“Hey! You wanna look at this demographic?”
Pushing the distracting memories aside, he focused on the task at hand. At the end of an hour, the territorial lines were redrawn and they’d put a plan together to replace the two mom-and-pop enterprises they’d lost, at least until he could bring them back into the fold. They were leaking information from somewhere. Randy had encrypted Dean’s laptop again, as well as his own, and background-checked the crew. Nothing.
Dean had taken to working at home sometimes, making his schedule unpredictable, he and Amy working shoulder to shoulder in his den. No one knew where he’d be on any given day so it was unlikely anyone was eavesdropping at opportune moments. He liked spending time with Amy, sometimes just watching her efficiently build those sites, subtly encouraging her clients to accept ideas often quite different from their own, but better. She really didn’t need to work, but she liked it, and her schedule was totally flexible, suiting him.
“Any ideas who’s fucking with us?”
“Nothing so far, Dean. Whoever it is, they’re subtle. I can’t tell if they pick up on a comment, steal information or what. But for sure, it’s getting passed to Burnett. He zeroes in on the weaknesses, like the undefended outposts in Star Trek’s planetary system.”
“Still watching that old shit?” He punched Randy’s shoulder.
“Me and Andi have all the movies and the TV series. Even the first one. The acting’s painful but we’re addicted.”
“Uh huh. Well, spare me. I think Burnett’s the front man for the guy I’ve been waiting all these years for.”
The enveloping silence could have been one of those cloaking devices from that old sci-fi space show his lieutenant was hooked on. Dean waited while Randy processed, the man’s quick brain so at odds with his defensive tackle’s body.
“You’re sure?” Caution underscoring the words, along with a touch of elation. Knowing they could both get clear if it was so and they got it done. Randy’s cropped blond hair threw his broad features into stark relief, dark blue eyes boring into Dean’s.
“Had a brief meet with my handler last night. Put everything together and it looks that way. All the intel from different sources is paying off. Burnett gets sent in first and chips away, softens operations. Recruits and turns crew members.”
“You’ve been doing this nearly six years. It fucking well took long enough.”
“You’re in it close to that.” And Randy wasn’t yet thirty. Dean wondered idly if they’d keep in contact when, if, this got over.
“I know. What’ll I do after?”
Laughing, although not with real mirth, Dean replied, “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Have to decide whether to let Burnett in a little closer without showing our hand, or push back and make him show his. I’m thinking we push. Patience apparently is running thin for his boss.”
“Then let’s take our former “clients” back and expand a little more.”
“Call in the crew.”
****
Shoving her hair back, hand searching blindly for a clip, Amy studied her latest design request. She decided not to take it. Selling tasteless nude photos might be someone’s interest but she didn’t have to collude. Porn wasn’t her thing. She had her own fantasies played out in the bedroom. And the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, the—the front door opened and closed, shutting those prurient thoughts down.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice sounded blurred. Drunk? Strange, Dean rarely drank more than a few beers. After that meeting with his mother some months ago, Amy could understand why. He didn’t drink much, didn’t smoke, no drugs except for an occasional aspirin, ate healthy. He was a paragon, if you could overlook his arrogance and supremely male attitude. Which she did. Mostly.
Hopping up from her chair, she hurried out to greet him. And stumbled to a halt. Dean’s bottom lip was split, dark, dried blood crusting over, right eye swollen. Blood speckled the front of his torn shirt, too much to be the result of his lip injury. Her eyes dropped to his hands, the knuckles bruised and cut, puffy. Heaven help her. No stranger to faces damaged by hard objects and thrown fists, a wave of dizziness still engulfed her, swiftly dispelled by a rush of fury. Fucking men.
Ignoring him, she crossed to the kitchen, yanking open a drawer full of clean dishtowels. She threw one in the sink and turned on the hot water, squirting in some antibacterial dish soap. Grabbing another, she turned to the fridge, noting the dark expression on Dean’s face. Did he think she’d welcome him? Like coming home from the war? The past months of quiet, shielded from his actual job, had lulled her. Her anger turned inward. She knew the business he was in, but damn it all—she kept her head buried in the sand until things like this kicked up the sandstorm. Damn it.
