Heroes In Uniform (221 page)

Another minute passed before the stall door opened, Wendy carrying Justin on her hip. “You are proposing to me in a police station bathroom? Where criminals go to pee?”

Okay. He hadn’t thought of it like that. He shifted on his feet, scrambling for a comeback.

She didn’t wait for him. “What happened to the suave ladies’ man who knows exactly what women want?”

“I don’t care what women want. I only care what you want,” he said miserably. “Love throws me off my game.” He filled his lungs. “I want to be a father to Justin. I’m not just saying that in case it helps. You know I love him.”

Her eyes went soft. And then she leaned forward to press her lips against his briefly.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a maybe. Yes to living together.” She walked by him as Justin blew raspberries behind her back.

Joe wiggled his eyebrows at the kid. “Seriously, partner? That’s all the help I get?” He strode after them.

“Living together at my place?” he asked Wendy. “It’d be better for me to be in Broslin. For the job. But I can go to Wilmington if you want. I don’t mind the commute.”

“At your place. Justin is pretty attached to Pirate Prince.”

Joe made a mental note to get the cat a gift basket of gourmet cat food. “It’s not like I’ll be taking control. I swear. We can put your name on every room.”

“You can have the kitchen and the laundry room,” she offered magnanimously.

“What, not the bedroom?” But he was grinning from ear to ear.

She stopped until he caught up with her, then whispered into his ear, “I decided I like it on top.” She pulled back and winked at him.

And the grin slid off his face, all his blood rushing to his groin. “We don’t have to stay here long. It’s Justin’s dinnertime anyway. I’m thinking we should probably leave.”

“You don’t want Leila’s cake?”

He shot her a look that told her exactly what he wanted.

* * *

The look Joe had shot her at the police station told Wendy exactly what he wanted. But he didn’t get it until much later. First they had to feed Justin his dinner, then play with him, then his bath, then the bedtime story. Then Justin read the book back to them. Then they all had to sing and bleat like sheep.

The second Wendy stepped out of the guest bedroom, Joe pulled her into his own bedroom down the hall. The king-size bed ruled the room, the place sparse, definitely not a den of seduction. Then again, Amber had said he never brought women here.

Except Wendy.

He wasn’t the same guy she’d first met, but then again, she wasn’t the same woman either. They’d been a terrible fit back then, but now….

There were no guarantees in life, but she knew what she wanted: Detective Joe Kessler.

“I love you too,” she told him, and the smoldering look in his eyes made her wonder why she’d waited so long. “I love that you could just look at Justin and love him. No hesitation. That you insisted on being there for me even when you thought the baby wasn’t yours. I love that you make me laugh. I love that you never try to make me into something I’m not. I love it that you’re Broslin’s favorite son. Even if I sometimes think it’s gone to your head.” She smiled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please continue with your list.”

She bit back a laugh, then turned serious. “I love it that you can make my knees go weak with a touch.”

He brushed his lips over hers. “Like that?”

And she felt an immediate jolt. Oh no, she wasn’t going to let him take control as easily as that. “I distinctly remember someone saying that I’m the boss of the bedroom. Take off your clothes.”

“All right, then.” He grinned that sexy grin of his that made him a town legend. He peeled off his clothes, slowly, holding her gaze the whole time, making a good show of it.

He was strong enough not to have to be in charge all the time. She added that to the long list of things that she loved about him.

He stopped when he was down to his black boxer shorts, hooked his thumb into the waistband, and shot her a questioning look.

“All of it.”

He obliged, his enormous erection springing free. “Will there be some leather involved in this at some point, Madam Dominatrix?”

“Maybe.” She liked the flare of heat in his gaze. She was in control, and she liked it.

She stepped closer, walked around him, caressing his shoulders, his back, her hands slipping down to his firm buttocks, his muscles tightening under her fingers.

Then she walked to face him and brushed his nipples deliberately. His erection grew even bigger, although she wouldn’t have thought that was possible.

“Will you be taking your clothes off?” he inquired, his voice holding tension as her fingers danced down his abdomen.

“When I’m ready.” She touched her index finger to his tip where a clear drop of liquid beaded.

He jerked against her hand.

She ran her fingers up and down his length. “You’ll do anything I say?”

“Anything,” he promised in a husky voice, heat pouring off him.

The feel of his silky skin made her nipples tighten. Moisture gathered between her legs.

His tender lovemaking the other night had been perfect, but now she wanted more—the kind of reckless passion women who’d never been hurt by their men were capable of having.

She closed her fingers around him and looked him in the eye. “I don’t want slow and sweet.”

“Then tell me what you want.”

And she did, brazenly, explicitly, his gaze darkening with her every word.

He picked her up, carried her to the bed, and saw to it that her every wish was fulfilled.

When they lay there, slick in each other’s arms after a lovemaking that went past her wildest dreams, she told him again that she loved him.

“Then you’ll marry me?”

“Why?”

“Being with you feels better than scoring a thousand touchdowns.”

“Is that football romance?” He could always make her laugh. That was a gift. And yet. “I think I’m going to need a little more time to get comfortable with the idea of marriage.” But she could see life with a man, for the first time, without being afraid of it.

“Without pushing, I’d like you to consider this. Marriage is not one person gaining power over the other. It’s an equal partnership. It’s you propping me up when I fall down, and me propping you up when you need it. It’s having someone to share the good times with.”

Sharing good times with a man sounded utterly foreign. But with Joe, she could almost see how it might be. “I’m going to work on becoming the person who can trust a relationship like that.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He kissed her lightly on the lips. “I love you.”

