Dangerous To Love

by Chevon Gael

  Carter peered over her shoulder. “Appetite coming back?"

  She nodded and stared directly at Brett when she spoke. “Among other things."

  "Are you coming back with us, Constable Brett?"

  "No. I have to get back to my office. I have a case to wrap up. A very special, perplexing, intriguing, exasperating case."

  "Whoa! Sounds dangerous and exciting."

  "You have no idea, son. No idea at all."

  And while Carter escorted Patrick to the bathroom—Tara refused to let the boy out of anyone's sight—Brett filled her in on the details.

  "I found Patrick at the rendezvous. He was one very scared, very brave little boy. And smart, too. He remembered my face from the webcam."

  Tara perused the menu rather than look at him. “Of course he's smart. He's my son.” She immediately looked contrite and changed her tone. “Go on. What happened with ... with Roman? Did you see anyone? Were you followed?"

  "Whoa! One question at a time.” He paused and took a liberal gulp of lukewarm coffee. “Roman and his boys were a little too busy being cuffed by the F.B.I. Right about the time I was picking up Patrick, several of his warehouses were being raided. Thanks to our crack surveillance team and the information you gave me, our boys got themselves quite a haul. Right now, there are some very happy drug dogs playing with their favorite toys and chowing down on some extra treats."

  Tara kept her eyes focused on her now cold cup of tea. “And Roman?"

  "Enough evidence to keep him in a one-room suite in Joliet with a nice, cuddly biker type for a roommate."

  A half-smirk tugged at the corner of Tara's mouth. “I wish I could say I was happy. I suppose I should jump for joy. But after all this time, all I feel is ... relief. I'm just glad it's over and we can start living a normal life again.” She looked up at him then, concern marring her pale features. “Patrick won't have to testify, will he?"

  "No. DeMarco's going down on enough heavy charges without having to bring the boy into the mess."

  Tara nodded. They were both silent for a moment. Brett felt the space between them widening. Neither one had mentioned the fight or the terrible things they said to each other. He supposed now that Tara had her son, she wouldn't have time for a love affair. Between opening the shop and reuniting her family, there seemed to be no place for him.

  "Listen, I..."

  "Why don't you..."

  They spoke at the same time. Tara smiled. “Sorry,” she murmured.

  "No, go ahead. Why don't I what?"

  She looked suddenly uncomfortable. Here it comes. The brush off. He was right.

  "You said you wanted to ... you had to leave. Carter's driving us home. I guess he knows how to get in touch with you."

  Brett cleared his throat. Just like that, he was out of her life. No good-byes, not even a thank you. Well, he couldn't blame her, he supposed. He'd put her through hell the last twenty-four hours. He'd put them both through hell. The only man in Tara's life who mattered now was coming toward the table and being lectured by his uncle to zip up his fly.

  Brett rose.

  "You leaving, Constable Brett?” There was hero-worship in the kid's eyes and maturity as Patrick held out his hand in a most gentlemanly manner.

  "Awe, hell,” Brett muttered and gave the boy a hug instead. Patrick rewarded him with a huge grin.

  "You'll come and visit us, won't you? Won't he, Mom?"

  Brett caught Tara's gaze over Patrick's head. He held his breath.

  "Sure, hon. If he wants to."

  If you want me to.

  "Kewl!"

  Brett left the restaurant without looking back. If she'd only given him an ounce of encouragement, the merest sign that she didn't want him to go, he'd stay. Hell, yes! He'd stay. He'd take her in his arms and kiss her and tell her how empty his life would be without her. He'd take her and the kids and build a home. Maybe have some more blue-eyed children.

  But there was nothing behind him except the sound of footsteps going into the restaurant and the door closing. Tara had her family together again. Now she could be happy. And he could go back to being he man he knew before he met Tara—Constable Sinclair, the tough-as-nails, kick-ass, loner cop. Alone and loving it.

  Brett slammed his fist on the roof of his car. He wrestled with the keys, unlocked the door and slid inside. He revved the engine and hit the gas, spitting gravel and squealing tires. He was alone again.

