Chapter 9

AN: If some of you are reading this a second time and wonder if your mind is playing tricks on you, no—it's not. I've been tweaking. This is what I get for posting at 1:30 in the morning without proofreading. Also, Loafer's "I've heard it both ways," suggestion was too delicious to pass up, so I revised to include it.

Carry on.

…You know, there's something that's been on my mind that I just know I'm going to wind up saying out loud at some point and with my spectacular ability for stepping in it, I'm likely to say it at the worst possible time and have you get crazy pissed at me, so I might as well just say this and hope the crazy pissed isn't too horrible. (And could that sentence be any more run on?) Anyway, if you're going to be mad at me, we can get it over and done with. At least this thing. I'm sure there are going to be plenty of other things you'll get pissed off at me about because, let's face it, I'm me and you're you and one thing we've always been good at is arguing.

We were also crazy good at making up, too, but I've been trying not to dwell on that overmuch. Trying not to get too far ahead of myself but then again, the thought of having nearly twenty-five years to make up for… Damn, sweetheart—and oh, hell, I'm thinking about it. Hang on…

Sorry about that—had to go take a cold shower and good Lord, I can't believe I just wrote that, but then, there have been a lot of things I've committed in writing to you I can't believe I've ever admitted.

So anyway, that thing that was on my mind—well, it's this: when you dropped back into my life, that's when I knew God had a cruel sense of humor.

Stop laughing and hear me out.

I knew then, I was being punished. Didn't matter that at the time we were in different divisions and not interacting day-to-day—just knowing you were so close was just… hell. Then you were promoted to Chief ahead of me, and I don't care if it was just interim at the time, it still meant that not only were you all of a sudden my boss, you were right there.

Even if I'd long since convinced myself there wasn't a damned thing between us and hadn't been for a long time and anyway, you were married and expecting Iris and completely and utterly unattainable and probably hated me, you were still right there. Every day.

That's when I knew without a doubt God hated me and intended to punish me for time immemorial for being an arrogant ass. And an idiot. Which only solidified my opinion that God's also probably a woman.

There. I said it. If you need me to, I'll say it out loud, but only to you and hopefully you'll give me fair warning so that I can say it at a time where I don't make a complete horse's ass out of myself.

Not that I haven't already done that. Repeatedly.

So, yeah.

You're so laughing at me, aren't you?

Well… maybe not laughing, per se…

Okay, yeah, she was laughing—at little. At the same time, she was also melting more than a little inside at how very much he was revealing with his letters, intentionally as well as unintentionally. Peeling back the layers, bit by bit.

He'd changed so much, yet at the heart of it all, was still the Carlton she'd first fallen in love with.

She carefully set the letter aside—the "special delivery" one—and turned back toward the bathroom mirror to put the finishing touches on. Not much, really—lipstick, powder, and of course, the all-important concealer beneath her eyes, even though… damn.

Yeah. Losing battle. A raccoon's mask was more subtle.

She sighed as she regarded herself in the mirror and carefully dabbed the concealer on, determined to do what she could, even though… yeah. Losing battle. Beyond the clear evidence of a week's lack of sleep, there just wasn't any makeup in the world that could mask of the evidence of the passage of time—the changed contours and tiny lines that had encroached over the past twenty-five years. Intellectually she understood it was simply evidence of a life lived—lived well at that, given there were more laugh lines than worry lines. Moreover, she knew—given how Carlton had stared at her, like she was the most beautiful thing in the world even in her grungy clothes and with paint on her makeup-free face—he didn't give a damn, but she did. At least a little. While she was more than satisfied with her general appearance and was even happy with how she looked for a woman in her forties, she just… just…

Oh, hell.

She wanted to be pretty for him. Wanted to feel ready for whatever the rest of the day—and beyond—might bring.

She sighed again—a completely different flavor of sigh—as she ran the brush through her hair a final time. Honestly, it was entirely likely they would've still been standing in the courtyard, holding each other, feeling their heartbeats slowly falling into sync, if the outside world hadn't made itself known in the form of her mother's subtle throat clearing followed by Iris' clinical, "I've never seen Mommy hug any of her other friends like that."