“Sit at the counter, Dean.”
He didn’t move immediately but she kept her focus on filling the towel with ice, and at last, he settled on one of the fabric topped stools, swinging to face her. Turning off the tap, she wrung the fabric dry, hissing under her breath at the sting of the hot water. He watched her approach with wary intensity, but submitted to the press of the towel on his lip, a flicker in his eyes the only indication of how much it had to hurt. The dried blood slowly came away and with it a slow trickle of crimson. She examined it carefully but thought he wouldn’t need stitches. Eating and smiling were going to be a bitch though, and kissing… She could smack him.
“Hold the ice pack to your eye while I wash this out. I’ll clean your knuckles and then get some peroxide for them. Human teeth are filthy.”
His hand encircled her wrist and held her in place. “Part of the job, sweetheart.”
“And again, I don’t have to like it. If you come home with a knife wound, or shot, I’ll…” Tears spilled to short circuit her ultimatum. How could she even give voice to such things? What the hell was wrong with her?
Yanking her hand loose she stomped to the sink. “Put the goddamned ice pack on your eye.” She swore he chuckled, but when she whirled on him, all she could see was his hand holding the towel, shrouding his features.
Cleaning his knuckles with a little more fervor than likely required didn’t give her any satisfaction, and the peroxide foamed nicely to reassure her he’d be fine, no infection. But when he pulled her onto his lap, wedging her between the countertop and his muscled chest, she wept like a child, noisily and unabashedly. She’d cried more since she met Dean Chambray…
“S’okay, sweetheart. It’s all right.”
It didn’t feel like it would ever be all right. She was a mess and the suspicion nibbling around the edges of her consciousness, the one she shooed away by resolutely thinking of other things, made her sad. Dean was in a dangerous business and there wasn’t room for her and her suspicion. Apparently antibiotics and birth control really weren’t a good mix, but maybe her cycle was just screwed up.
After a time she clambered off his lap, taking the ice pack with her to empty the melt into the sink. She rinsed it, then used the fabric to wash her face clean of tears and makeup, fumbling a tissue from the box on the window sill to blow her nose. Behind her, Dean stood and pushed the stool back under the counter, the feet grating over the tile.
“I’ll go change.”
Nodding, not trusting her voice, she closed her eyes and pulled herself together. Dinner.
She was gazing into the freezer, trying to think about the bag of frozen shrimp and a creole sauce she’d sourced on the ’Net when he called her. He was in the den, staring at her computer screen.
“This is shit, Amy.”
“I know. I won’t take the work. I was in the process of drafting a polite rejection when you brought your damaged self home.”
“Good.” He moved to his laptop and cocked his head.
“What?”
“It’s on. I thought I’d turned it off.”
“I didn’t notice. You’d better plug it in, babe. If it’s been on all day your battery will be down.”
Nodding, he secured the cord
and made the necessary connections, then powered down.
“I’ll make dinner.”
“We’ll go out. Join a few of the crew at Remingtons. They’re expecting us.” There was a strange echo in his voice and she examined his face for a clue. Got it.
“You want your world to know, right? Who won the skirmish. Jesus.”
“Wear something sexy, sweetheart. That way my world can look at you.”
A dull clang registered in the back of her mind and she shivered. Her head shook from side to side in an involuntary reaction.
Dean was on her in an instant, so in tune. He wrapped her up. “What’s wrong?”
“If it’s all the same to you, I don’t want people looking, babe.” She said the words as lightly as she could, but knew he heard the dread when his eyes filled with tenderness.
“Poor choice of words, Amy. But you could turn up in a sack and they’d still look at you. I only meant it that way.”