  And hating it.

  CHAPTER 12

  He sat in his car across the street from Mentionables. Tara's grand opening was well under way. All day long, throngs of women, all ages, all shapes and sizes breezed in and out of the milky glass doors. Some left with lace-edged peach and white shopping bags, others carried shocking pink helium balloons that stated, “I've been Mentioned.” He got the courage once or twice to casually mosey over to cruise the sidewalk. He peeked in the window a few times to discover tables awash with froths of underwear. Another table held silver carafes of tea and coffee and dainty little cookies on china plates draped with frilly paper doilies.

  He could barely make out Tara behind the counter wrapping package after package. He caught glimpses of her, usually through a flourish of tissue paper or a length of ribbon. His gaze drifted to the back of the store where a steady stream of traffic flowed in and out of the dressing rooms. He did notice that one of the dressing rooms had been labeled off limits, it's pink, satin curtains permanently closed and wide strands of pink and white striped ribbon sealed it from public use.

  Yep, it was their dressing room. His ego informed him that she couldn't bear to share the memory of that afternoon. The part of him that was still smarting for not being the first to come forward with an apology said, “storage space."

  Brett was storing things, too. Memories, mostly. Anxiety. Pride. And a big ole’ whup-ass can of loneliness. Sure, he'd been to the house a few times to see Patrick, but he always called first to see if it was okay with Tara. Her answer, according to Patrick, was a shrug and an, “I don't care,” in the background. Once out of the house, however, the boy spared no intimacy when it came to every detail of his mother's life, especially when bribed with critical mass helpings of deluxe pizza. These outings produced a world of earthly information.

  For instance, the eavesdropping of conversations between Tara and Rachel and how much his mom moped around the house. Aunt Rachel was grouchy anyway, but she and Mom snapped at each other when the subject of Tara and Brett making up came into the conversation. Brett was overjoyed to hear just how much he did come up in conversation. It only confirmed what he felt all along. They still had a chance.

  At least, they would if all these damned women would stop wandering in and out. What he had to say to Tara had to be said in private. There was a tug on his sleeve and Brett dragged his attention away from the window.

  "You gonna make up with her?"

  From the mouths of babes.

  "Sometime today. What are you doing here? Why aren't you in school?"

  "It's Saturday."

  Sure enough, Patrick gripped his skateboard under his arm. Brett was glad to see he also wore knee and elbow pads.

  "Nice bucket.” Brett tapped the helmet on Patrick's head.

  "Thanks for the stickers.” Brett had given him a handful of R.C.M.P. “Ride Safely” stickers with which Patrick liberally decorated his board and helmet. “I start my paper route on Monday. I'm saving to buy a mini-pod so I can upload a few hours of tunes while I'm boarding."

  Brett was glad to see Patrick adjusting so well after his ordeal. Denny had taken the boy under his wing and the two were talking computerese like a couple of old pros. He was settling in quite well at school, making friends and, for the first time in his life, getting involved in sports. Although he'd had everything given to him by his father, he was old enough to understand where the money came from and didn't seem to mind earning or saving for what he wanted. In a lot of ways, he was mature beyond his years. But the maturity had come with a
price.

  Patrick was a computer genius at the ripe old age of ten. Brett learned from the boy that Roman sent him to the exclusive computer camp to polish his skills, skills he bullied his son into using for illegal purposes. He'd already learned how to hack into sophisticated databases and his father grilled him endlessly about whether or not it was easy to break into bank databases and steal credit card information. If Patrick objected, Roman threatened to hurt his mother. Like Tara, Patrick had lived in a world of fear and learned early how to survive. Now he was safe, but had to learn how to be a boy all over again.

  Patrick flipped his skateboard across his arm and set one end wheels-up on the sidewalk. “Gonna meet some guys from school over at the board park. There's a wicked competition coming up and I want to get in some practice."

  "Be careful,” Brett warned.

  Patrick readied his board and pushed off down the sidewalk. He called out as he skated away. “Mom's not pissed anymore."