“My own, personal Cop Casanova.”

“That’s Detective Casanova to you,” he said with a grin, then deepened the kiss.

—The End—

About the Author

Dana Marton

New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author Dana Marton has thrilled and entertained millions of readers around the globe with her fast-paced stories about strong women and honorable men who fight side by side for justice and survival.

www.danamarton.com

www.facebook.com/danamarton

twitter.com/danamarton

Additional Books by Dana Marton

DEATHWISH

DEATHTRAP

DEATHSCAPE

HER LAST CHANCE

HER ~ Romantic Suspense Series, Book Two

by Toni Anderson

Her Last Chance: Chapter One

Her footsteps rapped loudly against Bleecker Street’s bustling sidewalk, her swirling black coat creating an illusion of sophistication that usually amused her. But not right now. Josephine Maxwell kept her head down and her stride firm, only the white-knuckled grip on the handle of her art portfolio betraying her inner apprehension.

Her eyes scanned the street. Fear prickled her skin and crawled up her spine. Fear was weakness. She’d learned that before she’d hit double digits.

Stealing a short, hard breath, she figured she should be used to it by now.

The usual Friday night cocktail of locals and tourists milled about in every direction, all intent on devouring the vibrant Greenwich Village scene. Trees lined the avenues, the base of their trunks dressed up in fancy metal grills. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted warm and fragrant on the chill fall breeze. Lights began to glow as the sun started to fade behind Jersey.

And
still
fear stalked her.

Nothing stood out from any other day except the subtle sensation of being hunted. Danger flickered through her and her heart gave a stutter. She ignored it, pressed down the tendrils of panic and kept on walking—nearly home. Nearly safe.

On the patio of a little Italian restaurant, a swarthy dark-haired man in an expensive business suit stared at her with hunger in his eyes. Never breaking eye contact, he tipped back a bottle of beer and took a long swallow. The action brought a childhood memory sharply into focus and a fine shudder ran through her bones. Uber-confident, the guy raised an eyebrow and curled his tongue suggestively around the top of the bottle. Her stomach somersaulted. For one split-second he reminded her of Andrew DeLattio, but thankfully that murdering asshole was dead.

She didn’t flip the guy off. The old Josie would have, but nowadays the concrete backbone she’d constructed over the years had started to disintegrate, leaving her less sure of herself, less bold.

She looked away. What the hell was wrong with men anyway?

The memory of one tall, good-looking federal agent flashed through her mind, but she shut it down, determined to forget the biggest mistake of her life. She didn’t have time for self-pity or regrets. Life was a struggle for survival, so why waste energy with delusions or fantasies of what-might-have-been?

She kept walking. The odor of wet tarmac, exhaust fumes and damp fallen leaves mingled with hot spicy foods from nearby restaurants. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch. But the need to get home, to escape this irrational fear overrode even basic hunger. Her footsteps quickened and the urge to bolt hit her with every instinct she possessed. She walked faster. Turning the corner to her Grove Street apartment, she watched a piece of litter keeping pace with her boots before being swept ahead on a stronger gust of wind. Fighting the breeze, she shifted her unwieldy portfolio to her other hand. It was heavy, but at least the contents had gotten her another commission.

Dusk was starting to take hold. Sinister shadows hovered between parked cars. Dying leaves rustled as they fell from spindly branches. Finally she was home. A siren went off in the distance as she groped in her coat pocket for the key to the main door of the apartment building. She slid a furtive glance around, saw nothing to justify this uneasy sensation of being watched.

When am I going to stop looking over my shoulder?

Biting back a curse, she shoved her key into the lock and pushed open the heavy black door, wrestling the massive case through the narrow gap.

The lights were off.

A drop of perspiration rolled down her temple. Her hands shook as she turned on the lights and she breathed out a massive sigh of relief when illumination flooded the stairwell. Stepping across the threshold, she closed the door and bent to open her mailbox on the bottom row. A brush of sound was all the warning she had before someone grabbed her around the neck.

She dropped her portfolio. Mail scattered as her attacker swung her off her feet and whirled her around. Adrenaline surged through her bloodstream, sending her pulse skyrocketing. Her fingers dug into cloth and flesh, and she somehow managed to gather enough purchase to stop her weight from snapping her own neck. Her legs smashed into the balustrade, shooting pain through her limbs.

Crying out, she gulped a breath as he dumped her to the floor. Her vision blurred. She lay there in shock. Then survival instinct kicked in. She rolled, scrambling away from the whistle of steel that grazed her ear as the knife hit the mosaic tiles with a sharp crack. On hands and knees she snatched up her portfolio, twisted, falling onto her back, using it as a shield from that sharp hunter’s blade. They stared at each other, frozen.

She recognized him.

Recognized the sharp intent in those lifeless silver disks.

Oh, God.

Sickness stirred in her stomach as she stared up at him, helpless. She’d always known he’d come back.
Always known
. The constricted muscles of her throat choked the breath she so desperately needed as they watched each other in silence. Predator versus weak, pathetic, useless prey.

Dressed in black, a balaclava covering his features, he crouched beside her, a dark faceless monster. Ice-gray eyes stared from thin slits, reflecting the gleam of the knife he carried in his left hand. He wore surgical gloves that made his flesh look waxy as a corpse. Blood smeared the latex.

Whose blood?

Moving slowly, as if he knew he’d won, the monster lifted the portfolio from her shaky grasp and laid it carefully against the wall beneath the mailboxes. She couldn’t move; just lay there petrified as memories bombarded her.