by Mary Calmes
He’d gone home to change—he’d put on the olive-green henley that molded to his sculpted shoulders and biceps, sleeves shoved up to show off veined forearms, and the faded jeans clung like a second skin to his long, powerful legs. Watching his advance overwhelmed me for a moment, but I managed to smile as he reached us.
“Hey,” I said, my voice a dry croak of desire.
He stared at me for a moment before turning to Daley and offering his hand. “Ian Doyle.”
“Daley O’Meara,” he greeted, clearly amused. “Doyle, huh? Apparently your husband’s fond of Irishmen.”
“One Irishman, certainly,” he said, his voice rough with a sliver of danger.
From Daley’s smirk and half shrug, he seemed not at all intimidated, more amused, and that was interesting because most men were, if not fearful, definitely wary of Ian.
He turned back to me. “I’ll get your number from Eli. I’d love to have you along for a gym workout or the next time we all go out.”
“Sure,” I agreed fast and hugged him when he leaned in.
It was quick, and then he gave Ian a nod before taking his leave. When I turned to Ian, he was glaring at me.
“What?”
“Are you kidding?”
I was at a loss, and then it hit me. “Oh, I should’ve done a better job introducing you guys. He’s a detective over in the—”
“The fuck do I care,” Ian growled, grabbing my bicep and rushing me down the hall several feet in the opposite direction, toward the back door where it was quieter, before knocking me into the wall.
“Ian, are you—”
He took my mouth hard, just leaned in and kissed me, nothing gentle about it, claiming, possessive, and hungry. He slipped one hand to my hip and the other around the back of my head, sifting his fingers through my hair as he held me still.
I opened for him, allowing the feasting, craving it, having missed him all day, wrapping my arms around his neck to hold him to me, wanting him closer, under me, under my hands, in bed. Pressing close, I moaned softly, which he must have liked, if the way he parted my legs with his thigh was any indication.
“Fuck,” he moaned like he was in pain, breaking the kiss but not stepping free of my arms, instead bumping his forehead against mine so we were sharing air.
“What’s with you?” I asked, curious.
“Where the fuck is my head?”
I smiled and kissed his nose. “I hope right here.”
He lifted his head and then winced before he took my face gently, reverently in his hard, callused hands. “Oh, love, what happened?”
Him calling me his love never failed to drench me in heat and make my pulse leap. It was one of those things: a gruff, growly, beautiful man being vulnerable and using an endearment that was all mine—it was enough to make me want to drop to my knees for him right there.
“Miro?”
I swallowed hard against the lump in my throat. My mouth had gone dry. “One of the guys hit me with his gun.”
“How many stitches did you—”
“Just five.”
“Jesus Christ, when the hell was this?”
I had to think. “Before I got a new job.”
“A what?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I need to hear the—for fuck’s sake, Miro,” he husked, grimacing as he smoothed his hands down the sides of my neck, turning my head back and forth. “You’ve got bruises all over you. Where the fuck was—”
“It happens, you know that.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t there.”
“It’s okay,” I sighed, so happy he was with me now. “It’s not—”
“And what the hell are you wearing,” he snapped, yanking on my shirt. “Since when do you own anything purple?”
“It’s Sharpe’s,” I replied, chuckling. He sounded more upset about the shirt than my injuries. “I think I look great in it.”
“I don’t… like it,” he assured me, scowling.
“Well, I’m not crazy about this one that you’ve got on either.”
“What?” He was confused. “Why?”
“Little tight, don’t you think?” I teased, smiling at my sexy man.
A breath escaped before he kissed me again, just as hot and devouring as the first time, tugging on the shirt so he could get his hands under it, smoothing over my ribs, my abdomen, and down to my belt buckle while he rubbed his tongue over mine, stroking, taking more and more until I was trembling and boneless in his arms, ready for whatever he wanted. Always with Ian, my response to him was the same, the instant flare of desire followed by the devouring flame of arousal that could only be sated one way.
