Stand By Your Man Read online

  “Yeah,” he said ruefully. “I kinda figured. But I wasn’t sure.”

  She gave a shaky smile. “Never hurts to ask.” And she’d bet that, when he did, he rarely got turned down.

  “So. It’s after midnight. I should probably go.”

  “No.” The word jumped out of her mouth. She didn’t want him to slip out of her life so soon. “I’m not tired, and I am having that cake and coffee. It’d be nice to have company.” Maybe it was a test. If all he wanted from her was sex, he’d go.

  “Sounds good.”

  Pleased, she moved aside, her heart still racing too fast for comfort. “Why don’t you cut the cake? Plates are in the cupboard above. I’ll pour coffee.”

  A few minutes later they sat down across from each other at the kitchen table. She tasted Brooke’s cake. Mmm, it was maybe even better the second time around. She took another bite. “I have to ask for her recipe.”

  Jamal was watching her, not eating his own cake.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “If you’re not into having sex, you shouldn’t eat cake in front of me.”

  Hmm. Apparently she had feminine wiles she wasn’t aware of. She stifled a smug grin.

  He picked up his fork and began to eat.

  Trying to quell the ache and pulse of unfulfilled arousal, she returned to her former agenda: finding out more about him. “You said you grew up in Chicago? What did your parents do?”

  He froze in the act of raising his coffee mug toward his mouth.

  Had she said something wrong? It seemed such an innocent question.

  Jamal put down the mug with slow deliberation and squared his shoulders. Stone-faced, he said flatly, “Drugs.”

  Her lips parted but she didn’t how to respond. Still, he had answered her question, albeit succinctly. Cautiously, she said, “Your parents did drugs? That must have been, uh, tough.”

  He blinked. “Yeah.” After a moment, more words came slowly out. “Inner city. Puerto Rican dad who was in a gang.” His normally rich voice was cold, without inflection. “Sold drugs, did drugs, got killed in a gang war. Black mom who died of an overdose.” His face was as expressionless as his voice.

  “Oh my God, Jamal.” She thought of her own wonderful childhood, and how her parents’ social conscience had shaped her life and her brother’s. “How old were you?”

  “Six when he died. Seven when she did.”

  “So young.” She reached over to rest her hand on his bare forearm, warm skin over tense muscles. “Any siblings?”

  His Adam’s apple rippled as he swallowed. “Baby sister. Four years younger. By then Mom was seriously into drugs and Alicia was born addicted. She had lots of problems and my parents didn’t take her for treatment. She died before she was a year old.”

  “Oh, God.” She took a deep breath, knowing he wasn’t the kind of man who’d welcome gushy sympathy. “What happened when your parents died? Did you go into the system?”

  Gazing down at his plate, he shook his head. “My dad’s sister and her husband took me in. They lived in Toronto.”

  “How did it work out?”

  When he didn’t answer after a few seconds, Karen said, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. I just . . . I want to get to know you.”

  He lifted his head and stared at her, his near-black eyes piercing. “Why’s that?”

  What an odd question. Why wouldn’t someone want to get to know him? “Because I like you. Respect you.” She pressed her lips together, reflecting on this fascinating man. “Undercover work is a tough job and takes a special kind of person. You have to be able to be a loner, to wear masks, to interact with evil people. Yet when I see you joke with Jake, kiss Brooke on the cheek, put your feet up on my coffee table, you’re so . . . you know, human.”

  He gave a surprised snort of laughter. “No one’s ever accused me of that before.”

  Realizing that her hand still rested on his arm, where it felt way too at home, she removed it and wrapped it around her coffee mug. “You must talk to girlfriends about this stuff.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Nope.” A gleam lit his eyes. “Guess we don’t talk all that much.”

  Again glad she wasn’t a blusher, she accepted the change of subject. Curious, she asked, “You have hookups, not girlfriends?”

  “Right.”

