Forever (16 page)

They both moaned and
her eyes met his, falling into him.

God, she loved his man.

Her arousal plateaued with her thought. The sex was slow and unhurried. He thrust and retreated, looking deep into her eyes. She could feel her release build from a slow simmer to an aching need to burst, and as the skin over Dean’s cheekbones tautened, she clenched hard around him. He ground his pelvis at the top of her apex and it was the touch she needed. Her climax peaked, sweet and full. He thrust twice more, and the heat of his cum, coupled with the prod of his cock deep within her channel, pushed her over again, hard on the heels of the first release, making her shudder.

Dean shoved his arms under her to hold her through it and then lifted her and rolled to flatten her against the back of the couch, his softening cock still inside her, skin to skin.

She tucked her chin into his throat and breathed in his scent, feeling his heart beat. After a time he stirred. “Okay?”

“They could have killed him. I couldn’t stomach it thinking you—”

“They knew not to, sweetheart. He just won’t raise a hand to a woman again. Literally.”

She digested that and didn’t press for details. Dean dropped a kiss on her temple. “Dinner?”

“I’ll get on it.” She supposed it was the least she could do after two orgasms, but really didn’t want to get up for the next decade or so.

“Ordering in, sweetheart. What do you want?”

****

As he consulted his phone for the number of the restaurant, and referred to the menu he’d unearthed from the drawer beside the stove, Dean wondered if he’d missed an opportunity to share all of the truth with Amy.
It might have been too much for her to reconcile, right on the heels of learning he’d taken care of the asshole who’d hurt her. Still, he wondered if he’d fucked up.

He thought back on his adult life. There hadn’t been any money for college, so Dean enlisted. He tested high, and after basic training got kicked into intelligence. That was an oxymoron in many cases, but he thrived in the military, on the routine, appreciating the cause and effect, despite the often resulting chaos. He became known for his ability to piece situations together, think outside the box, and excelled at interrogation, emotionally detached but skilled at faking it. He didn’t need to use his size and strength either, or at least
, not often, because it was obvious what he was capable of to anyone with eyes in their head and working brain.

The military-provided college education got him a
degree in criminology and he was heading home after discharge, planning to apply at the police academy. An intense, solemn man, exuding power, approached him in the airport, had a quiet word, and Dean’s life changed forever. High stress, a demanding life on the edge and the money and lifestyle that came with it was offered and he took it, well aware of the danger. Hell, he jumped at it. He replaced the crime lord of his youth seamlessly; all of his bonafides, to fit with his new situation, polished and prepared and put in place by the man who became his handler.

Dean weeded out the losers in the loosely knit organization and recruited others who were more competent. He led effortlessly
, and his crew followed, people accepting that the kid from the old neighborhood got himself some good training in the military and used it well. If anyone noticed that street crime dropped in his territory, and the head of the competition, as well as his replacements, were incarcerated on a regular basis, it wasn’t traced back to him. The necessary violence was credited, however, and he used it to his advantage. He wasn’t an undercover cop—hell, he’d go to prison if the authorities caught him—although he was doing the work of one, without the rules and regulations.

But all of it was with one long term goal in mind. There was a man who had managed to keep
his identity secret, yet who was slowly building an empire of criminal enterprises on the west coast. It was a tantalising mystery to solve, a challenge Dean couldn’t resist, although it had taken far longer than he’d thought for that man to sniff around his enterprise. And now the time was coming…

“Dean? When’s the food going to be here?”

He yanked his thoughts to the present and hurriedly dialled and placed their order. Amy’s appetite sometimes rivalled his, and he’d kept his word insofar as helping her work off any unnecessary calories.

Chapter Eight

“I don’t get it. That’s the second place
that’s pulled out of our action.” Dean shoved back from the desk and pushed out of his chair. Pacing sometimes helped.

Randy lifted one shoulder. “I don’t even know how they were made, even
, to be contacted. Burnett is chipping away at the fringes of the operation, buddy. And he’s ruthless. More’n you. Those little people are scared and it figures he’ll have convinced them they should fear him more than you.”

Lowering his voice, although the place had been swept, and the rest of the crew were out “encouraging” the folks Dean had his thumb on, he had to ask. “You think Burnett smells something?”

The man was like a ghost. Dean knew he existed, but few people ever saw him, and Randy had unearthed only one photo. A nebbish, unremarkable man, the kind you’d pass by on the street or lose in a crowd. But Dean would know him.

