settled in his stomach. But it wasn’t going to happen.

  Karen started driving again. A couple of turns and they’d left the center of the picturesque town and were in a residential area with rancher-style houses and double-wide trailers. She pulled up in front of a plain duplex with wire-mesh fencing around each half. “I rent.”

  “I hear you. No point putting down roots.” When you joined the RCMP, you agreed to serve wherever they sent you.

  They exited the truck, went through the gate, and headed to the front door. A German shepherd came running from the backyard and made a beeline for Karen, tail wagging. The dog pulled up in a hurry at the sight of Jamal.

  “Hey, Tennison.” Karen bent and patted her hand against her thigh, urging the dog forward. “It’s okay, girl, this is Jamal. He’s a friend.”

  Eying him, the dog ventured forward to head-butt Karen and accept her pats.

  Jamal liked dogs, of the canine officer or the pet variety. He squatted down and held out his hand to be sniffed.

  When he stroked the animal’s brown and black coat, Karen straightened. “I found her two years ago at one of the campgrounds. She was just a pup, and she’d been left behind. No one got in touch so it probably was deliberate.”

  “And you took her home.” He stood up too.

  “By the time I drove her to the vet’s, she’d won my heart.” She led the way to the front door with Jamal and the German shepherd following.

  “Tennison,” he said as Karen unlocked the door and flicked a light switch, and the dog bounded inside. “That’s a poet, right?” He hadn’t figured her for the poetry type.

  “Yeah, but that’s not who she’s named for.” She toed off her leather sandals. “You know the British TV series Prime Suspect, with Helen Mirren? Her character’s name was Jane Tennison. A very committed cop.”

  “Haven’t seen it but I’ve heard of it.” He took off his runners and socks and followed her into the living room. Plain, practical furniture, basic TV setup, neutral colors. Likely, she rented it furnished. She’d added personal touches: a multicolored quilt folded across the back of the couch; a couple of leafy green plants; half a dozen pieces of art ranging from a little-kid finger painting to a First Nations hummingbird watercolor to a photograph of a woman on a horse.