Apache Nights (8 page)

“It's designed to cause permanent damage.”

“I'll say. I can't decide if Dad is going to love or hate this guy.”

Joyce ignored the glint in her sister's eye. “Dad isn't going to meet him.”

“Sure he is. You're going to bring Kyle to Mom and Dad's anniversary party.” Jessica scooted to the edge of her seat. “If you don't, I'm going to tell Tom to invite his boss.”

“That's blackmail.”

“Call it what you will.”

“You still don't believe me, do you? You think I'm making Kyle up.”

“No, I don't. I think he's the ‘funny' friend who blindfolded your skeleton.” Jessica lowered her voice. “He is, isn't he?”

Joyce sucked in a breath. “Yes.”

“Is he as dangerous as he seems?”

“Of course not,” she lied, not wanting to admit to her sister that she was caught up in a thrill-seeking affair. Or worse yet, that every so often, she would envision being married to Kyle. “That was a joke.”

“A naughty joke, I'll bet.”

Joyce didn't respond. How could she? At this stage, she wondered if she was getting in over her head. If Kyle
was
as dangerous as he seemed.

T
he following afternoon, Joyce decided to investigate her lover. She already knew his sexual appetite made him dangerous. But what about the rest of his life? The Warrior Society he belonged to? The Indian activists that kept the authorities guessing?

Needing answers, she shared a scarred wooden table with Special Agent West. He'd agreed to meet her at the Mockingbird, a downtown bar and a cop-patronized watering hole that boasted a jukebox in front and a billiard table in back.

As West nursed a beer, he dipped into a bowl of peanuts. Joyce considered the special agent a friend,
and since he was Olivia's boyfriend, he knew Kyle, as well.

At this point, she wanted to talk to the FBI, and West fit the bill. She picked up her drink, a lemon-lime soda, and took a sip. The maraschino cherry had sunk to the bottom of the glass. She could only imagine what Kyle would do with her cherry.

West angled his head, and she frowned. This wasn't the time to be thinking about Kyle's erotic games.

She shifted her attention to the special agent. He wore a black suit, a pale shirt and a narrow tie. His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes were an alarming shade of gray. He was a hell of a profiler, a man who knew what made violent criminals tick.

At the moment, he was analyzing her.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I want to discuss Kyle with you.”

“That's what I figured.” He went after another handful of peanuts. “He got you into bed, didn't he?”

“So? Olivia did that to you.”

“Yes, but she and I are on the same side. She assists law enforcement agencies.” He sat back and gave her an obvious study. “You're worried that Kyle is engaged in illegal activity.”

She wasn't about to skirt around the issue, even if Kyle had assisted on a case she and West had worked on. They both knew he didn't lend his skills on a regular basis. “I know he doesn't have a record,
but are the feds keeping an eye on him? Or his Warrior Society?”

West dusted the salt from his fingers. “There's a file on the society and Kyle's name is in it.”

She scooted to the edge of her chair. “Has he or anyone else been linked to any crimes?”

“Nothing that can be proven.”

“But there's speculation?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of speculation?” she asked.

West blew out a rough breath. “If you want to know what Kyle is up to, then you should ask him.”

She merely blinked. Suddenly the special agent was snubbing her, refusing to share information. “You're protecting him from me?
You,
of all people.”

“He helped when I was sick.”

“I helped, too.” Frustrated, she put down her drink. Although some people would find it hard to believe, West had been infected with an object-intrusion spell, a Native American witchcraft tool that had nearly killed him. But that was eight months ago, and he was well now. “When did you check to see if there was a file on him?” she asked. “Before or after he helped you?”

“After. But I was curious about him before.”

“And now I'm curious.”

“That's understandable.” West finished his beer. “But I'm not going to betray him. Not with the woman he's sleeping with.”

“How noble of you. How male. How Indian,” she added, lacing her voice with sarcasm.

“Don't even go there, Riggs. I'm not that kind of Indian.”

“Aren't you?” Although he wasn't an activist like Kyle, he was a mixed-blood registered with his tribe. And on top of that, Olivia probably influenced him. She'd done her fair share of fighting for Native causes.

“You know damn well I'm not,” he countered.

Joyce didn't respond. West had never touted his heritage in front of her. By most people's standards, he didn't even look Indian. But sitting across from him now, he made her feel white.

