Apache Nights (2 page)

She cut him off, and Bonnie scampered away. “Are you denying that you were getting hot and bothered over me?”

“No.” He wasn't denying anything. “I was picturing you as a femme fatale.” He gave her clothes an unappreciative wave. “You could use a makeover.”

“Really?” She gave his duds the same distasteful treatment. “Well, so could you.” She tilted her head, as if she were recreating him in her mind. “I guess that means I'll have to picture you in a suit and tie.”

Kyle cringed, then turned to pour the coffee. He wouldn't be caught dead in a suit. If his family buried him in one, he would come back to haunt them. “You date corporate guys?”

“They're the type I prefer.” She glanced at the cup he'd given her. “Do you have sugar?”

“No.”

“Cream? Milk?”

“Milk. But I'm not willing to share. There's only a little bit left and I'm saving it for my cereal, for tomorrow's breakfast.”

She returned the coffee. “You're a terrible host.”

He pushed the cup back at her, maneuvering the pitch-black drink between them. “I never offered you anything but poison. Besides you deserve it for trying to dress me in a suit.”

“And what do you deserve for trying to put me in a G-string and thigh-high hose?”

“Not bad, Detective.” She'd almost got it right. “But it was a padded bra and spiked heels.”

“I wasn't wearing a skimpy thong?”

“No.” He leveled his gaze. “You weren't wearing anything down there.”

The coffee sloshed over the side of her cup, nearly
burning both of their hands. She flinched, but he didn't move. He'd just taken control. He'd rattled her senses.

She regained her composure. “I should drag you off by your hair. Pull it out of that perverted skull of yours.”

“Now that I'd like to see.” He stood right where he was, challenging her to make the first move. She glanced at the rottweiler, and Kyle gave her a half-cocked smile. She would pay hell to get past his dog. Or him for that matter. She might be a highly effective cop, a Special Section detective who tracked serial killers and worked on high profile cases, but she'd come to him for training, for force-on-force drills, for the fight that was supposedly raging in her blood. No matter what, they both knew his tactical skills out-matched hers. His specialty was close-quarter combat, battlefield techniques perfected by the U.S. Special Forces, U.S. Army Rangers and U.S. Marine Corps.

“Is that spiel you gave me true?” he asked.

“What spiel?”

He set her coffee on the counter. “That bit about you going through a tough time. About having personal problems you can't resolve.”

“I wasn't lying.”

Although she glanced away, something flashed in her eyes. Confusion, he thought. She appeared to be at war with herself.

Were her problems real? Or was she a skilled actress?

He pushed her further, looking for answers. “Did someone hurt you? Is that what's wrong?”

“No.”

“You didn't get in too deep with some guy? With some jerk who screwed you over?” He knew there were men who took advantage, who made promises they didn't keep. But Kyle wasn't one of them. His relationships never went beyond sex, beyond raw, honest urges.

“There's no one,” she told him. “It isn't like that.”

“Then what's going on?”

“Nothing I care to talk about.” Her chest rose and fell, her breathing accelerated, just a little, just enough for him to notice.

She wasn't acting, he decided. She was putting herself on the line, something he doubted she did very often. He couldn't imagine what kinds of problems a tough-willed detective like her couldn't resolve. It made him hungry to kiss her, to taste her confusion, to let her seduce him. But he wasn't about to break his self-imposed code.

He didn't sleep with white women.

Of course that didn't mean he wasn't going to help her. Joyce had come to him for a legitimate reason.

He turned away. “I'll get the milk for your coffee.”

She blinked. “Are you calling a truce?”

“I'm just trying to be a halfway decent host.” He went to the refrigerator, removed the carton and gave Clyde a silent signal, letting the dog know the upcoming threat wouldn't be real. “I'm going to train you.”

“You are?” She accepted the milk and poured it into her cup. “What's your schedule like?”

“I'll have to check my calendar.”

She glanced up. “I've got time off this week. Or is that too soon for you?”

“I'll try to work something out,” he told her, even though he'd already worked it out.