  Brett grinned. It was the best piece of news he'd heard all day. He strolled down the sidewalk and found himself a coffee bar to hang out in until the shop closed. He also found an eclectic group of husbands waiting for their wives to finish spending money in Tara's shop. He ordered a cinnamon latte with foam and sat down at an empty table.

  "My wife's got so much of that goddamned stuff she's ordered from catalogues. Thank goodness she can try it on now before she buys anything."

  "Some of that stuff is hot."

  "Have you seen the owner? She's hot."

  Tara was hot? Yes, she was. And Brett was jealous.

  "I went in to pick up my wife and this redhead with a bodacious rack handed me a cookie. Not even a real cookie, with peanuts and chocolate chips. It was one of those icy lemon things with lavender. Yuck! With my luck, the wife will buy a few dozen and expect me to eat them."

  Nice to hear business was booming.

  "I heard she's a model or something."

  "I wouldn't mind her modeling for me."

  Brett gripped the handle on his coffee mug.

  "Forget it. Her brother-in-law's a cop."

  "Yeah, women like that are always married. She's probably been scooped already."

  Well, that was one way of putting it. Brett drank his coffee and left. He checked his watch. Nearly 6:00 P.M. The shop would be closing in a few minutes. He walked back and stopped a few doors away. Already, he could see the window curtains being drawn. A group of women lingered outside the front of the store. Tara came out to bring in the sandwich sign. She looked tired, but happy. And extremely ... fetching. Her long red hair was swept up similar to a turn-of-the-century style—the previous century. There was a parade every year on Founder's Day where women dressed up from that era. Tara wore part of the same type of costume. Part, as she displayed only the white cotton undergarments, the petticoats, the little bloomers edged with yards of lace and, of course, the corset. From his own experience he could certainly describe her as hot. But, the term had a degrading edge and was a description better left to miserable husbands whose wives had deep pockets, huge closets, and long lines of credit.

  And speaking of money, he patted his back pocket and ducked into a convenience store. The owner had a display of fresh mixed bouquets and Brett bought one. He knew from experience that you never went into a potential situation without the right ammunition. Just to be on the safe side, he bought a couple of candy bars, his back-up piece.

  The element of surprise was out of the question the moment he opened her door. Tara had installed one of those old-fashioned bells at the top of the door that tinkled long after the customer entered the store. She was standing on a small step stool, placing a delicate brassiere on a satin-padded hanger. The brass rail above her was nearly filled to capacity with underwear.

  "I'm closing,” she called over her shoulder, then reached up and placed the hanger on the brass rail.

  "I'm sorry."

  She froze, her arm still outstretched. She hesitated a moment before running her fingers lightly over the lace fabric of several bras.

  She cleared her throat before answering. “Something for your mother, sir?” She kept her face to the wall and continued to straighten her wares.

  "My maiden aunt,” came his reply.

  "My flannel lines won't be here until the fall."

  "I wouldn't know..."

  "You'd never shop here,” she finished.

  "Are you going to come down from there, or am I going to have to talk to your back all night?"

  "Are we alone?” she asked in a low voice so only he could hear her.

  Brett glanced around and saw that all the dressing room curtains were thrown back. The front of the store was empty. He dashed across the room and slipped the lock into place. He returned to the counter. “Yes, we are."

  Tara climbed down off her stool and turned around.

  She took his breath away. This was really it. It had to be. From everything he'd heard, it was love if every time you looked at her and each time felt like the first time. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounded in his chest. Maybe he'd had too much caffeine.

  He pushed the flowers at her. “I love you."

  She offered him a tiny grimace as she picked up the bouquet and sniffed delicately. “You say that as if somebody is behind you trying to shove a pineapple up your butt."

  Brett closed his eyes. Gawd! This was painful. “Well, I do love you. I don't know how to say it any other way."

  "I know,” she said simply. “Any man who'd put himself in harm's way for the sake of a woman who was a pain in the ass has to love her. I also know you love the whole package. Me, the kids, my family. You saved Patrick's life. You probably saved mine and Carter's. I'm trying to say..."

