Chapter 4

AN: Not knowing a whole lot about Karen's background, outside of Commander Barbara, I'm making some assumptions about her family and her relationship with her parents in the name of artistic license. I hope you all will forgive me and go along for the ride.

Son, you seem like a nice enough boy—Karen certainly speaks highly of you—and in time, you'll likely become a fine man.

But you'd prefer if I wasn't anywhere near her life right now.

Cut right to the chase, don't you?

No point beating around the bush, if we're going to resort to tired clichés.

Karen did say you were smart as hell and a bit of a smartass. She likes that about you.

Among other things.

Yes, well… do you really think all those things are enough?

I do.

I don't. And thing is… neither does Karen.

Come again?

Not that she'd say so outright, mind you, but she did intimate the two of you might have moved too fast.

We're both aware things happened quickly between us. It doesn't make how we feel any less valid.

You feel that way now and that's natural, but Carlton, if she's expressing concern now less than six weeks after your marriage, what's it going to be like in six months? Six years? As it is, she's already made concessions.

How so?

This plan to go to the Police Academy with you after you two graduate, for example.

As far as I know, sir, Karen's always planned on becoming a police officer.

No, son, that may be what she told you, but what she always planned on, ever since she was a little girl, was becoming an attorney. Going into practice with me. But now she's got some idea that the two of you will be able to work together and live together and while that seems romantic now, the reality of living a life that isn't really of her own choosing—a high-pressure life at that—will soon wear on her and consequently, you and God forbid any kids you might have. Now, if you know Karen as well as you say you do, then you know how damned stubborn she is. No matter how hard things get for her, she will never admit defeat. She will stick by you and tell you she loves you and that she's happy—and she might even believe it—when the truth is inside, she'll be dying a little more every day.

With all due respect, Mr. Dunlap, I think you're wrong.

Of course you do. You're in love and you don't want to believe anything that might cast a shadow on those first, perfect moments of being in love. But from what Karen tells me, you're also a realist who maintains faith in irrefutable fact. And the fact is you've only known her a few short months while I've known her for all of her nineteen years. Now you tell me, Carlton—which one of us would you put your faith in?

You didn't see her, Carlton. She's still in love with you.

Good God, she is not. She can barely stand me.

Carlton. Don't lie. Not to me and for heaven's sake, not to yourself.

Okay, maybe she doesn't completely despise me, but Marlowe—she and I are completely different people. We were stupid kids. Who made a stupid mistake. We've both long since moved on.

Maybe that's what you both believe, but have you, really?

Oh, come on, of course we have. We've both lived our lives since then—both got married, I got divorced, she had Iris and if she's been going through a bit of a hard time in the wake of her divorce, it doesn't mean that she's automatically fallen back on some long-forgotten feelings for me. Trust me, they weren't all that strong to start with. Certainly not enough to withstand the passage of nearly twenty-five years.

What about you?

What about me?

If you're so certain there aren't any feelings there, then why wouldn't you have told me it was her?

Because it just doesn't matter!

And that's where you're wrong. You see her every single day. You work side-by-side with her on a daily basis. You've literally put your life in her hands.

As Detective and Chief. Not as anything else.

Oh, Carlton… I know you truly believe that but, I think you both need to figure out some things. Like why she felt the need to confess a secret she'd kept for so long now, of all times and… and why you had no intention of ever telling me. Because honestly, if the license application hadn't required it, would you have ever said anything about it? At all?

Two conversations, separated by nearly twenty-five years, and he could recall each of them word for word.

In neither one had he said very much, yet somehow, in both, he'd been left feeling as if he was at fault. As if he hadn't done enough. With Marlowe because he hadn't been completely forthcoming and with Karen's father…

Because he'd let all those damned fears and insecurities that were never too far from the surface grab hold and whisper that maybe Mr. Dunlap was right, despite the fact that his gut kept insisting the man was wrong. That what he and Karen had was real and forever. Gut instinct aside, however, he simply couldn't shake the feeling that maybe Karen would come to regret her hasty decision to marry him. That maybe she was ruining a promising future with a long-planned end goal she'd never once mentioned to him. That the light that made her practically glow—that had drawn him to her and surrounded him in a warmth he'd never experienced in his life—would dim and it would be his fault. And that ultimately, she'd come to hate him.

If she was going to hate him anyway—better to get it over with, right?

What do you mean you think we made a mistake?

We both know we moved too fast, Karen.

We moved fast, period. There's no "too" about it. We knew what we wanted and we did something about it.