“Come home with me,” he rumbled, and when I caught the glint of gold out of the corner of my eye, I made a noise I wasn’t proud of. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s—” My voice cracked, and I had to concentrate to get it to work. “You picked up your ring,” I almost whined.
“Course,” he said gruffly. “It was ready today. I went and got it right after work.”
When I first put the ring on his finger, we realized we had purchased it just a bit too big, but we figured it wouldn’t be an issue. That was before the weather changed from a bit cold to arctic, the way Chicago winters did, and the ring started sliding off everywhere. When it fell into a plate of kung pao chicken, Ian had winced and said maybe it was time to get it sized. He’d dropped it off two weeks ago, so I’d been missing him wearing it since then, but now it was back on his hand where it belonged and where I wanted it to stay.
“I’ll never take it off,” he promised like he was reading my mind.
“Yeah?” I asked hoarsely.
“Yeah,” he said before he kissed me again.
I’d forgotten about the ring with everything else that was going on, but he hadn’t, and the thought that he made a special trip out of his way to make sure he had it on the first day he could made my knees weak. Sometimes, stupidly, I wondered if I was as important to Ian as he was to me. But always, inevitably, inexorably, he proved to me I was paramount in his mind. It had been like that since the night in the truck in the rain when he told me he was leaving the Army because I was the adventure he wanted.
“So?”
My gaze met his.
“Can we leave already?”
“Love to,” I said, grinning at him. “I just gotta get my phone from Eli.”
He pulled my phone from his back pocket and passed it to me.
“Got everything covered, do you?”
“Always,” he assured me, slipping his hand gently, tenderly, around the side of my neck before drawing me close for another kiss.
Chapter 4
ABOUT FIVE months ago, the Thursday a week after Thanksgiving, Ian and I went to the court building over on Randolph Street, down to the lower level where the marriages and civil unions were performed, and sat outside the door in the row of chairs with Carl Embrey, who was wanted for money laundering and bribery in Las Vegas. We had gotten the marriage license and paid the ten-dollar administrative fee on Tuesday and planned to get married the day after, but weren’t able to get away from a fugitive pickup gone sideways. I wasn’t waiting even one more day, so when Ian insisted we take Embrey back, I put my foot down.
“Fuck that,” I said, turning in the passenger seat of the 1987 Buick GNX we were driving around in. I loved it and even asked Asset Forfeiture if there was any way I could go to the auction when it was put up. The marshal in charge was condescending, but worse, his boss called Kage, who asked if I was high.
“This is a nice car,” Embrey commented, leaning back and wiggling on the leather seats.
I ignored him. “I want to go now,” I told Ian, checking the Hermès Cape Cod watch Catherine had sent me.
Normally her gifts were not so extravagant, but I’d scared her due to my most recent run-in with Hartley, and so she bought something that conveyed the depth of her love. She later told me I should consider it both m
y Christmas and birthday presents, but since I got pajamas soon after, I was thinking she forgot how much she spent. Not that a neurosurgeon noticed, and with her husband being a composer—he did film and TV scores—it wasn’t like even an Hermès watch would put a dent in their budget.
“It’s three fifteen already, babe,” he told me, turning the wheel like he was going to head back to the office with Embrey. “We can do it tomorrow early. We’ll come before lunch.”
I took a breath.
“Okay?” He sounded nonchalant, like if it didn’t happen today, tomorrow was just as good.
“Ian.”
He turned to look at me and did a double take when he saw my face.
“My honeymoon is already tabled because Dorsey and Ryan got pulled for transport. I will not put off being married to you even one… more… day.”
He fixed his eyes on me, flicked them back to Embrey, who had smartly gone quiet, and then returned his gaze to mine.
“Unless the when of it really doesn’t matter to—”
“No,” he said hoarsely. He whipped us out of the parking spot on the street, directly into oncoming traffic on Harlem Avenue, before flipping a U-turn and flooring the gas pedal. That got us moving pretty damn fast considering the car could hit sixty in about five seconds.
