Forever (17 page)

“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 clarif
y 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 had 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.”

Not a hint of movement, no change in her breathing greeted what he considered to be a particularly momentous proclamation, and Dean fought a smile despite his chagrin. Great timing. Shit. She was in deep sleep, breath puffing out in those short exhalations, making him smile wider.

His ribs ached from a couple of punches
, and there was one really tender spot on his right thigh from a steel-toed boot. Amy would no doubt react to those black and blue marks in the morning.

He thought about the unexpected melee that afternoon. They’d clawed back their territory and feathered out a couple of blocks, certain to get some attention. It had been like sending up a flare. He was impatient for the next move, additionally frustrated by the inability or refusal of those they’d battled to share the whereabouts of Saul Burnett
, despite the message he’d sent.

Chapter Nine

The combination of the booze and physical exertion the day before, and probably his emotional outburst, albeit to deaf ears, made Dean sleep in. He ached dully and tentatively touched his lip. Shit. The condo felt empty and he impatiently shoved the covers back. Amy’s side was cool to the touch, although her scent lingered. He hitched over a little and buried his face in her pillow, then willed his body upright.

There was coffee in the carafe on the counter, a note held in place under his favorite cup. Well, he didn’t have a favorite cup but Amy bought him one, and it was a cup and a half, nicely weighted to fit his big hand, fingers never trapped by the oversize handle. She noticed everything. Amy’s childish sprawl advised him she had some shopping to do and to let her know if he’d be home for dinner if he had to leave before she got back. He poured a coffee and took it with him into the bathroom.

Standing under water as hot as he could stand, soaking out the residual stiffness and forcing the bruises to better manifest themselves, Dean considered his day. Probably best to show his face at the office later, drive around a little, pick up something to eat, maybe brunch, as it was close to mid morning. He was shaving, cautiously sipping his coffee around his puffy lip when his cell shrilled. Randy.

“You need to get down here. Now.” He knew better than to ask questions after hearing his lieutenant’s tone.

“Leaving in five.” He dropped the razor beside the soap dish and rinsed his face quickly. Boxers, jeans, shirt. He sat to pull his socks on and hustled to step into his boots. It had taken a bit of convincing for Amy to leave them by the door instead of tucked out of sight in the closet. He hustled back to scrawl on her note, confirming dinner. That was hours away and he figured he’d deal with whatever Randy had uncovered by then. He called her too, on the way out to the truck, not surprised when it went to voice mail. Amy was smart enough not to use her phone while driving. He just wanted to hear her voice so listened to it asking him to please leave a message then told her he wanted lots of meat for dinner, forget the green stuff she always prepared, ever hopeful.

Randy called again, telling him to drop the truck and come in through the back. What the fuck? The conversation was cryptic and short. Not a good sign.

Leaving his vehicle on the street a couple of blocks over, Dean worked his way through a maze of alleyways, ducking in the back of buildings, many of which he either owned or rented space in. It was then a simple matter to use the side door of the storage unit attached to the back of his office and make his way inside. Randy hunkered over his computer, using both hands, the bandage discarded, although it had to fucking well hurt.

Speaking over his shoulder, he said, “Saw you coming on the feed. Didn’t see anyone else. I’ve been fielding calls all morning. Seems you struck a nerve, buddy.”

“You should have called me earlier,” Dean groused.

“No sense in both of us getting our shit in a knot. And you took a pretty good shot to the temple, too. Your eye is fucked up.”

“Amy iced it, cleaned me up. I’m good. No vision problems, not even a headache. Catch me up.”

“The last place we convinced to join the parade closed up this morning, early, burned to the ground. No word on anyone inside.”

“Fuck, I hope not. I didn’t think he’d retaliate so quick.”

“At least we know we got his attention.” Randy’s voice was devoid of humor. “We need to be prepared. Burnett’s obviously gonna pull out all the stops.”

“Agreed. Put a guy in our new ventures and in the ones we took back.”

“That’ll leave us spread thin,” his lieutenant warned.

“We’ll ask the police for support, warn them anonymously about some hot spots.” And he’d give his handler a call too.

He didn’t relish that idea. The man would question him about his long term relationship with Amy and put additional pressure on him to keep things quiet. She was a distraction, but one he couldn’t imagine living without.