  She’d been wise to not have sex with him. No way did she want sex without an emotional connection, a relationship. As for Jamal, sure, she could understand a guy like him wanting no-strings sex now and then. But as a steady diet? “Don’t you want more out of a relationship?”

  “Like what?”

  “Someone who understands you and cares about you.” A role she might well volunteer for if he was looking for a serious girlfriend.

  A long pause. She was aware of Glen Campbell singing in the background, asking his love if she was going away without a word of farewell.

  In a rough-edged voice, Jamal said, “Guess I don’t know what that’s like.”

  She parted her lips on a silent “Oh.” But, surely that wasn’t true. Maybe he chose not to let women get close, but there was Jake. Tentatively, she said, “Jake cares about you.”

  Warmth flickered across his dark face. “My man’s always got my back.”

  “And I’m sure you have his.”

  The warmth fled, replaced by tension lines that bracketed his mouth.

  Again not sure what she’d said wrong, she stumbled forward. “I know you’ve worked together a long time, you’re partners. But you’re friends too. There’s a connection that’s almost like brothers.”

  Slowly, as if he was weighing each word, Jamal said, “He’s a good cop. A good guy. A buddy.”

  Karen resisted rolling her eyes. What was it with tough-guy cops, that they refused to acknowledge how deep their feelings for each other often ran?

  “But we don’t talk about this shit,” Jamal said. “Our parents, how we grew up. It’s the past. It doesn’t matter.”

  “The past does matter,” she protested. Pointedly, she said, “There’s more to life than sex. Getting to know someone matters. Normal conversation’s a good thing.” She savored the last bite of cake, then pushed aside her empty plate. “You seemed interested when I told you my family stories. Or were you just being polite?”

  “No, it was nice.” There it was again, that undertone of wistfulness.

  “I get that you’re a private guy, but I’d like to hear some of your stories too.”

  “They’re not as nice as yours.”

  “They’re yours, Jamal. I want to hear them.”

  He rose, cleared the plates, and refilled both their coffee mugs. When he sat down at the table again, he said, “Normal conversation, eh? Okay, I’ll give it a try.” He sipped coffee. “You asked how it worked out with my aunt and uncle. It was . . . strained. Auntie Celeste felt obligated to take me. It was one of the rare times she asserted herself with Uncle Conroy, though I’m sure she regretted it later. He never let her—or me—forget that he hated the idea.”

  “What a horrible man.”

  “A primo asshole.”

  “Tell me more,” she urged.

  Another sip of coffee. Then, speaking slowly as if he’d maybe never said these things before, he went on. “White guy. Thought he was way better than Puerto Rican Celestina. She had fairly pale skin and could pass for a white gal with a tan. He made her go by Celeste because her real name was too ethnic. She and Conroy had a son and daughter; both looked white. Then there was me.” He raised a powerful dark hand, rotated it. “Couldn’t exactly pass. He made folks think I was a very distant relative, a charity case they’d taken in.”

  “They didn’t adopt you?”

  He snorted. “Not hardly. And I never fit. The way I’d grown up, I didn’t stand a chance. My aunt and uncle didn’t include me in family stuff. Conroy Jr. and Elizabeth were snotty. Picked on me and got away with it.” He shrugged. “But hey, I had food and shelter. In Chicago, I’d hav
e had to join a gang. In Toronto, I lived to tell the story.”

  Karen clasped her hands on the table. “I’ve been told I can be too judgmental.” She disagreed. Having high standards was a good thing. “But I have no patience with people like your aunt and uncle. There’s no excuse for mistreating a child.” She gazed into his eyes. “Jamal, you didn’t just live to tell the story. Look how you turned out. A cop who puts gangs in prison. That’s so impressive.”

  The tough cop actually looked flustered. “It’s no big deal.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s huge.”

  His eyes warmed, and then the corners crinkled. “Okay, you can be impressed. Any chance that’ll get you into bed with me?”

  His tone was teasing, so she replied in kind. “No, but good try.”