“Don’t know how he would
,” Randy said. “Just you and me are aware. Andrea thinks it’s me who crossed over, that I’m walking some kind of fine line. She’s okay with it and keeps quiet. And who would she tell without getting me killed?”

“It must be interesting when Andrea and Amy get together then.”

“She says Amy doesn’t bring up work, ever. Andi dropped a couple of thoughts one time, and she changed the subject.”

Dean advanced on Randy. “Your woman playing some kind of game with mine?”

“Hell, no. I think she was looking for any sign Amy knew about me, that you’d figured it out. It’s a fucking convoluted mess, Dean. Only I know you’re not really a career criminal. Andrea thinks I’m staying clear of the bad shit somehow, despite being an informant. I don’t like keeping the secret even though I know the reasoning behind it. Why won’t you tell Amy?”

Jamming a hand through his hair, Dean turned on his heel and went to the coffee maker. “I’ve asked myself that. At first I couldn’t because we were new and she could have blown my cover. That’s why my previous connection with women was so perfect. No need to share. Now I feel I can trust her
, and I don’t know how to tell her because she’ll be upset I withheld, didn’t trust her. It’s a big fucking secret for her to carry, as well.

R
andy muttered something and shook his head. He met Dean’s eyes. “I worry about Andi’s safety, too. Not a good plan to drag women into this.”

“
Can you imagine life without these two particular women?” Dean could hardly believe those words emerged, but he couldn’t imagine being without Amy.

His woman was a never ending stream of surprises and pleasure. Nearly a year, and the sex never got old, the rush never dwindled. He wondered that he had the strength some days to get out of bed and tend to his business. Birth control early on made fucking her even better, seeing as he could ditch the condoms.

But it was far more than the sex. She accommodated him, regardless of how autocratic he acted, as long as he was reasonable and she could make sense of it. Shit, she even took his old lady in stride. They never talked about his business despite the fact she found out his reach and power after the Whittaker deal. Aside from a couple remarkable displays of her temper, they rarely argued and her sweet, loving side was a soothing balm to his pocked soul.

She told him, snuggled up to him in the dark, how he eased her burden of always having to take care, look out for herself. It humbled him even as he took fierce pride in providing for her,
in meeting her needs and being a bulwark between her and the shit that could befall her. She loved him for who he was. Not only did she say it, it shone through her actions. Dean figured he’d soon come to say it back, allow it to fall from his mouth instead of biting it back, withholding that last part of him, a festering reminder of his past.
Don’t love, don’t trust.

“She’s something, your woman.” Randy was scrolling through a screen on his computer, multitasking. “Olsen snarked about you getting soft, whipped, at our July fourth party—drunk, the asshole—and she cut him a new one, cold as ice. Never raised her voice and he nearly kissed her feet apologizing.”

“What the fuck?” That was news to Dean. Not that he was surprised about Amy dealing with Olsen on her own.

“You went to get more beer. Helping out. You never helped out like that
before, and people took notice. You do things differently because of her. In a good way, Dean, so quit with that fucking look.”

“I’m fine with different, Randy. I’m not fine with Olsen.” And he’d be chatting with the man, only because Olsen bothered Amy.

“She dealt, Dean. Double jeopardy, remember? Not something you support? And it’ll make others speculate if you intervene.”

It didn’t take long for him to regain his senses. He didn’t always need to protect Amy. She had the tools and it would be good to remember that she chose her battles, like she did with him. An uncomfortable feeling of dread flitted through his gut as he recalled how sick she’d been several weeks ago. Some kind of flu. He’d driven her to the hospital himself, over her objections, calling Sandra to meet them there. Seeing her hooked up to IV bags freaked him. He held her while they shoved the needles
she hated in, her silent tears chipping away at his control, wanting to punch the male nurse on her behalf.

Sandra softened towards him that day, seeing his concern for her friend, but he’d have gladly forgone that change in attitude, rather than have his woman suffer like she did.

They sent her home, rehydrated, the high fever broken, with a prescription for antibiotics to help with the chest infection, and she recovered quickly. Dean took turns taking care of her with Sandra, both of them ignoring Amy’s protests. Sandra had even attended the Fourth of July party, although she left early and avoided Enrico like the plague. The youngest member of his crew didn’t seem affected one way or the other, the tall, red headed piece of ass on his arm a standout among the other more conservatively dressed women. But Dean couldn’t help but note the way Enrico watched Sandra leave.

“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.