Stand By Your Man

by Susan Fox

  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.

  Chapter 8

  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.

&
nbsp; “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.

  And that was an invitation he accepted, cupping them as she glided up and down.

  Sex, yes. Great sex. But so much more. As she gazed down at Jamal’s intent face, his dark eyes watching her with what looked like wonder, she knew that this was so much more.

  Early Saturday evening, chopping a cucumber in her kitchen, Karen paused to enjoy the sight of Jamal. His fine body was nicely displayed by cargo shorts and a tee with the sleeves ripped out; his muscles flexed as he sliced a purple onion.

  End-of-the day sunshine slanted through the window and CXNG played Tammy Wynette’s “Stand by Your Man.” From the oven came the tantalizing scent of Greek chicken casserole.

  Jamal tossed the slivers of onion into the salad bowl. “Something wrong with the cucumber?”

  She shook her head and returned to her task. “Just admiring the view.”

  “Can’t complain about the view from here either.” He winked.

  She wasn’t wearing anything special, just a blue tank top over tan shorts, and that made the compliment even more special. Real life wasn’t all about cute sundresses and sexy lingerie; it was mostly T-shirts and jeans and practicality. She liked that it didn’t take fancy trappings for the two of them to feel the attraction.

  “Any sore muscles after this afternoon’s ride?” She’d taken him farther this time, and they’d loped and galloped more.

  “Not that I’ll admit to. But if we’re going to keep doing this, I
need my own cowboy boots.”

  “The ones I borrowed from Dave are his old ones. He said no rush getting them back.”

  “Isn’t that nice of him?” There was a snide tone in his voice that she hadn’t heard before. Could he be jealous?

  “I told you Dave’s just a friend, right?”

  “That’s what you said.”

  If he was jealous, would she be amused, flattered, or pissed off? She’d never been in that position before. Deciding to leave it alone, she took the feta cheese from the fridge and crumbled it into chunks.

  The Greek salad was finished just as the oven timer went off.

  Karen took the ceramic casserole dish from the oven. She turned the heat way down and slipped in the loaf of Italian bread they’d bought from the bakery. “What would you like to drink? Oh, did you see the doctor about the alcohol problem? Is it an allergy?”

  “Uh . . .” He opened the fridge and seemed absorbed in studying the contents. “You want a beer? Or some of that white wine?”

  “White wine. Thanks.” She studied his back. Wasn’t he going to answer her question? Likely he was the type of guy who avoided doctors unless he was pretty much dying.

  He pulled out the wine bottle, along with a can of Coke, then opened the wine and poured her a glass.

  She took the bread from the oven and she and Jamal sat down at the table. “You didn’t tell me if you saw the doctor.”

  “Oh, right. It’s not an allergy, just, uh, an intolerance thing. It’s best if I avoid alcohol.”

  “Too bad, but I’m glad it’s nothing serious.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t look so happy himself.

  “Would you rather I didn’t drink when—”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Have whatever you want. It’s no big deal.”

  He’d tell her if it was. She trusted him.

  “Try the chicken and tell me what you think.” She was a little nervous since it was the first time she’d cooked a real meal for him. When they’d shopped for groceries, she’d given him his choice of steak on the barbecue—as they’d done last weekend—or her Greek chicken dish. His choice of the casserole had surprised her. Catching her expression, he’d teased that she shouldn’t stereotype him.