  The truth was, it took all her willpower to resist him. She’d started out in awe of the man, and in lust. The more she learned about him, the more she respected and liked him. Too easily, she could see herself caring. Even falling for him. So, though she really, really wanted to have sex with him, she had even more reason not to. No way could she treat him as merely a hookup, and she’d hate to have him think of her that way.

  If she was smart, she’d drive him back to the motel. Having the man around was just too much temptation.

  And yet she might never see him again. How could she bear to cut the night short?

  Chapter 4

  Oh yeah, Karen MacLean was fine. Beautiful and sexy; a dedicated cop. A woman with intelligence, depth, and warmth. She was way too good for a guy like him.

  Jamal had had sex with a number of women. Never had he experienced the same kind of intimacy as he did sitting with Karen at her kitchen table, talking about things he’d never before shared with anyone. Having her take his side, not like she pitied him but more like she respected him. He didn’t deserve that respect. If she knew how he’d screwed up on the job and put his partner’s life in jeopardy—

  He jumped to his feet. “Want some more coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  He took both their mugs and refilled them. She drank hers black, same as he did, and apparently didn’t have a problem with caffeine. It was about the only thing they had in common, except for a fondness for Brooke Kincaid’s cooking and a commitment to getting bad guys off the street.

  Karen rose. “Let’s go back to the living room, put our feet up.”

  He followed her and they resumed their previous seats, bare feet side by side on the coffee table. Her feet were strong and capable like the rest of her, the toenails unpainted. Those feet were way sexier than red-tipped ones in fussy high-heeled sandals.

  He wanted to rub his foot against hers, brush his fingers against her cheek, press his lips to hers. Hell, he wanted to strip off her clothes and explore those toned curves, to thrust his swollen cock deep inside her. The craving was even stronger than the desire to drink, a burning need that he still battled daily.

  But she didn’t want that, and she was right. She deserved more from a man.

  Almost as if she’d read his mind, Karen said, “You don’t see yourself getting married and having kids. I imagine that has something to do with your parents, and your aunt and uncle?”

  He’d never thought about it. “I’ve just never pictured it, me with a wife, kids.”

  “And I’ve always pictured having a family. Being with a great guy, creating a home together, raising children. Teaching them about values, helping them with homework. Going riding, playing with the dog, swimming in the lake, having picnics.”

  He could see her doing it too. Living a normal, happy life, the kind he’d never contemplated. “Riding? D’you see yourself staying in Caribou Crossing?”

  A quick smile flashed. “You caught me. I know I could be transferred anywhere, but I do like it here. The beautiful country, the horses. It feels like me, if you know what I mean.”

  “Uh, not really.”

  “Oh come on, Jamal. Off the top of your head, what feels like you?”

  To his surprise, an answer popped into his mind. “Basketball.”

  She cocked her head. “Yeah?”

  “Played it in school. I was good at it. Got some respect.”

  When she nodded, he figured she was connecting the dots. A teenager with a lot of physical stuff happening: growth, hormones, rage that he barely managed to suppress. Finding a legitimate physical outlet to blow off steam. A kid who didn’t fit and got picked on at home, becoming part of a team, even a bit of a star. Having hot girls chase after him. Yeah, he’d liked basketball.

  “Do you still play?”

  “Sometimes a few members shoot some hoops.” After, they’d go out for a drink, talk sports. It was nice. Except that the others got to drink their beer. He’d pour his out in the john and refill the bottle with water.

  “If you had kids, you’d hang a basketball hoop off the garage, play with them in the driveway.”

  And, just that quickly, her words conjured an image in his mind. Him and a couple of kids—a boy and a girl—tossing the ball around. Crazy dog getting in the way. A woman sticking her head out the back door, laughing at the sight, and darting down the steps to join in the game. A woman with gleaming brown hair and strong, practical feet that could tear up the makeshift court.

  “Jamal?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, stunned at that weird vision. “Guess I would hang that hoop.”

  “You’d be a good father because you know how it hurts kids when their parents don’t do right by them.” She gazed at him with conviction in her tawny eyes.