They strategized a few more scenarios, trying to predict the push, after Randy called and assigned the crew, telling Olsen to come to the office. The man’s lock
-picking skills were beyond the pale, and he could assess a building’s weaknesses in a heartbeat, but he was useless in shoring up confidence, and even more useless with his fists. He was a social isolate, by choice. Dean’s stomach complained, and he called Olsen back, asking the man to pick up some breakfast burritos and good coffee on the way, eschewing Randy’s bitter brew.

Now, there was
nothing to do but wait and wonder as time crawled.

The front door creaked open and Olsen’s hands pushed into view, although he hesitated just out of sight. Dean moved to grab the precariously leaning tray of java, and the grease stained bag perched on top. The smell of eggs and spices had him ripping open the sack and extricating a burrito, wrenching off a huge bite while forcing the lid off a black coffee. Not as good as Amy’s but close. He ignored the sting in his lip. Another bite of the combination of eggs, beans, cheese and soft tortilla calmed his gut and he chased it with another swig of coffee. Randy fished a burrito out and slowly unwrapped it. Olsen shut the door and dropped a big envelope on the desk, reaching for a cup. His nicotine
-stained fingers were repellent and the stink of second-hand smoke made Dean lean back.

Gesturing to the envelope, he asked around a final mouthful of breakfast. “What’d you bring?”

“It was on the step. Figured it was too big for the mailbox, got dropped there.”

“We get our mail down the block, Frank.”

Olsen shrugged and dug a cigarette out of the package, heading back to the door to smoke on the sidewalk. Dean had an edict of no smoking in any of their offices and he was glad to see the man followed it.

Randy wiped his hand, the bruised fingers still swollen, and pulled the envelope over. Slitting the end with his pocket knife, he stowed the lethal weapon back in his pocket before spilling out the contents. His eyes popped and his face suffused with color. “What the fuck?”

Dean leaned over to look and blinked. He snatched the top photo out of Randy’s suddenly lax grasp and stared at it. Blind, intense rage snuffed out the initial incredulous reaction and he barely suppressed the urge to choke the messenger. The burrito surged up his throat to gag him and preclude any thoughts he might have expressed.

Olsen poked his head in the door and coughed.

Randy forestalled him from coming in. “Enrico needs you over on Dundas, Frank. Thanks for bringing breakfast. I’ll return the favor.”

Forehead a mass of furrows, Olsen looked at them both, then shrugged. “No problem.
Dundas?”

“Yah. ’Rico’s nose is making things tough to concentrate. Needs another guy.” Randy prevaricated with the ease of long practice as he excluded Olsen from Dean’s revelation.

“Sure. I’ll catch you later.”

The door shut and Dean pitched his cup against the far wall, the dregs dripping pathetically, the cardboard making an insufficient sound to express his rage as it fell to the floor. Hollow, like his gut. “I fucking near told her I was—”

“Shut it.” Randy glared him into silence. “None of us were here last night. I checked the security feed but who the fuck knows if the place is clean?

“
What does it matter? It could have been Saul fucking Burnett himself delivered that envelope. Making himself invisible. He’s pushing and letting it all out. He’s been getting his info from
my
woman. Nothing he doesn’t know if he’s listening right now.”

Randy gestured again and punched a number on his cell. “If she doesn’t know
about your…thing, then he doesn’t—’Rico? Olsen coming your way. Needed him gone for a bit.”

They set the pictures on the desk, side by each, all six of them. Amy was predominately featured, smiling in all but one, her head close to Burnett’s—good
buddies. Different outfits each time. Dean closed his eyes. Her ability to read people, noticing everything. Hearing everything. His laptop open and vulnerable, especially to someone with her skills. He wondered when Burnett had gotten to her, or if she’d been a plant in the bar that night. If that loud-mouthed Lorraine was part of it, had set him up deliberately. Nothing seemed impossible to imagine.

And he’d nearly told her about being, if not exactly undercover, certainly not a real crime boss.
Had
told her he loved her. Did she hear? Pretended to sleep? Did she laugh? Fuck. If he hadn’t decided to wait until morning to drop the rest of it. If she hadn’t gone shopping. If. Wishes and horses. Beggars. Bullshit luck, because she could have been cozying up to Burnett right fucking now with the priceless information that Dean Chambray was some sort of undercover agent looking to pull in the shadow man Saul represented.