Both of them blushing, they'd pulled apart, although she'd kept firm hold of his hand, reluctant to let go, half-fearful he was just a mirage her tired, heartsick mind had conjured. She'd then formally introduced Carlton to Iris, explaining he was someone she worked with but was also an old friend—a very good friend. A shadow had clouded the little girl's face, but Karen had rushed in to reassure her that Carlton wasn't there for any work-related reasons, praying that was the primary source of Iris' consternation. God knows, she'd done her best over the past year to make it clear that while she and Daddy still loved Iris more than anything else in the world, they didn't love each other in the way they should to stay married. However, not having anything resembling a social life—much less one involving a man—probably hadn't helped to make that argument too convincing, and if her ex had been dating, it wasn't anyone he'd made a point of introducing to Iris.

So no doubt, the door of possibility had remained open in Iris' mind, even if it had long since been firmly closed and locked. Even before she and her ex had formally separated, let alone divorced.

After another quick once over in the mirror, she returned to the bedroom where she carefully stored the latest two letters in the Mexican folk box before quickly slipping into a dark blue sundress. Scooping up a pair of flats and her purse, she padded down the stairs and back out to the patio, smiling at the sight that greeted her.

Carlton sat, jacket off and sleeves rolled up as she'd seen him so many times over the years, but rather than frowning down at witness statements or prepared to draw his weapon at some inanity Spencer was spewing forth, he was instead holding a paint brush and being instructed in the subtleties of watercolor technique. At least, as evinced by a six-year-old.

As if he could sense her gaze, he turned his head, blue eyes warm and mellow and lacking the slightest hint of boredom or impatience. Actually... check that. The longer she stood there, smiling at him, the more the blue of his eyes deepened, revealing more than a hint of impatience, but it clearly had nothing to do with the little girl showing him how to watercolor. More like impatience with the big girl who'd kept him waiting too damned long.

Sensation prickled along the surface of her skin, as if that blue gaze was reaching across the patio and stroking everywhere it could touch, deliberately and with great promise.

Dropping her shoes and purse on one of the chaise lounges, she approached the artistic duo, skimming her fingertips along the back of Carlton's neck as she passed behind him on her way to Iris. She smiled at the tension she felt immediately invade his muscles and the way his pupils dilated, leaving behind only a thin, startling rim of blue. An instant later, she felt that same tension invade her own muscles as his free hand came to rest on her back, bare due to the cut of her dress, his long fingers tracing the line of her spine in a seemingly leisurely fashion.

Right.

Leisurely.

What did that mean again?

Also, breathing. Breathing was good. Or so she'd heard.

"What are you painting, honey?" she asked Iris, hoping her voice didn't actually sound as strangled out loud as it did in her head.

"The beach," she answered matter-of-factly, dipping her brush into the blue paint and adding another wave with a flourish.

Not a surprise. It had been her favorite subject matter since they'd arrived. A familiar twinge vibrated deep in Karen's chest before she beat it back with her customary pragmatism. Her mother was right—Iris' current fascination with the beach had less to do with physical proximity than to what it had represented for them this past week.

She would definitely need to look into adjusting her work schedule—she was the damned Chief of Police, for God's sake. There wasn't any reason that she couldn't consider taking four day weekends twice a month if she made the time up the weekends Iris was with her father. And maybe looking for a new home closer to the beach wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

She shivered as Carlton's hand continued to slowly caress her back.

Maybe…

She gave herself a hard, mental head shake.

Getting ahead of yourself there, girl, echoed through her head, even as …the thought of having nearly twenty-five years to make up for… followed closely in its wake.

"Carlton's eyes are like the ocean, aren't they, Mom?"

She glanced from her daughter's downturned head to look down into the eyes that yes, did mirror the ocean and the sky and in which she'd once lost herself for hours at a time, determined to decipher all the mysteries living within the myriad shades of blue.

