Apache Nights. Sheri WhiteFeather

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.