She stirred her coffee, and he curbed a carnivorous smile.

Joyce's first session and the surprise attack that went with it was about to begin.

J
oyce sipped her coffee. It was strong, but it was far from poisonous. “This is actually pretty good.”

“Glad you think so.” He came forward, taking the hot drink from her hand. “Too bad you won't get to finish it.”

“What you are doing?”

“This.” He set her cup on the counter and moved even closer.

Too close, she thought. She could smell the soap on his skin. An outdoorsy scent, a blend of lavender and sage, of man and nature.

She met his gaze and noticed the brown and gold pattern. Tiger's-eye, she thought. Like the quartz
stone Roman soldiers used to wear to protect them in battle.

He moistened his lips, and her pulse went haywire. Was he going to kiss her?

She knew she shouldn't let him. But she was curious to taste him. One long, lingering jolt. One forbidden flavor.

When he pinned her against the counter, she lifted her chin, daring him to do it, to take her mouth with his.

But he didn't. He grabbed her gun instead.

Son of a bitch.

She tried to stop him, but within seconds he'd confiscated her 9mm and ditched it, right along with the SIG he carried. Both guns went sliding across the vinyl floor, out of sight and out of reach. This wasn't an armed battle. This was street fighting, a down-and-dirty brawl.

Only he wasn't hurting her. If anything, she was simply being restrained.

She knew how to punch, how to kick, how land well-aimed blows. But her moves didn't work on him.

Joyce gritted her teeth and attempted a stomp that was supposed to bring down a giant, someone as big as Kyle.

For all the good it did.

He took her down instead. “You're blowing it, Detective.”

He landed on top of her, nailing her to the floor.
He kept her there, under him, his tiger's-eye eyes boring into hers. She couldn't move her arms; she couldn't even lift her pelvis a fraction.

But the weight of his body felt good.

Much too good.

“Get off me, Kyle.”

He didn't listen. He continued looking at her. Was this another trick? At this point, she still wanted him to kiss her. Softly. Gently. Yet she wanted to shred his clothes, too. To snap and bite and leave marks on his soap-scented skin.

Nothing in her brain made any sense.

“Tell me what's wrong.” He climbed off her, ending the exercise, freeing her from his bond. “Tell me what's going on in your life.”

Caught off guard, she sat up and noticed he was sitting on the floor, too. “We already discussed that.”

“And you didn't tell me a thing.”

“It's personal.” She wasn't about to admit that her biological clock was ticking like a bomb. For Joyce, it wasn't a natural feeling. She hated the nesting urges inside her, the marriage/baby lust interfering with her job, with everything that used to make her happy. Being a wife and mother had never been part of her agenda. Yet it had begun to take over, like a horror-movie body snatcher.

“Are you sure it's something you can fight your way out of?” he asked.

“Yes.” It had to be, she thought. Because she didn't intend to let those urges destroy her. Nor did she intend to cater to them, to marry the first romantic bonehead that came along and have his babies.

Speaking of boneheads…

Kyle stretched his legs and tapped the soles of her shoes with his. “Are you impressed?”

“With what?” She pushed back, pressing on his knee-high moccasins. They held no adornment. No fringe, no tiny beading, no colorful paint. “You?”

“I stole your gun, cop-girl.”

“And you can return it now, cheater-boy.”

“I didn't cheat.”

Joyce couldn't believe they were playing footsies, flirting like a couple of middle school kids. She tried to quit, but he continued, so she did too, kicking him a little harder. “You pretended you were going to kiss me.”

“It's not my fault you fell for that.”

No, it was hers. And she wouldn't let it happen again.

Suddenly he stopped moving and said something in what she assumed was Apache. She frowned at him, then realized he was talking to Clyde. The dog came forward and dropped her gun in her lap.

She glanced at the handle of the 9mm. The rotty had slobbered all over it. “Gee, thanks.”

Kyle grinned. “Wanna know where mine is?”

“Up your butt?” she asked and made him chuckle.

“It's in my holster. Right where it should be.” He attacked her soles again. “Tricky, aren't I?”

