Undercover Engagement (Private Pleasures 5)

Holy shit.

Eden stood in the living room, sweeping the floor. She looked…incandescent.

She spared him a glance as she swept. “I did up a schedule. The bed is yours tonight, but I get first turn in the bathroom.”

“Huh.” Her hair was different. It still flowed down to her shoulders, but now in dark, wavy layers with sun-kissed strands woven in to catch the light. A pale pink, silky-looking camisole hung from thin straps and poured over her curves like liquid, setting off skin that shimmered as if bathed in starlight. Short, wash-worn cutoffs with a threadbare patch at the pocket hung low and loose from the flare of her hips. Tan suede ankle boots with western heel and fringe hanging from the zipper pulls made her legs look even longer.

Either she sensed his inspection or expected a better reply to her schedule, but she stopped sweeping and propped a hand on the broom. “This is Ginny’s handiwork. If you think she got it wrong, take it up with Buchanan.”

He shook his head. It took a minute to find his voice. “Uh-uh. No. She got it right. Exactly right. That poor fool doesn’t stand a chance.” None of them did, including him.

She resumed sweeping. “If he’s even there tonight. But thanks. I think. You’re okay with the plan, then?”

“Yeah.” He walked into the room and sat on the arm of the sofa. “If the guys don’t hit Rawley’s tonight, we’ll still see and be seen, which is helpful. If they do show, we should try to bring them into our fold. Evolve Dobie’s fascination with you into fascination with us and figure out the right connection to make with Kenny, because two possible points of entry are better than one. Maybe invite ’em back here and share a few beers?”

“You read my mind.” She knelt to sweep the remnants of her trim into the dustpan, which ended up putting her at his feet. She smelled different. Some heady combination of jasmine and sugar. He suspected whatever product gave her skin the dewy, high-gloss finish accounted for the scent, as well as the fact that he wanted to run his tongue from the curve of her ankle to the point of her chin, tasting all curves and points in between.

“Are you hungry?”

“Huh?” Switch your brain on, Swain. “I…need a shower.” He popped up from the arm of the couch. She stood at the same time, and they ended up face-to-face, their bodies mere inches apart.

A cold shower.

“I’m going to fix myself a turkey and Swiss.” She took a step back. “I can make two as easy as one.”

His brain didn’t switch off this time. It blew clean out of his skull. He knew an olive branch when he saw one. Even so, it knocked him back. When was the last time someone not wearing a Subway uniform had made him a sandwich? He honestly couldn’t recall, but way too long, if something that amounted to simple common courtesy rocked his world off its axis. “Best offer I’ve had all day. Thanks.”

She smiled a little strangely as she walked past him into the kitchen, dumped the contents of the dustpan into the trash, and stowed the broom and pan in the gap between the wall and the fridge. “Relax. It’s just a sandwich, Swain, not a marriage proposal.”

He followed her into the kitchen, reached around her when she opened the fridge, and grabbed a beer. “No need for a marriage proposal, choux. We’re already engaged.” Tapping his beer to the jar of Hellmann’s in her hand, he said, “Hold the mayo. I’ll be right back,” and scooted out of the kitchen.

Keeping to his pre-Eden ritual, he ditched his boots and dirty clothes in the laundry room, but he left his boxers on in deference to her presence. He settled for two Advil from the bottle stowed in his shaving kit, washed them down with the beer, and washed a working Saturday’s worth of sweat and grime off in a lukewarm shower. He skipped the shave, ’cause Saturday, and chose a pair of night-out jeans and a white T-shirt. Guys had it easy, thank Christ. Feeling better, all around, he strolled out to the kitchen to get his sandwich—and another surprise. Eden sat at the small kitchen table, one thick sandwich on a plate in front of her, another in front of the empty chair. A bowl of potato chips sat in the middle. She nibbled on one. Apparently, they were dining together.

He headed to the fridge. “Whatcha drinking, choux?”

“Water.” She held up her glass. “I’m good.”

He tossed his empty into the bin under the sink, filled a glass of water for himself, and took a seat. “How was your day, dear?”

She flashed him a ha-ha smile and bit into another chip. “Got my hair did. Added to my wardrobe.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” he teased and dumped a handful of chips onto his plate.

Her expression sobered. “Not sure my father would approve of me making it a lifestyle.”

“That why you became a cop? Make Daddy proud?” He kept his voice light, but in truth, he wanted to know.

“No.” She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed, and he wondered if that was her way of shutting down the conversation. But instead, she sipped her water and went on. “I mean, I hope to make both my parents proud, but that hinges less on my career choice—assuming it’s not pole dancer, which, at the moment, feels uncomfortably close—and more on how I live my life. They raised me to set goals, work hard to achieve them, to know right from wrong and take the side of right even when it’s not easy. If I’m a good cop and it fulfills me, they’ll be proud.” Picking up a chip from her plate, she pointed it at him. “What about you?”

Well, shit. He hadn’t really meant to get into his deal. Around a bite of sandwich, he said, “Damn, that’s good.” Which it was.

“Thanks. Don’t dodge the question. What inspired your law enforcement career?”

Okay, whatever. He didn’t see the harm in swapping stories. “Not my parents. My mom split before I could pull up my own britches. You met my father. I think you understand what he is. Making him proud hasn’t been a priority in my life since I was seventeen and my attempt to earn his pride landed me on the wrong end of the law, right alongside him.” It had also landed him in the hospital with a broken arm, broken hand, and two broken ribs. That his father hadn’t fared a hell of a lot better hardly mattered. “Some people took poorly to being swindled out of hundreds of thousands of dollars in a real-estate development scam, and, unfortunately, knowing how to quit when he’s ahead has never been Romy’s strong suit.”

“But you were a minor, at the mercy of a patently unfit parent…”

“Yeah, yeah. Chill, choux. They didn’t throw the book at me.” Though the way she automatically took to his defense, with fury in her eyes at the thought of him being dealt with unjustly, put a strange hitch in his pulse. “Someone with some sway took an interest, and I got…I guess you could call it a ‘scholarship’ to the Marine Corps as soon as I turned eighteen.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned at her. “And the rest, as they say, is history.”