Yeah, well… what we think we want now isn't necessarily what we really want. Or what we're going to want in the future. I know it's hard for either of us to admit to being wrong, but let's face it, this was a mistake.

How can you say that? God, Carlton, you're making no sense!

Maybe not. But eventually, you'll see I'm right. Bye, Karen.

Carlton…no—don't go… We can figure this out. Please, Carlton—don't…

Carlton could still hear her voice; could see her, wrapped in one of his t-shirts and huddled on their battered, ugly, Salvation Army couch, knees tucked up under her chin and arms wrapped around her legs—trying to disappear into herself as she'd stared at him with huge, wounded brown eyes.

Her heart hadn't been the only one broken that day. But he'd already convinced himself she'd get over it. Especially leaving in the manner he had—guaranteed to infuriate her with his lack of answers and leave her hating him. And it had worked, he thought. By the next time he saw her, the day their divorce had been granted, she'd stared through him, stony-faced.

And he'd been the one to die a little inside.

But she hadn't hated him. At least, not if she was to be believed and God, but his gut was screaming at him to listen to her this time.

He glanced over at her as he turned the corner onto her street, leaning against the car door and feigning sleep. He knew it was feigned because her breathing wasn't quite steady enough for full sleep nor was her body relaxed enough. But he'd left her alone, his own mind occupied with reliving over and over the moment when he'd exploded, hurling the accusation he'd restrained for so long, and the utter shock that had widened her eyes and revealed once more, the wounded girl.

That shock—it had been real. Carlton knew damned well that under normal circumstances, Chief Vick was a master at masking her emotions—how she parsed them out privately before offering a measured, thought-out response. But her expression, as twenty-five years of dormant resentment had burst free, had been pure Karen—the girl he'd hurt because he'd loved her so damned much.

Carlton pulled into her driveway wondering, what the hell now? He knew, via a text from O'Hara, that Karen's car was still a couple of hours away from being returned to her. He could only pray she had a spare key. Otherwise, it would be a mighty awkward couple of hours. Although how it could possibly get any more awkward—

"I can disarm the lock from my phone."

A moment later, she was gone, attempting to make an escape without any further interaction.

Oh, wait a minute now… dreading a couple of awkward hours was one thing, but if she thought she was just going to make a clean getaway without saying anything, she had another thing coming.

He caught up with her at the front door where she was swearing under her breath as she stabbed at her phone's screen, her trembling fingers clearly making it a more difficult task than usual. Suppressing a sigh—damned stubborn woman—he took the phone from her loose grasp, raising an eyebrow as she hit him with what she thought was a foolproof Chief Vick glare.

Not anymore. Carlton knew that glare would never again have the same impact on him again—because he'd never be able to meet Chief Vick's gaze without seeing Karen peering out at him from behind the deep brown like a curious girl peeking around heavy velvet theatre curtains.

"Karen, what's the damned code?"

Annoyance thinning her full lips into a straight line, she finally said, "Eight-two-five-four-six-three-five."

Something about the numbers tickled at the edges of his brain, but he dismissed it as unimportant as he keyed them in, shaking his head in wonder as he heard the click of the lock.

"I'm telling you, flying cars can't be far behind," he muttered, feeling a pleased flush overtaking him at the faint smile gracing Karen's features. So she remembered, too.

"I just want a Rosie to help with the housework."

Saturday mornings, cuddled in bed, sharing a bowl of generic Cap'n Crunch because that's what they could afford, and watching reruns of Jetsons and Flintstones and Looney Tunes on their surprisingly nice TV, since it was one Karen had absconded with from her childhood bedroom. They'd laugh and make plans—so many plans—and wonder if they really would live to see flying cars and robot maids.

"Sorry—a Roomba's the best I can do."

Another smile, as she pushed open the door, was his reward although this one seemed tempered with… something. A host of emotions flashed across her expressive features in rapid succession, some of which he recognized, others, there and gone too quickly for him to identify. Finally, she took a deep breath, her face settling into lines he knew very well—she'd come to some sort of decision.

"What I told my father," she said very softly, "was that I knew we'd moved fast, but that I was absolutely certain marrying you was the right thing—the best thing—I could do. That the only other thing I'd ever been so certain of was my desire to become a cop."

She kept her gaze fixed on his face, clearly searching. Obviously seeing in him whatever she'd expected, she nodded and added, "He was a lawyer, Carlton—a damned good one. An expert at manipulating information, prudent and extremely selective with his words, and a master at reading people. He hit you right where you were most vulnerable, didn't he? Made you doubt."

Carlton scrubbed a hand over his face, twenty-five years of misplaced anger draining away, replaced by fresh anger that he'd been so blatantly played. And tired. So damned tired of being Fate's buttmonkey.

