Apache Nights

“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.

For a moment, she wondered if she should cut her losses and forget about the way he’d tricked her. But then she caught him looking down her top, stealing peeks between all those muscular moves.

Tarzan was getting turned on.

They kept sparring, making physical contact. She worked hard, concentrating on the lesson. She listened to his instructions. She followed his advice.

He was a damn good instructor. But that didn’t mean she was going to let him win.

By the time they took a break, her skin was damp and warm.

He walked over to a minifridge in the corner, removed two bottles of water and handed her one.

“Thanks.” She sipped, and he guzzled, like the Cro-Magnon he was. She wasn’t buying his story that his predecessors didn’t drag women off by their hair.

He wasn’t swigging from thirst. He hadn’t even broken a sweat. If anything, he was trying to temper his overactive libido.

Time to go for the gold, she thought. To get her revenge. With as much drama as she could muster, she poured some water down her top, letting it trail between her breasts.

He gaped at her. “What are you doing?”

“Cooling off.”

“This isn’t a wet T-shirt contest.”

“I’d have to take my bra off for that.”

“You better not.”

She almost laughed. He was angry. Ticked that she was toying with him. Big, primordial ape.

He moved closer. “Cut the crap, Joyce.”

“I’m just having a little fun.”

“And I already told you that I wasn’t going to fall for your game.”

She glanced at his groin. She wanted to give him a swift kick, but she knew he was wearing a cup. Men like Kyle didn’t spar without protection.

She tugged at her water-misted top. “Maybe I will take off my bra. It’s starting to itch.”

“Do whatever you want. It’s not going to make a difference.”

Oh, yes it would. She reached back and unfastened the hooks. But as she maneuvered the garment under her top, she pretended that she was having trouble. That she couldn’t get the straps down.

He chuckled under his breath. And better yet, he moved even closer, letting down his guard.

“You’re a hell of a seductress, Detective.”

She played up her dilemma, giving him a slapstick show. She kept flailing her arms. He was too tall to punch in the nose, so she raised her fist and surprised him with an uppercut, catching his jaw, hitting him as hard as she could.

Score one for the cop. His head snapped on his neck.

Her big bad trainer wasn’t chuckling anymore.

“Damn.” He rubbed his chin, scraping his hand across the surface of his skin. “You got me good.”

She took his unexpected compliment to heart. Her knuckles throbbed like crazy, but it was worth it. “Thanks.”

“Want to smack me again?”

While he was primed and ready? Fat chance of that. “That’s okay. We can just call it even.”

“Like hell we can.” He locked his foot around her ankle and tripped her. No fancy moves. No spins, no kicks. Just a smart-aleck trip.

She landed on the mat with a thud. He laughed, and she grabbed his leg and pulled him down, too. They attacked each other, wrestling like a couple of kids.

The horseplay continued, back and forth. She yanked on his headband and tried to blindfold him with it. He faked a blow to her chin, teasing her for socking him in the jaw.

Then he rolled on top of her. Two hundred pounds of testosterone. Within an instant, her body was pinned beneath his, a lot like yesterday. “You’re on a power trip, Prescott.”

He smiled. “You think?”

“Yeah, I do.” She noticed he gave her more rein this time, enough to fight back if she wanted to.

Suddenly he stopped smiling. “You’re even prettier up close.”

Her heart zapped her chest, a lightning effect that charged her like Frankenstein’s monster. She flinched, warning herself to be careful.

His voice turned rough. “I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“Me being pretty?” She cursed the ragged feeling, the fire-hazard risk. “Actually I’m okay with it.”

“I was talking about you and me.” His gaze stormed hers, as fierce as a silent war cry, as the ghost of a warrior howling in the wind. “I hate being attracted to you.”

She struggled to contain her emotions, to stop herself from shoving her tongue down his throat, from tasting every inch of him. “Then get off me.”

“I don’t want to.” He traced her top, running his fingers along the neckline. Finally he moved lower, untangling the twisted straps of her bra, where they were falling down her shoulders. “And you don’t want me to, either.”

She’d forgotten about her unhooked bra, about being half-naked under her shirt. No wonder she looked pretty to him. “Maybe I should force you off of me.”

“Maybe you should,” he told her, without the slightest trace of malice. He was still touching her, still righting her mangled clothes, respecting her in a way she’d never imagined.

Like a heart-pounding fool, she let him stay there, body to body, breath to breath. But even so, she fought the urge to put her arms around him, to hold him. She’d known him for eight months, almost long enough to have a baby.

That alone scared the death out of her.

Her biological clock wouldn’t quit ticking.

“We’re in trouble,” he said.

Joyce didn’t argue. She looked into his eyes, knowing he was going to kiss her.

As softly as they both could endure.

Three

Kyle studied Joyce’s expression. She was waiting for his lips to touch hers, for the confusing tenderness they both craved.

He smoothed a strand of her hair. She looked delicate, vulnerable, so unlike the tough-girl cop he knew her to be.

His willpower sucked, he thought, as he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Their mouths met, and the flavor swirled in his mind. He tasted lipstick and spearmint, a combination that made his head spin.

She ran her hands along his spine. A touch so light, so tentative, he barely knew it was happening. Wanting more, he used his tongue, taking the kiss to the next level.

She reciprocated, making pleasured sounds. Then she lifted the hem of his tank top and rolled it up a little, just enough to create a shiver.

Fingertips and bare flesh.

He wanted to lift her shirt, too.

Anxious, he positioned himself between her legs, then cursed the metal cup he was wearing, the barrier that kept him from straddling her, from rubbing his body against hers.

He pulled back and opened his eyes.