“Jesus Christ!” Embrey gasped from the back seat.
I called Kage.
“Jones,” he said like he always did, like I made him tired.
“We’re gonna be about an hour late getting back, boss. We’re stopping to get married.”
A beat passed. “I’m sorry?”
“Married,” I repeated. “We’re doing that now.”
It took him a moment to respond. “Okay.”
When I got off the phone, I was smiling.
“Happy?” Ian teased as he wove in and out of lanes of traffic.
“I am,” I sighed deeply, putting my hand on his thigh.
“No, no, don’t do that,” he cautioned. “I need every brain cell and all my reaction time for this drive.”
“Yeah, leave him alone,” Embrey muttered from behind me.
I could not wipe the huge grin off my face.
We made it across town in fifteen minutes—which was an Ian Doyle personal best, helped quite a bit by the Buick—and he parked while I went to sign us in. Ian got back to me fast, jogging down the long hall, and I noticed that because we’d been out of the office the whole day, we were both dressed in cargo pants, boots, T-shirts, and heavy hoodies, him wearing a shoulder and thigh holster, me with just the shoulder one, both of us with our badges on chains in the middle of our chests. It was not how I imagined it; us in suits was how it went in my head, with boutonnieres and rings. As it was, none of those things would happen, because I wanted us married right the hell now. I had a terrible habit of insisting on things, only to realize it wasn’t the right choice after the horse left the barn.
Ian sat down beside me and took hold of my hand.
I lifted my head to tell him we could wait, but the smile he directed my way rendered me mute before he passed me a small box. Opening the lid, I found two thick gold comfort bands.
“You had these?” I ground out, lifting my head.
“Been carrying them around for a week,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “You’re not the only one who wants to get married.”
And that fast, what I wanted, and when I wanted it, was no longer a bad thing. “No?”
He chuckled. “No.”
Fifteen minutes later, after couples went in and out—some looking like they were facing a firing squad, others bursting with happiness, some with family and friends trailing in after them, others alone—I was not surprised to turn and see people making a hole for Sam Kage.
He looked like he always did, polished, strong, like the rock you built on. It made sense he was there, and when he got close, we both stood up.
He offered me his hand when he reached us.
“Thank you for coming, sir.”
“Of course,” he said like it was expected, and then I realized he was in the lead of a surprising parade of massive proportion.
Behind him were Aruna and Liam, Kohn and Kowalski, and the three boys—men—Ian and I watched over: Josue, Cabot, and Drake.
“How did you do this?” I asked as Kage shook Ian’s hand at the same time Aruna fluttered into my arms and her husband squeezed my shoulder.
“I called the judge’s clerk and asked him to make sure you two were called last, and then I had Kowalski and Kohn pick up your boys, and I sent Sharpe and White to get Aruna and Liam.”
“You weren’t actually going to get married without me, were you?” Aruna, one of my oldest, dearest friends, asked me.
“Course not,” I lied as she pulled her iPad Mini out of her bag. I was suddenly looking at the faces of three other women.
Besides Ian, I defined four other people in my life as family: Min Kwon, Catherine Benton, Aruna Duffy, and Janet Powell. Aruna was in Chicago with me, but Min was in her office in LA, Catherine was in scrubs at Mount Sinai Beth Israel, and Janet was in her office in Washington DC. They were all beaming at me and waving before Aruna turned it so they could see the others.
Kowalski glowered, but Eli gave them his patented flashing grin, and then on cue, I saw Sharpe and White coming toward us, followed by Ching and Becker with a guy in handcuffs between them. The man was bleeding, and Ching was wrapping the knuckles of his right hand with what looked like gauze. Everyone moved out of the way as Becker shoved their prisoner down beside Embrey. Two uniformed CPD officers came last, and they took up position, one on each side of the two men in handcuffs. Kage thanked them for being there, and they nodded, glancing over to us and, I was certain, wondering what the hell was going on. They didn’t dare question it, however. That was the chief deputy US marshal standing there.