“Okay. I won’t take long.” Resolutely pushing her anxiety down she hurried to the bedroom. Dean followed her, heading into the bathroom to shower, taking a clean pair of boxers with him. After slipping in behind him to grab her makeup kit, she returned to the bedroom. Pulling a clean button down shirt and a pair of dark jeans out from his rapidly diminishing side of the closet she laid them on the bed, then dug a pair of socks from the top drawer of the bureau, before considering her own outfit for the evening.
Choosing a little black dress, deceptively modest until she zipped it, she reapplied her makeup a little heavier than usual, paying attention to her eyes, squinting in the less than ideal lighting above the dresser. The heavy white-gold earrings anchored the look, with her hair swept off her face and secured by a silver comb. Black stilettos with a silver heel to match her bag pulled the whole thing together. Dean’s sure gait actually faltered when he emerged from the bathroom.
“Fuck me, sweetheart. You look amazing.” He crossed to the closet and extracted a casual suit jacket. His hand went to the pocket and delved inside, emerging with a shimmer drifting between his fingers. Crossing to her he reached for her hand and clasped a stunning white gold chain around her wrist, pads of his fingertips pressing down firmly on the clasp.
“Seems a good time for you to wear this. Replace that necklace you took off.”
Bereft of words, her heart pounding, Amy stared at the gift. He wouldn’t give it to her to placate her, or for any other reason other than because he wanted to. He had noticed that she took the C for change necklace off, of course he had, although said nothing. His timing sucked—or did it? But his gesture meant the world and she would try not to think about the cold shard of terror embedded in her gut. She had made her choice and was just going to have to get used to it, keep an eye out for him, herself and her suspicion.
After giving her an assessing glance, he yanked his clothes on, slightly battered features giving him a rakishly handsome look, and gestured for her to precede him.
At last she found her voice. “It’s beautiful, Dean. I love it. Thank you.”
“No more beautiful than you, sweetheart. Now let’s go and celebrate.”
She wondered if she’d missed an opportunity to have a serious conversation with him, or at the very least clarify what they were truly celebrating.
****
The impromptu dinner party was raucous, Dean’s crew clearly riding an adrenaline high, although she saw a few surreptitious movements to ease sore ribs, so her man wasn’t the only one with overt injuries. Enrico sported a broken nose, taped and splinted, and he squinted at her through nearly crossed eyes. He was without feminine company and looked a trifle lost. Andrea gave her one of those, they’re idiots but what can you do looks, and patiently cut Randy’s steak for him, since one of his hands was bandaged. Two other men showed cuts above opposite eyebrows, bookends of war, and their women visibly compressed their mouths, whether with concern or annoyance, Amy couldn’t tell. Lee sat passively beside Delores, a dark bruise, darker than his mocha skin, covering a cheekbone. Delores had a little muscle ticking beneath her eye. Only Olsen appeared unscathed.
Amy supposed Dean led his troops—he would hardly hang back and direct their movements. She wondered if the rest of his crew were so damaged they stayed at home or if they were doing other things, part of the job. She made a very real effort not to grind her teeth.
The meal was finally consumed and the conversation dwindled. She could follow Dean from the restaurant, relieved to leave the false gaiety behind.
****
“You didn’t partake of the margaritas, sweetheart.” The beer and a couple of unusual shots of tequila with Enrico slurred Dean’s speech a little. She’d driven home, handling his precious truck beneath his jaundiced eye.
“Somebody had to drive.”
“You do me different when you drink.”
Uh huh. She most certainly did. And she wasn’t doing him in any form tonight.
“Talk to me.” No sign of having imbibed alcohol now, just that steady determination.
“I already talked to you. I’m not going to dwell on it, but neither am I going to be happy and cheerful.”
“Punishing me? No sex?”
Pulling into the drive, she stomped on the brakes, the seatbelts catching hard. The gearshift in park she pulled the keys from the ignition and managed not to throw them at him, setting them down gently instead on the console between them. “If I’m punishing you that way, Dean, then I’m punishing myself. I’m still freaked. And scared. I love you and seeing you come home like that, seeing your face over the next few days is going to remind me of just how scared I am. Now, please, let it go. I’m tired and just want to sleep. I’ll be okay in the morning.”