Although really, he couldn't place the blame on her, could he? Nope. This one was all on him.

"One word," he said, his voice hoarse. "One stupid word was all it took to get me to topple like a house of cards." Wearily, he rubbed the back of his neck as he stared down at his shoes, terrified to meet her gaze. "I… should have talked to you," he admitted slowly, every word feeling as if it was being dragged from his gut. "When you asked. But he just sounded so damned reasonable."

And it was no damned excuse. In the moment when he most should have been a man, he'd been a terrified little boy and let down the person he claimed to love more than any other.

"Of course he did. It was his secret weapon."

The lack of censure… the utter gentleness of her voice, had him cautiously lifting his head to meet her gaze. No… no anger either, and if there was anything he knew after working closely with her for seven years, was what an angry Karen looked like. Perhaps most remarkably, there was no pity to be found anywhere in the deep brown—nothing that seemed to suggest he was the dumbest man to ever walk the planet and it was a miracle his knuckles weren't dragging and he was in possession of opposable thumbs.

"Carlton?"

"Yeah?"

Now, it was she who looked away, down to her hands toying with the hem of his shirt. "If you had a go bag in your trunk, why did you give me the shirt you were wearing?"

Her direct question caught him by surprise, leaving him stuttering, "I… I—"

While his brain wrestled with what should have been a simple question, Karen stepped forward, not touching, but so close, her warmth surrounded him as if she had been.

"Why, Carlton?"

He had no idea.

Did he?

He recalled how she'd looked as she stared at him—studied him in a way she'd not had reason to for so many years. What had she seen? What had he been looking for in that searching brown gaze?

"It… seemed natural."

Her breath came in rapid, shallow gusts that bathed his skin and caused goosebumps to ripple along his arms. Each breath drew her closer, her breasts brushing his chest in feather-light caresses he felt everywhere.

For long, endless moments, she did nothing more than stare, eyes huge and dark in her pale, beautiful face. The face that had tormented him in dreams for too long and when he'd finally conquered those demons, had appeared to haunt his waking hours.

"I should apologize for this, but you know, after twenty-five years, I think we're entitled."

Rising on tiptoe, she fit her mouth to his as smoothly as if they'd been doing this every day for the past twenty-five years. As her tongue stroked his, cinnamon hot and smooth, his rapidly short-circuiting brain registered the unmistakable thought that yes, they should have been doing this for the past twenty-five years. There wasn't a day that should have gone by where they didn't do this. Renewed anger at all those years stolen had him pulling her hard against him, one hand sliding into her hair to hold her head steady as he ravaged her mouth, exploring with lips and teeth and tongue. Groaning as she arched into his embrace, meeting him kiss for kiss, both hands buried in his hair, pulling herself up as if she wanted to melt into him.

Just like before—when she'd whisper that she wanted nothing more than to wrap herself around him, crawl into him until they were so closely woven together, they'd be like one person.

Just as his hand crept beneath the hem of her shirt, however, she pulled away, eyes wide and dilated with passion.

God, just like before

As he reached for her once more, she threw a hand out, stopping him.

"No—"

Trembling fingers rested against her swollen lips. Lips he'd done that to, dammit. "A kiss is one thing, Carlton, but you can't—" She stood before him, soft and flushed, the outline of her nipples clear beneath the thin material of his shirt, and exuding a desire that felt both familiar and new, and left him aching in ways he hadn't for, hell… years, and delivered the death blow.

"We can't do this. I can't. I've already done enough damage." The hand she'd thrown between them rose to cup his cheek. "I'm so sorry, baby."

Baby.

He blinked, memory slamming into him with the intensity of a gale-force wind. That endearment used during those long ago days—the sort of thing that until she'd first said it, late one night, holding him close, he'd thought a ridiculous affectation. Baby, indeed. He hadn't been anyone's baby, even when he had been an actual baby.

After that first time, though, he couldn't get enough of it, delivered in the soft, throaty voice so unlike her clear, direct everyday speaking voice. A voice she seemed to reserve just for him.

No one else had ever called him that until—

Dear God, Marlowe.

Horrified, he realized he hadn't thought of her—the woman he'd claimed to love, the woman he'd expected to be marrying within weeks—except in the most fleeting of ways, for hours. Instead it was the woman in front of him, brown eyes filled with pain and a lifetime's worth of regrets, who'd been consuming his every thought.

And that's when he knew. Marlowe had been right.

He never would have told her about Karen. There's no way he could have without revealing what she'd meant to him.

What she meant to him still.