"Yeah, they are," she replied softly, as much for him as Iris. The smile he gave her in return communicated he remembered all those hours, too. Communicated he was looking forward to revisiting those hours as much as she was. Karen felt that all-too-familiar warmth invade and slowly spread throughout her body. The thought of revisiting those hours—those endless moments of simply being together—was no longer a matter of wishful thinking. Now, it was simply a matter of when.

Dear God, soon. Please.

"And what did you paint, Carlton?" she asked, her voice coming easier, even with his hand still tracing devastating patterns on her back. Good heavens but it all just felt so right.

Right though it may have felt, however, she still only found herself able to draw a full breath after he removed his hand in order to pick up his finished masterpiece of…

"The range," he intoned as matter-of-factly as Iris had declared "the beach."

Other people might have used "the range" to mean Home on the Range, wide open spaces, but Carlton Lassiter was most assuredly not other people. Karen suppressed a groan at the unmistakable, if a bit simplistic, image of the gun range, targets neatly lined up and waiting for practice to commence.

"Really, Carlton?"

"Hey—I was given a directive to create a peaceful scene." He tilted his head, studying his work. "It's supposed to represent Sunday mornings, that perfect moment of silence before emptying a full clip with devastating precision."

Briefly closing her eyes and sighing, Karen opened them to find Iris regarding Carlton with a steady, assessing gaze. "The beach is more peaceful, Carlton."

Once upon a time, Carlton would have vociferously argued with anyone who dared contradict his idea of peaceful. Come to think of it, he would still argue with anyone who dared contradict his idea of peaceful, especially if it involved the gun range—except, it was becoming clear, not Iris.

Carlton's gaze met Iris'—intense blue to softer blue-gray—and he nodded slowly. Exchanging his painting for hers, all blue sea and sky and golden sand dotted with lifeguard stands and palm trees, he slowly said, "I never really spent a lot of time at the beach, Iris. Maybe you can show me what you like so much about it?"

Karen's heart broke a little at his hesitant tone—at the fear she could so clearly hear beneath the words. There he was again—her Carlton—the boy she'd gotten to know so long ago. Who still existed beneath the bluster and arrogance and bad temper of the man. That he was sharing himself, even in such a small way with her daughter? She didn't know if she had room within herself for everything she was feeling in that moment.

"Come on, Mommy, let's go."

She blinked back the tears that had been threatening and swallowed hard. "Go where, baby?"

Iris slid from her chair and gave Karen's hand an impatient tug. "Go show Carlton the beach."

And Karen's heart broke yet again, at the naked emotion that flashed across Carlton's face. However, regardless of how overwhelmed Karen was that Iris already seemed to instinctively grasp that Carlton was going to be a person of some importance in their lives and was willing to share a favorite thing with him, at the same time, she'd been waiting a long damned time for a chance with this man. It was, to borrow parlance from her daughter, her turn.

"Not today, honey—Carlton and I are going out for dinner. We have some things to talk about."

Immediately, Iris' smile dimmed and tears welled in her eyes and while Karen hated being the source of dismay, she was also Mom and well-accustomed to it. Came with the turf.

"Iris—" she began as her mother stepped out into the courtyard from the kitchen, as if drawn, with the sense all mothers possessed, by the impending storm.

"You said it wasn't anything about work. You swore."

Just as Karen was about to lay the law down, she realized Iris' wail wasn't being directed at her—rather, the little girl was facing a still-seated Carlton, dark red staining her cheeks as her fists clenched. Oh no, this would not do. But before she could put the kibosh on the impending tantrum, Carlton spoke.

"I wasn't lying, Iris. I swear."

The red faded at the unexpected calm in his voice, but her lower lip still quivered and a single tear spilled over. "But you work with Mommy and work always takes Mommy away and she promised work wouldn't take her while we were here. And you promised."

Carlton's ever-expressive eyes showed clear terror, but his voice remained steady. "But I already told you, I'm not here because of work. I'm here because I…" His shoulders rose with a deep breath and while Karen wanted nothing more than to put her hand on that wide expanse, reassure him she was there, she sensed his need to do this by himself.

"I really missed your mom and I really wanted to see her."

The red was down to a far more moderate pink as Iris stared at Carlton with a new, calculating light in her eyes. Karen held her breath.

