Apache Nights. Sheri WhiteFeather

      Two

      Joyce 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