Silent, she gazed at him, as well.

There she was, all soft and blonde, with her bra still undone and her top slightly skewed. Earlier, he’d tried to fix her clothes and now he wanted to peel them right off. Along with his tank, his sweatpants and the jockstrap that had brought him to his senses.

“You don’t have to stop,” she said.

“Yes, I do.”

“It was just a kiss.”

“It was more than that.” It was foreplay, he thought. An explosion just waiting to happen. “I don’t do this kind of thing. Not with—” He stalled and got to his feet.

“Not with what?” She sat up and struggled to hook her bra. But she was careful not to lift her top, at least not in front.

Kyle thought her cautious manner made her seem vulnerable again.

“Not with what?” she repeated, frowning at him. She still hadn’t fastened her bra.

“With women like you,” he admitted. “I don’t get involved with white women.”

Her jaw all but dropped. “That’s what this is about? My race? The color of my skin?”

He didn’t know how to respond, how to explain why it mattered. She was looking at him as if he were some sort of monster. “I’ve never been drawn to white women. You’re the first one I’ve ever kissed. Or ever wanted to sleep with.”

She ignored her bra and stood up. When she did, the straps peeked out from under her top, falling down her shoulders, the way they’d done earlier. “And that’s why you hate being attracted to me? Do you know how offensive that is?”

“It doesn’t help that you’re a cop.”

“Screw you, Kyle. On both counts.”

He wanted to move closer, to touch her, to stop her from being so angry, but he kept his hands to himself. “You’re making a bigger deal out of this than it is.”

“Am I?” She rounded on him. “You’re part white. So what does that say about you?”

He wasn’t about to answer her question. He didn’t want to discuss his childhood with her. Or his adulthood, for that matter. Being a half-blood wasn’t easy, not then and not now. “Drop it, Joyce. Let it go.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to admit that you’re a bigot? Do you know how many hate crimes are committed in this country? People bashing other people because—”

“I’m not committing a hate crime. I’m not hurting anyone.” As soon as those words spilled out of his mouth, he wanted to take them back. He’d just hurt her. He could see it in her eyes.

Blue eyes. White eyes, as his ancestors used to say.

“Why do you hate being attracted to me?” he asked, turning the tables on her.

“Not because you’re Apache. I don’t let someone’s race get in the way.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the way you make me feel. All hot and jumbled. Not like myself.”

“You do that to me, too.”

“I know.” She grabbed her gym bag. “But I’m not interested in training with you anymore.”

“So that’s it? We’re done?” He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter. But it did. The thought of losing her clenched his gut. He didn’t want her to disappear.

Yet when she left, when she walked away, he let her go, unable to admit that the choice he’d made was based on prejudice.

At 9:00 p.m. Kyle walked through the courtyard of Joyce’s apartment building. She lived in a large complex, with flourishing flower beds, lush greenbelts and winding hardscape.

He approached the sidewalk that led to her stairwell and frowned at the path in front of him. He’d called Olivia and asked her for Joyce’s address, and now he was taking reluctant steps to her door.

He’d never apologized to a woman before and the notion of saying “I’m sorry” was making him squeamish. He’d rather be tortured, stretched on a medieval rack with metal thumbscrews on his hands and an iron mask on his face.

Then what was he doing here?

He ignored the question and started up the stairs. Her unit, D-2, was on the right. On the left was D-4. Both doors displayed Halloween decorations. Joyce had chosen a glow-in-the-dark skeleton, a friendly looking fellow who mocked him with a toothy grin.

He knocked on D-2 and waited for her to answer. She didn’t respond. So he knocked again, harder this time. He knew she was home. He’d seen her car in the parking structure and if he listened close enough, he could hear strains of one of those crime scene investigation shows on her TV.

As if she didn’t get enough of that in real life.

Finally footsteps sounded. But she didn’t open the door. He assumed she was peering through the peephole to see who was standing on her second-story stoop.

He made a face, letting her know that he felt like a fool, keeping company with a plastic skeleton. Lucky for him, the Halloween decoration wasn’t obstructing her view.

Or maybe it was unlucky. She still didn’t answer.

“Come on, Joyce. Let me in.”

Nothing. Nada.

“I didn’t even bring a gun.” He stepped back and turned in a small circle.

Still nothing.

He cursed and removed the skeleton. “Check this out.” He waltzed with the bony creature, making its legs dangle. “I bet you didn’t know I could dance.”

Suddenly a door opened. But it wasn’t Joyce. Still romancing the skeleton, he turned around and made eye contact with her neighbors, an elderly couple staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Evening,” he said, switching to a tango and dipping the neon bag of bones.

They continued gaping at him. The old man was as bald as a billiard ball and his wife had a neck like a turkey. Kyle figured they’d been married for at least a hundred years.

“What are you doing?” the man finally asked.

“Trying to make Detective Riggs swoon.” He used the skeleton’s hand to gesture to his loose-fitting shirt, snug jeans and battered moccasins. “Can’t you tell? I’m a regular Romeo.”

“He’s crazy,” the woman murmured.

“I’ll bet he’s an undercover cop.” The husband gave his six-foot-four frame a serious gander. “He’s just the type.”

Without another word, they closed the door in his face, assuming he was one of Joyce’s offbeat peers. Kyle didn’t know whether to laugh or defend his own pathetic honor.

“I see you met Mr. and Mrs. Winkler.”

He spun around. Joyce had managed to open her door without him knowing it. So much for his warrior skills. She was holding a pistol on him, too.

Him and the skeleton.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“As if you don’t know.” She closed her door and came outside, instructing him to assume the frisk position.