When he didn’t respond she threw open the heavy door and struggled down to the pavement. Tight, short dresses and heels weren’t meant for riding in trucks.
His door slammed and he was there to help, steadying her, closing her door. His split lip pressed on her shoulder. She knew it had to hurt, but he persisted for another moment, then drew her to the stairs. They ascended in silence and Amy punched in the code, the green light signalling an all clear.
Once again the thin veneer of civilization became apparent to her—locks and security systems a way of life, particularly in the one she’d willing chosen. She’d just have to deal.
Kicking off her heels, she trod off to the bedroom, exhaustion dictating her movements. She was tired all the freaking time. Stripping off her dress, she tossed it over the chair she’d brought with her from her place, the only piece of furniture she thought might fit the design. She should really hang the dress up, but was so done in, she wasn’t certain she could even take her underwear off. Dean knelt at her feet, pulling her against him so she could allow first one foot then the other to lift and lose her stilettos, and then he slipped the lace thong over her hips, letting it to slither to her ankles. She stepped out and he stood, already stripped to the waist.
Reaching to unhook her strapless bra, gently pressing a fingertip to each nipple when it fell away to reveal her breasts, he spoke quietly. “I can’t change things yet, Amy.”
Yet. Did that mean… She searched his face, finding it open, although detected no immediate answer to her silent hope. But it was enough he hinted it.
“Go to bed, sweetheart.” He left her to walk into the bathroom, and after pulling the hair jewellery off, putting the earrings beside it on the bedside table, she dropped onto the mattress like a stone.
Sucked dry. The shimmering links of his bracelet around her wrist not an inch from her eyes hypnotized her. It would be fine. She’d trust him with everything, her life, her well being, her heart.
****
It hurt like fucking hell to brush his teeth and Dean saw blood in the sink when he spit. Chewing his food had been an exercise in both pain and frustration, although he hadn’t let on, both to spare Amy more worry and to set the example for his men. That shot to the face would be a reminder for awhile. The other man ha
d been determined and as equally reticent. None of the bruisers would say who hired them or if they even belonged to another organization. He’d let them go, bloody and bowed, as an example, a reminder, that Dean Chambray wasn’t to be fucked with. With any luck, he’d have pushed somebody’s buttons. The somebody he most wanted to lure in.
Losing himself in his woman tonight would have been optimum, but she’d been strung so tight he was afraid she’d shatter. Having seen soldiers stretched to that limit, there was no way he’d push Amy past it. He had to tell her who he really was. It would probably make her worry even more, part of the jumble of reasons he’d avoided sharing in the first place. Fuck. She would see him as even more vulnerable, guarding such a secret. Never mind the competition—his whole crew would turn on him, and her, if they found out, with the exception of Randy. And Randy would need to protect his own ass and his own woman.
He also needed to tell her he loved her. But in what order? Would she see a proclamation of love as softening her for the revelation he was actually sort of undercover but had withheld that gem? That he hadn’t really trusted her? It wasn’t just his past getting in the way. He had other loyalties, too, including the promise he’d made to his handler and the unspoken one to Randy. But he needed to tell her.
The rest of his clothes hit the hamper and he paused to make sure his boxers stayed on the rim instead of falling to the floor. Amy had muttered about so much laundry and he suspected he was the cause, not that she nagged him. She put up with him and then some. He didn’t think there was anything he could pinpoint that she did to drive him crazy, except maybe her retail habit. She was encroaching on his half of the second closet and she insisted on buying him shit he resisted wearing. Though she did have great taste.
He was distracting himself, delaying the inevitable. He should talk to her tonight, tell her how he felt and promise to talk at length once they were both rested.
Sliding into bed beside her, spooning tightly against her back, ignoring how his cock surged in eager anticipation at the press of her soft buttocks, he said it. “Love you, Amy. And we need to talk seriously in the morning.”
Forever (Eternity #1) Page 14