“Ask Kyle,” he pressed. “Talk to him about this.”

She reached for her drink and plucked the cherry out of it, placing it on the cocktail napkin beside her. “Fine. But do you really think he is going to be honest with me?”

“If he cares about you, he will,” West said, leaving her with a lump in the back of her throat.

 

“I was getting worried,” Kyle told Joyce as he unlocked the gate that led to his property. “I expected you before now.”

“We never specified a time.” She glanced at his companions. Clyde stood patiently, and Bonnie danced around Joyce's feet. She knelt to pet the wiener dog, then looked up at Kyle.

He wore varying shades of denim and a battered fringe jacket reminiscent of the Vietnam War era. A slight breeze tousled his hair.

“I fixed lunch,” he said.

Her heart made a foolish flutter. This wasn't the time to get girlish over him. Yesterday they'd agreed to spend some casual time together, but today she had an ulterior motive. “You cooked for me?”

“I made sandwiches. For a picnic,” he added.

“Really?” She hadn't pegged him for the picnic type. “Where?”

“In the laser tag compound.”

“That sounds fun.” And it made her feel guilty, even if she knew she had the right to question him about his Warrior Society activities.

They walked to his house, and he retrieved their late-day lunch. From there, they took his Jeep to the airplane hangar that supported the laser tag course. The dogs came with them.

Once they went inside, Joyce marveled at the genius of the structure. The building was equipped with a variety of movie props and set changes, including lifelike audio tracks and devices that scented the air and altered the weather.

She glanced up. At the moment, the painted sky was sunny and the temperature was warm.

“I can make it rain,” Kyle said.

“At a picnic?”

“We could huddle in a cave.” He gestured to a stone path that led to a mountainlike formation.

Indoor rain sounded sexy, but she wasn't sure if it was a good idea. Sooner or later, she was going to ask him if he was involved in criminal activity, and a sunny day seemed safer somehow.

“I'd prefer a dry picnic,” she said.

He removed his jacket. “Then come with me.”

She walked beside him with the dogs in tow. They crossed a small bridge and stopped in an area that was designed to look like a meadow. Faux flowers colored the grasslike ground, creating an alluring effect.

Bonnie ran ahead of them, and Joyce laughed. Clyde was too macho to make mad dash for the fake foliage, but he watched his canine friend kick up her heels.

Joyce and Kyle sat in the middle of the floral field. An electronic bird winged above their heads, and she admired its realistic flight.

“That's part of the magic,” he told her.

Strange magic, she thought. She knew he played war games here. “I'll bet it's booby-trapped.”

“Could be.” He spread his jacket on the ground and setup their picnic, removing items from a duffel bag.

He'd packed more than sandwiches. She noticed cheese and crackers, too. And containers filled with various fruits and salads. For their beverage, he'd brought bottled water.

Joyce tasted her sandwich, a hearty roll with roast beef, avocado, tomato and lettuce. “This is good.”

“Just because I hate to clean my kitchen doesn't mean I can't fix a halfway decent meal.” He scooped one of the salads onto a paper plate for her. “Try the pasta.”

She took a bite, impressed by the raw vegetables and spicy Italian dressing he'd added to the curly noodles. “A man of many talents.”

“That's me.” He leaned forward to kiss her, planting a chaste peck on her lips.

She wanted to kiss him for real, but her guilt had kicked in again, so she pretended that she wasn't craving more. Or that she wasn't stalling, stopping herself from asking him about his Warrior Society.

When he sat back, Bonnie climbed onto his lap. He petted the tiny pooch, then set her on her feet. As for Kyle's feet, Joyce noticed that he was wearing his moccasins.

She gestured with her fork. “Did someone make those for you?”

“Someone? Like who?”

“A female relative,” she suggested. “Or an old lover.”

“I made them. I'm crafty that way. Domestic slob that I am.”

He was more than crafty, she thought. He was a loner. A man who'd learned to cook and sew to prove that he didn't need a woman tending to his needs.

As for cleaning…

“You should hire a housekeeper,” she told him.

“My grandmother thinks I should find a wife.”

Joyce sucked in a breath. Like the troubled woman she was, her mind strayed in a husbandly direction. Why did it matter how Kyle lived his life? She'd known he was a suspicious character when she'd first met him.