Joyce couldn't decide if he was a militant or a magician. She moved her feet away from his, then wiped the handle of her gun with her blouse. “That was a lousy training session. All you did was show off.”

“I was assessing your skills.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She wasn't about to throw in the towel. “I better get more out of the next session.”

“You will.” He stood and offered her hand. “Come by tomorrow around noon.”

“You better be worth the money.” She refused his hand, hating that he'd bested her. Not in a fight. But in that nonexistent kiss.

The strategy he'd used against her.

 

After Joyce left, Kyle drove his Jeep to Olivia's downtown loft. He didn't like going to other people for help, but he didn't have a choice. Besides, Olivia was a friend, or as close to a friend as a female could get.

Women were a strange breed. He appreciated their bodies. He considered them the Creator's most compelling work of art, but he didn't understand their minds. And Joyce was no exception. She baffled the hell out of him.

Edgy, he sat on Olivia's sofa. She was perched on
the chair across from him, waiting for him to speak. He used to call her Liv, but he'd decided to stop using the nickname, to stop being overly familiar with her, especially now that she was sleeping with someone else.

She crossed her legs, and he noticed her short black skirt and fishnet stockings. Olivia had always dressed like a dominatrix. Her naughty style is what had attracted him to her. That, and her Lakota/Apache blood.

“Do you know what's going on with Joyce?” he asked.

She ran her hand through her hair. She wore it short and choppy. Her lips were a bold shade of red and her eyes were rimmed in a smudgy kohl liner. “Going on how?”

“With her personal life.”

“She doesn't confide in me.”

“No girl talk?”

“No.”

He blew out an irritated-sounding breath, letting his former lover know that he didn't believe her. He'd always heard that women stuck together. That they chattered like gossip-addicted magpies. “You told her stuff about me.”

“So?”

“So did you tell her I was hot in bed?” He sure as hell hoped so, or else he would look like a fool, considering he'd already bragged to Joyce and accused her of wanting him.

“Of course I did. It's the only thing you're good at.”

He wasn't flattered, not completely. He took pride in other aspects of his life, in the Warrior Society that dictated his missions. “I'm good at other things.”

“You were a lousy boyfriend.”

Okay, so she had him there. He hadn't mastered the art of romance, of wining and dining. And he totally sucked at the emotional stuff. But he'd never claimed to be polished or poetic.

“Who cares?” he said.

“Apparently you do or you wouldn't be asking me about Joyce.”

“I was asking about her personal problems.” The mystery of why she was troubled was driving him crazy. “She came to me for training. She wants to fight her way out of her dilemma.”

“I know. She told me.”

“Right.” He gave Olivia a hard stare. “During the conversation that wasn't girl talk.” To him, evaluating a man's performance in bed was as girly as a discussion could get, even if the man in question was grateful for it. “I can't believe she didn't go into more detail. That she didn't admit what's bothering her.”

“Well, she didn't.”

They both fell silent. Frustrated, Kyle looked around the loft. The walls were decorated with a mural Olivia's sister had painted, with fantasy creatures that included an armor-clad knight and a fire-breathing dragon.

He squinted at the knight and wondered if there was a damsel in distress waiting in the wings somewhere.

If women like Olivia and Joyce ruled the world, they would be slaying the dragon. Not that Kyle didn't respect ass-kicking females. They totally turned him on. But he appreciated their softer sides, too. The vulnerability that made them women. Which, he supposed, was why Joyce's secret was chipping away at him.

He picked up a decorative pillow and fussed with the froufrou tassel, flicking the gold fringe. “Why didn't you try to zap into Joyce's mind and pick her brain? Why didn't you try to find out what's going on?”

Olivia glanced at the front door. “I wasn't going to invade her privacy. That wouldn't have been right.”

Right, smight. Kyle wished he were psychic.

Just then, the door opened and a dark-haired man in a black suit entered the trendy building and set his briefcase down. Olivia must have sensed his presence.