  If he had kids, of course he’d do right by them. And by his woman. But he wasn’t going there. Was he? Why did he feel an odd yearning for something he’d never imagined having?

  Karen rested her hand on his arm. “I’ve met some people who are true loners, who really don’t want close relationships.”

  “Guess that’s me.” The words came out brusque and, despite the heat of her hand, a chill rippled through him.

  “It’s not how I see you. There’s warmth in you and—”

  He snorted.

  Undeterred, she finished. “You connect with people.”

  “I do? I mean, yeah, when I’m undercover. Playing a role. But it’s like there are two of me, the guy in the role and the cop who’s always aware that he’s there to take down the bad guys.”

  “You weren’t playing a role at dinner tonight, or here with me.”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Which means you do connect. Just you, being yourself. But I’d guess you haven’t had too many chances to do that. Fast-tracking your career, spending so much time undercover.” Her mouth twisted and she took her hand off his arm. “Treating women as hookups, not girlfriends.”

  Okay, that didn’t impress her. He wasn’t surprised, because she was so different from the women he’d hooked up with. Most of them babbled on about silly stuff like movie stars and singers, or tried to persuade him to tell undercover stories even when he said those were classified. Some, like Marion, just wanted to have sex. Those were the ones he liked best.

  As for Karen . . . Yeah, of course he’d like to go to bed with her, but he enjoyed her stories. She didn’t push him to talk about dangerous assignments, but instead wanted to know about him. The man, not the cop. Earlier, she’d asked if he wouldn’t like to be with a woman who understood and cared about him. Now, he kind of saw what she meant. “You make me think,” he admitted.

  A surprised laugh jolted out of her. “Should I say ‘thank you’ or apologize?”

  “Not sure.” He rubbed his head, grinned ruefully. “It’s confusing. But maybe it’s a good thing. You make me see . . .” He swallowed, and then a word slipped out, soft as a sigh. “Possibilities.”

  “I do? Tell me.”

  Did he dare think about possibilities? “Oh shit, woman. I never talk about stuff like this.”

  “It’s time you started. Jamal, you decided to take a promotion and do less undercover work. Weren’t you thinki
ng that you could have more of a life now?”

  Not consciously. But maybe, somewhere buried deep. That image flickered into his mind again: the basketball hoop, the kids, the dog. The woman. Possibilities. Seductive and dangerous. He shoved them aside and said gruffly, “Don’t think I’m suited for all that home and family stuff. Yeah, it sounds nice, like those stories about your family sounded nice. But hell, I don’t think it’s something I could do.”

  “You could if you wanted to. It’s good to have dreams and goals to guide us.” Then she grimaced. “Not that having them is any guarantee of achieving them. I’m proof of that.” A sigh. “Even if by some miracle I did find a man who was interested in me, not everyone can handle being married to a cop. The divorce rate in the RCMP is pretty high.”

  He hated seeing discouragement on her pretty face. “Don’t give up on the dream. Not all cop marriages fail, and not all guys are crazy. One’s going to come along who realizes how special you are.” Whether that man would measure up to her high standards was another issue.

  “You’re good for my ego,” she said softly.

  Oh hell, she was too damned irresistible, from the warm glow in her golden-brown eyes, to the interest she’d shown in him, to that touch of insecurity about her own attractiveness. “I could be good for more than that.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “No sex,” he said quickly. “I get it, Karen. But one kiss . . .” He leaned toward her slowly.

  Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move away.

  And when his lips touched hers, they were soft, warm, and giving.

  He smoothed back a silky strand of hair that had fallen forward, then slid his fingers through her hair to the nape of her neck. He’d touched women’s necks before, yet the skin had never before felt so soft and feminine.

  Karen, the cop who cared fiercely about her job, was also one hundred percent woman. One hundred percent desirable.

  Pulse hammering, he struggled for control as his tongue teased the crease between her lips until she opened. Her sweet, warm breath sighed against his face. The tip of her tongue met his, tentative at first, but quickly engaging in a dance of exploration and desire.