He hurt so hard he couldn’t get a breath against it. Fuck. All of her sweetness, even her attitude. Taking care of him,
loving
him. Right. Fucking him over. Well, he’d been well and truly fucked, blinded by sweet pussy. His cover still held by some quirk of fate, that bullshit luck.

“He’s giving her something in every shot, Dean. You can’t see it clearly but it’s rectangular, wrapped in paper. Money?”

What the fuck did it matter? She’d betrayed him, could have brought down years of careful work. Could have got him killed. Randy too. Played him.

“You can’t make out what she hands over
in any of the shots. Weird.”

“Probably a thumb drive. I worked from home some, remember? We shared an office and I wasn’t with her all the time. Making her coffee and bringing her shit. And I either left the laptop on
or she cracked the password. She knows her way around computers.” He was flat now, controlled, the rage banked.

“Might explain things. Too much for a coincidence anyhow. But who sent the pictures? Burnett wouldn’t out his source.”

“I don’t give a fuck who sent them. We’ll figure it out later. Call everyone and make sure they know to expect a push. I’m gonna go and have a chat with Amy.”

“Time for that later, Dean, when you’ve cooled down.”

“I want her gone, Randy. Gone. And that’s
my
job. Then I can turn my attention fully to Burnett. And whoever pulls his strings. Shadow man. He’s coming and I want Amy dealt with before I deal with
him
.”

“I’m coming along with you. You’re too close to doing something stupid. I can call everyone on the way. We need to shut this office down for now anyhow
, seeing as somebody got that close to deliver the goods without anyone seeing him.”

Dean didn’t care. He’d given Randy organizational orders and the man would back off on the drive to the complex. The time would help him stay cool. No way was he letting Amy see how she’d gotten to him. Randy could serve as witness
, and a constant reminder, of how stupid he’d been to trust a woman. Or love one.

****

Amy was in the kitchen when she heard the feet on the stairs. Loud, stomping feet. Smiling to herself she shut the oven door on the prime rib she was preparing for their evening meal, a celebratory dinner. She’d slipped out to the pharmacy while her man slept, unable to hide behind denial any longer. She had confirmed the news for Dean, and while her belly fluttered in anxious anticipation, deep down she believed he’d be okay with it.

He had truly settled over the past several months, no longer as tightly drawn, maybe not expecting their relationship to have an ending. Seemed to be cautiously accepting the possibility she wasn’t going to fuck him over or try to manipulate him. Not that Dean had any say in how that very first relationship in his life affected him; the piece of work who’d birthed him set the sure-fire-failure option in motion for each subsequent one.

Amy shook her head, setting the oven mitts to rest on the counter. Dean might have cut his mom out of his life, but Marsha, in death, would once again cast her evil pall. Still, Amy would be right there, by Dean’s side, and they’d see it through. She had lots of experience in seeing things through to the other side, and this time it meant everything to her. So this time there would be a positive outcome no matter what it took. Because it was Dean.

They would need to have a really serious discussion now that her suspicion was confirmed. He’d hinted at getting shut of the business, and maybe her news would have an impact. He’d do what was right and she’d trust him with it.

The prime rib was her only other purchase of the morning as she tried to get home before he left, but she missed him, his coffee cup on the bathroom sink, towel carelessly tossed on the floor. He’d obviously left in a hurry, but had taken the time to answer her note. Left a voice mail too, which inspired her to buy the beef.

The door flew open with such enthusiasm it rocked back on its hinges to meet the flat of Dean’s hand. The look on his face sucked the air out of her chest. Not enthusiasm. Nearly uncontrolled violence. Forcing her flight response down, hoping to help soothe, Amy made to go to him, only to be forestalled by the imperious upswing of his other hand. The Terminator couldn’t have done it with more terror-inspiring authority, the manila envelope he clutched—a weapon.

His grey eyes locked with hers and the glitter of rage then colored over with the sheen of scorn and hatred until they were shards of crystal. Being adept at reading looks and gazes, she knew this did not bode well for her, and she was always the master of understatement, the empress of hope since meeting Dean. Her hand drifted to rest on her belly, an automatic, protective gesture.