Making Promises by Amy Lane Read Free Book Online

overshirt!” Shane said firmly, and the way Mikhail’s eyes lit up made his vision swim for a minute.
    “You want a leather jerkin? Like a constable or a rowdy?”
    “A constable?” Shane said, trying to remember what that was.
    “Yeah—I’m a cop. I can be a constable—but I need a white shirt underneath the… jerkin? Really? Is that the word?” Because it sounded like something completely dirty, and he wanted to make sure he’d heard right.
    “Da,” Mikhail nodded sincerely—but his gray eyes were twinkling, and Shane grimaced. Little bastard knew exactly what Shane was trying not to say. He tried and failed to come up with a smart comeback—
    anything but imagining Mikhail um…er… jerkin’ , and then Kimmy’s brain caught up with her ears.
    “You’re a what?” she asked, horrified.
    “A policeman—I told you that, Kim. That’s why I moved to Levee Oaks—to take a job.”
    “You fucker,” she said, her voice lost and a little empty.
    “Kimmy!” Mikhail protested—because unlike their banter previously, she sounded like she really meant it as an insult this time.
    “Are you trying to get shot again?” Shane heard the quaver in her voice and felt bad.
    “Not really, Kim. Wasn’t trying to get shot the last time, if I recall.”
    “You were shot? I thought you said you dealt with horses!” And to his credit, Mikhail sounded concerned as well.
    “My friends deal with horses. And I wasn’t really shot,” Shane said to both of them. “You’re not shot if the Kevlar holds—mostly you’re shot at , right?”
    Kimmy put her hand on her stomach, which was cinched pretty tight with a leather thong through a red-flowered bodice. “That’s not funny, asshole. You were in the hospital for a month—”
    “A month? And you were not shot?”
    Shane shrugged and rolled his eyes—he hadn’t wanted to talk about this, not today. “Yeah, well, who needs a spleen, right? From what I 32

    understand, they’re sort of redundant. Mikhail, did you want a shirt?” He held up a black shirt with ties coming from a V-necked collar—and Mikhail took it numbly.
    “It’s very nice—they took out your spleen?”
    Oh God. Shane had been there during dinners when Deacon had been cornered about his weight or working too hard or taking too much on. He’d seen the guy turn red and try to blow off any and all attempts to make his own health serious, and it had pissed him off.
    Now he knew how Deacon felt.
    “Look,” he said quietly, so they knew he’d been hearing their concern and not their sharp words, “I’m fine. I’m working in a quiet little suburb of a place about a twentieth the size of Los Angeles. It’s like going from Interpol to mall cop—I’m seriously taking it easy, so don’t sweat it, okay?”
    “Don’t sweat it?” Kimmy asked bitterly. “When I sent you flowers, they were seriously doubting whether or not you’d survive, dammit!”
    “You didn’t go visit him?” Mikhail asked sharply, and Kimmy snapped, “I was in rehab, okay?”
    Shane blinked. “Rehab?”
    And now Kimmy flushed and threw a pair of trousers at him with undue force. Shane dimly realized that their little corner of the store had cleared out pretty damned quickly, and he felt bad. “Which is what I was going to tell you about when you got here—but then you had to go and tell me that you’re trying to kill yourself with out the high!”
    “Don’t be dramatic, darlin’.” Shane put an armload of clothes down and took both her hands in his. “Look—how ’bout you calm down and let me change, and sometime when we don’t have an audience, we can talk about this, okay?”
    Kimmy looked around and laughed shakily. “Sorry—I know how you don’t like scenes. I just….” And now she looked away, embarrassed.
    “I wanted to explain, you know? Part of coming clean is explaining to people you wronged, and… I didn’t come to visit.” Shane shrugged, honestly surprised. “No worries, Kim. You