Special Agent Ian West. Her FBI lover. She stood and West came toward her. They didn't say anything. They locked lips instead, sweet and slow, as if they hadn't seen each other for a thousand years. But that wasn't the case. They worked together as often as they could, and whenever the hotshot profiler was in town, he crashed at her place.

When the other man deepened the kiss, Kyle made a disgusted face. “Knock it off.”

They separated, and West raised his eyebrows. “What's the matter, Prescott? Are you jealous?”

“Hardly.” He was glad Olivia had met her match. That West was taking her for a heartfelt ride. But that didn't mean he wanted to watch them swap spit.

“Kyle came here to talk about Joyce,” Olivia said, straightening West's tie.

“Really?” The fed seemed intrigued. “She used to have a thing for me.”

Now Kyle was jealous. “She did not.” He turned to Olivia. “Did she?”

“She thought he was hot when she first met him. But that was before we hooked up.”

“I guess there's no accounting for taste. Not that it matters.” He rose from the sofa, ditching the stupid pillow. “I'm not interested in her.”

West and Olivia exchanged an oh-sure look.

“I'm not,” he reiterated.

Olivia walked him to the door. “You want to sleep with her.”

“That's doesn't mean I'm going to.”

She shook her head, as if she didn't believe him, as if he didn't have the slightest bit of willpower.

As if a blue-eyed blonde, a cop no less, could bring him to his knees.

 

The following day, Joyce prepared for the silent war churning inside her. Her personal fight. And the
battle she intended to wage against Kyle. There was more than one way to skin a cat, to strip a tiger down to the bone. This time, she was going to dupe him.

She glanced around, surprised by what she saw. His basement had been converted into a gym, and unlike the rest of his house, the room was spotless. Every piece of machinery gleamed.

Finally she met his gaze. He stood across from her on a sparring mat. He wasn't armed. No holster. No semiautomatic weapon. He wore standard gray sweatpants and a ribbed tank top.

He looked dangerous, tall and strong and strapped with muscle. His hair was secured in the usual manner, with a cotton cloth tied around his head.

He moved closer, and she withheld a triumphant smile. He couldn't keep his eyes off her cleavage, off her scooped neckline.

“You're staring,” she said.

“Because that's not proper attire.”

“These pants are made for working out. Lycra stretches.”

“I was talking about that skimpy top,” he said, even though her skintight capris had caught his attention, too.

“I didn't know there was a dress code. Besides, I'm wearing a push-up bra.”

His gaze drifted again. “I noticed.”

“I wore it for you. For your fantasy.”

“Don't mess with me, Joyce.”

“Is that what I'm doing?” She batted her lashes, poking fun at their attraction.

He rolled his eyes, and she laughed, breaking the tension, the male-female heat that crackled in the air.

But she was just getting started, letting him think she wasn't a threat. That she wasn't clever enough to outsmart him.

“Good thing I didn't wear spiked heels,” she told him. “Or no panties.”

He merely blinked.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He didn't answer.

“Kyle?” she pressed.

“Of course I'm ready.” He copped a macho stance, widening his legs and planting his feet in a solid position. “I'm not going to fall for your little game.”

She glanced at his tank top. His nipples were erect. Hers were, too. They protruded like .45 caliber bullets, jutting against the silky fabric of her bra. A condition that didn't go unnoticed.

He was already falling for her game.

She tucked her hair behind her ears and told herself there was no such thing as a dumb blonde. Women who used their sexuality knew exactly what they were doing.

Not that she was going to seduce him. The idea was to set him up, to divert his attention. The way he'd done to her when he'd faked that kiss.

The session began, with Kyle pointing out the mistakes she'd made yesterday, explaining why her moves hadn't been effective on him. According to him, she'd been trained properly in the past, but she wasn't using her knowledge to her best advantage.

She stepped back and watched him demonstrate his style, his techniques. He reminded her of Tarzan. Fluid, natural. A man who'd been born to bend his body, to kick, to spin, to conquer the jungle.

When they began sparring, she went after his vulnerable areas. He blocked her, of course. He wasn't going to let her crush his Adam's apple or knee his kidneys. But he commended her anyway.