  "You're welcome."

  She traced the edge of a flower petal with a pink-tipped fingernail. “Saying thank you doesn't seem to cover getting my life back."

  "Want to get married?” It was a question that came from someone who sounded eerily like himself.

  "Some day,” she whispered without looking at him.

  "I mean to me.” He was losing his patience. In a minute she'd have him on his knees begging. And she knew it. But he deserved it.

  "Is that a proposal?” Finally she looked at him. Those two limpid pools of blue stared right through him. His heart was on his sleeve. His future was at stake.

  "It wasn't what I had in mind when I walked in here."

  "What changed your mind?"

  "I heard a rumor that you're hot and you need to be scooped."

  She fidgeted from one foot to the other and tugged at her corset with one hand. She still held the bouquet. “I thought you Mounties were famous for getting your man."

  "Well, I'm changing that to include women. One woman especially."

  "What happened to the rules?"

  "They went out the window the night I met you. Besides I have to marry you. You cost me, big time."

  Her face paled. “Oh, my God! You didn't lose your job because of me, did you?” Tara dropped the flowers and came out from behind the counter toward him.

  Brett stepped forward and put his arms around her. “No, nothing like that. But I did have to sacrifice something rather important."

  "Your pride? Your integrity?"

  "Beannie Bear No. 238."

  Tara closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don't think I want to know."

  "I'll tell you all about it, over dinner tonight."

  "Wait a minute, who said anything about dinner? I'm still back on the interesting chapter of this visit. My bookmark is stuck on ‘marry me.’”

  Brett grasped her around her minuscule waist and hoisted her onto the counter. He grabbed a pink and white striped carnation from the bouquet, snapped the stem and placed the flower between her décolletage.

  "Oh, well, I figure you'll keep me on a string, wondering about your answer. Take your time in making a decision, all the while teasing the shit out of me the way you like to do. Then, when you think I
've suffered enough, you'll tell me what I want to hear."

  "What do you want to hear?"

  "Oh for ... do I have to do all the proposing myself? Aren't you the least bit interested in getting in on this? It isn't every day I ask a woman to marry me."

  "And it isn't everyday I accept."

  "You accept!"

  "Yes. I accept. Anything else? For your mother or your grandmother perhaps?"

  Brett regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. His surveillance of her store hadn't missed one other very intimate detail. “As a matter of fact, there is.” Brett helped her off the counter and took her by the hand to the back of the store. “I'd like to buy something for my fiancée. You look about the same size, so I'm sure you wouldn't mind modeling for me."

  Tara led him to the closed dressing room curtain. “I have just the outfit for your ... fiancée.” She unhooked the barrier ribbon and swung the curtain back with a flourish. There, displayed on a satin-covered armless chair, was the merry widow Tara wore their first afternoon together.

  "You see, Brett. I knew sooner or later you'd be coming to see me. And if you hadn't proposed, I was prepared to wage war."

  "I see."

  He did. He saw her begin to unhook the front of her corset from the waist up, slowly. He watched each hook escape its mate as inch by inch Tara revealed herself to him. Before she reached the apex of her little tease, Brett bent his head and plunged his nose into the carnation sitting between her breasts. Then he grabbed it with his teeth by the shortened stem and plucked it out. He held it between his fingers.

  "Let's see, she loves me, she loves me not."

  "Aren't you supposed to do that with daisies?” she asked, her fingers poised and flirting with the last of the hooks.

  "I already know the answer.” And with that, he brushed her fingers away from the hooks and deftly released the remaining closure. Her plump, round breasts spilled into his hands. Brett lowered his head and captured her lips. God, how he missed her! Missed the way she smelled, the feel of her skin, the sound of her laughter, the light of her smile. He pulled her into his embrace and pressed her against him. Her body was warm, her soft skin lightly tanned and glowing. He kissed her with lips that craved her taste. His hands caressed her with fierce possession. His body sealed his pact by growing hard against her to prove once again the power of desire she held over him, had always held over him.