"You're seeing her now."

Damn.

Carlton glanced over his shoulder to meet her gaze, the terror dialed down to simple fear in his. "Can't fault the kid's logic—it is pretty airtight. Wonder where she gets it from?"

As her mother stifled a knowing chuckle, Karen mouthed smartass earning a grin that made her heart skip a beat. Still, though, logic or not, Iris was bordering on intolerable behavior. How to argue with it, though, without being dubbed Meanest Mom Ever and potentially earning Carlton a black mark from which it would be difficult to recover? Once again, though, Carlton beat her to the punch.

"Hey Iris, can we make a deal?"

"What?"

"It's actually getting a little late for the beach—especially if there's a lot you want to show me—but maybe we can have dinner together and you can tell me more about it? I mean, I am a detective—I like being prepared."

"All of us?"

He nodded.

Iris' suspicious expression slowly softened, leaving Karen feeling simultaneously relieved and resigned. All right, then. Family dinner it was.

Family… yeah.

Yes.

Too many men would have trouble accepting Iris' presence and importance in her life—would resent the times Iris would have to take precedence. Not so Carlton. Then again, he'd been there. Had cut Iris' umbilical cord and been the first to hold her. Had established a connection, however tenuous and unlikely it might have seemed at the time, that clearly, had endured.

Giving into temptation, she placed her hand on Carlton's shoulder, breathing deep as she felt him lean back slightly, his soft hair brushing her forearm in a tantalizing caress.

"How's everyone feel about pasta?"

Once again, Iris' brows drew together. "I don't want pasta, Grandma—I want spaghetti."

"I've heard it both ways."

At her mother's easy response, Karen felt Carlton's shoulder twitch beneath her hand. She couldn't help but be a little spooked herself and only just resisted the temptation to look around and make certain that Shawn wasn't lurking anywhere about, practicing some heretofore unknown ability of throwing his voice.

After directing a curious look their way, Mom held out her hand. "Come on, Iris—come help me in the kitchen."

Iris took a step toward her grandmother, then paused to turn and level a stare at Carlton. "You're not going to sneak off with Mommy while I'm helping Grandma, are you?"

Once again, Carlton's shoulders shook yet his voice remained grave. "Wouldn't dream of it. I'm just going to help your mom clean up out here while you help your grandma. Sound good?"

"Sounds good." With a nod, Iris turned and stalked off with a righteous dignity that left Karen shaking her head.

"That was exceedingly kind of you and exceedingly unnecessary," she said, placing her other hand on his shoulders. "She can't always get her way."

"I know that but as far as I'm concerned, this is a win-win situation." In one smooth move, Carlton rose from the chair and turned so she held him in a loose embrace. "She got valuable practice for what is clearly a bright future in hostage negotiation and I still get to see you." His hands rose to frame her face. "That's all I really wanted when I left Santa Barbara this morning. I just wanted to see you. I needed to see you, Karen."

"That's not what I got from your letters," she teased. Rising on tiptoe she whispered in his ear, "Cold showers? Poor baby."

"Worth every icy, hypothermic moment." His hands slid into her hair and tilted her head back.

"Still, though, this couldn't have been what you expected."

He gazed down, his eyes standing out like brilliant blue beacons in the dimming late afternoon light. "And I'm telling you, I had absolutely no expectations. Just a hell of a lot of hope."

Karen slid her arms more fully around his waist, relishing the warmth of him through smooth Oxford cloth. "That's not like you."

He lowered his head, ghosting small kisses along her cheekbones and jaw, working his way to her ear. "It's like I wrote in my letters," he murmured, his voice a sensual rumble against her skin, "the things you inspire in me would be unthinkable otherwise."

As his mouth found all those wonderful, secret, incredibly sensitive spots that hadn't been touched in far too long, she felt her resignation rapidly evolving into frustration. He was here, dammit, in her arms, his mouth on her skin, his breath leaving damp trails that made her shiver as they cooled while her insides slowly melted into a fiery pool, and they were about to sit down to a spaghetti dinner with her mother and daughter.

And Carlton thought God hated him?

Ha.