I hugged everyone, and when we were called in, I made the walk with one hand in Ian’s and the other in Aruna’s.
We didn’t need witnesses, I knew that, but it made my heart swell and my eyes fill with everyone being there, even Dorsey and Ryan on FaceTime on Eli’s phone.
It was fast, all of ten minutes. The important part was not the words but that it was official, and when it was over, Ian belonged to me. Sliding the ring onto Ian’s finger settled my heart in my chest, grounded me, and fused him into my life forever. He was what I somehow thought he would never be: my husband. Even when he asked me to marry him, even when I said yes, I never thought we’d make it before the judge and have things legal and binding between us. But now I could see my whole life with him in it with such absolute certainty that I was, for a moment, overwhelmed. He was mine, and it was done, and as my vision blurred, he kissed me to a round of clapping and cheering. I put my face against his shoulder as I shuddered, and he held me tight enough to keep me from flying apart with happiness. It was, without a doubt, the greatest day of my life. I could not ever remember being happier.
Now, some months later, following Ian out of the club, seeing the resized ring back on his hand sent a tremor through me, and I had to clutch at him for balance.
“You all right?” he asked. I could hear the concern in his voice.
“Yeah, I’m great,” I assured him, lacing my fingers with his.
He took me out the back so we wouldn’t have to walk through the crowd, and on the street, bouncing along beside him, I asked how he’d known where I was.
“Kohn sent me pictures of you all night.”
I turned to walk backward to face him. “What?”
“Yeah, he’s an ass.”
“Are you kidding?” But I knew he wasn’t, and I understood Eli’s game. He’d been on my phone sending Ian pictures so he could see all the fun he was missing out on. The man was an evil genius, and I needed to thank him.
“No, I’m not kidding,” Ian snapped, puffed up and pissed off and utterly adorable.
“Did I look good?”
“Yes. Very.” He bit off each word, wh
ich was even cuter.
“Drunk?”
“What?”
“Did I look drunk?”
“Yeah. Your eyes get all glassy.”
“Oh yeah?”
“They get dark and wet.”
“Which you like.”
He grunted.
“Ian?” I fished, wanting to hear the words.
“Which I like. Yes.”
“So you were worried that I’d run off with some sailor out on leave or something?”
“Not a sailor,” he said, annoyed, petulant. “More like that guy—what’s his name?”
“Daley.”
“The fuck kind of name is that?”
“Irish, honey, just like yours.”
“Like mine my ass.”
I turned around and draped an arm around his neck, leaning on him, hanging, giving him some of my weight. “Don’t be jealous.”
“Me?”
I scoffed.
“The hell do I have to be jealous about?” His voice was low and a bit savage.
“Absolutely nothing,” I mollified him, kissing his cheek.
He chuckled. “Listen, tomorrow night we’re having dinner with the supervisory deputy.”
“For what?”
“He wants to talk to me formally about the command position in SOG.”
I stopped walking and let him go, and he rounded on me, hands on my hips.
“What?”
“So he really wants you to take it.”
He nodded.
“Which means what?”
“Which means that you’ll be suited up in Kevlar every day,” he said, grinning.
I thought of Aruna.
It was the weirdest thing. I was standing there talking to Ian and my brain went blank, except for her.
The Saturday before, while Ian and Liam went shopping for our now-regular dinner with our friends—Ian was going to make some scary-sounding casserole—Aruna and I took her daughter, Sajani, now three, and Chickie Baby, my dog, for a walk. She had decided she wanted donuts, so we were on our way to Firecakes when she asked me if Ian and I ever wanted kids.
“Kids?” I asked, a bit horrified, scoffing to cover my discomfort. “Me? You think I should be somebody’s father?”