“The grandmother with the robe like mine?” she asked.

“Yep, that's her.” He flashed a silly smile. “Grandma Ugly Robe.”

She looked at him, her emotions still acting up. Why did his lifestyle matter? Because she was sleeping with him. And because in her own stupid way, she was getting attached.

“My baby sister thinks I should invite you to our parents' anniversary party,” she said, wanting to clear the air, to admit that she'd told someone in her family about him.

“Really? So are you going to invite me?”

“It depends on how honest you are.”

“About what?”

“Criminal activity.”

For a moment, he merely stared at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don't play dumb, Kyle. The FBI has a file on your Warrior Society.”

“Of course they do.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his faithful rottweiler sat down beside him, aware of his agitation. “The feds don't trust guys like me.”

“Then why should I trust you?”

He stared at her once again. “I never claimed you should.”

She held his gaze. “Is that an admission of guilt?”

“No.”

“The FBI has been speculating about your activities.”

He wrapped up his half-eaten sandwich and shoved it into the duffel bag. “Who told you that?”

“Special Agent West. But before you start cursing him, he wouldn't tell me what those speculations are.”

Kyle crossed his arms. “Why? What's his agenda?”

“I don't think he has one. Other than not wanting to betray you to the woman you're sleeping with.” She glanced at the spray of rainbow flowers, wishing they were real, wishing they could give her comfort. “He also thinks that if you cared about me, you'd tell me the truth.”

“That's not right.” He looked around the fake meadow, too. Avoiding her gaze. Avoiding the discomfort between them. “West shouldn't have said that.”

“No, I suppose he shouldn't have.” But he did, and the words made her ache. As foolish as it was, she wanted Kyle to care about her.

 

Kyle couldn't sleep. He sat up in bed and glanced at the clock: 2:24. He picked up the phone, then set it down. He couldn't call Joyce at this hour. Could he?

He got up, went down the hall to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. He looked like hell, like a man haunted by a woman.

When he returned to his room, the clock said 2:25.

Screw it. He climbed back into bed and grabbed the phone again. He was going to call her. With a frown, he punched out the numbers.

The ringing on the other end of the line made his stomach jolt. Finally she answered.

“Hello?” She sounded anxious, as if she were expecting an emergency. Or a homicide-oriented call, something related to her job.

Which wasn't that far off the mark. She would probably want to kill him for interrupting her sleep.

“It's me,” he told her.

“Kyle? Do you know what time it is?”

He stole another glance at the clock: 2:27 and counting. “Yes.”

“And?” she pressed, waiting for him to explain.

He envisioned her sitting up in bed, too. Only her bed was soft and scented, with pastel sheets and a virginal quilt. He wished he were there, nuzzling her naked body. “Can I come over?”

She blew out an annoyed breath. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not giving in every time you have a sexual whim.”

“Why not?”

“Kyle.”

A slight laugh sounded in her voice, and he smiled. He liked making her laugh. He liked making love to her, too. But that wasn't why he'd called. “I am starting to care about you, Joyce.”

Silence. Then, “You are?”

“Of course I am. I wouldn't be spending all this time with you if I wasn't.” He kicked away the covers. “Are you starting to care about me?”

“Yes.”

“Enough to let me come over?”

She turned suspicious. “What for?”

“To talk.” His stomach jolted again, just a little, just enough to prove how she affected him. “Would it matter if I cared about you in the way West suggested?”

“Of course it would.” Her voice perked up. “Are you offering to come clean? To discuss the Warrior Society?”

He made a face, hoping he wasn't going to regret this decision. That she wouldn't turn on him like the cop she was. “Yes, but you have to promise to come clean, too. To talk about your personal problems.”

She stalled, sighing into the phone. “I never expected you to strike a bargain.”

“Too bad. Take it or leave it.”

Another sigh. “That's going to be difficult for me.”

“And me opening up to a detective isn't?” Once he spilled his guts, she could hang him out to dry. Screw him over but good. “I'm not giving you something for nothing. Either we trust each other or we don't.”

“This is scary,” she said.

No kidding, he thought. “Are you game?”

When she cleared her throat and said, “Yes,” he reached for his clothes and told her he would be over in about an hour. The drive would take him at least that long.