“I Hate Being Attracted To You.”

Kyle’s gaze stormed hers, as fierce as a silent war cry.

Joyce struggled to contain her emotions, to stop herself 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. He moved lower, righting her clothes, respecting her in a way she’d never imagined. “And you don’t want me to, either.”

Like a heart-pounding fool, she let him stay there, body to body, breath to breath. 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 stop ticking.

“We’re in trouble.”

Apache Nights
Sheri WhiteFeather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SHERI WHITEFEATHER

lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.

Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats—domestic and wild. She loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 17146, Anaheim, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.

To the readers who noticed Kyle in Always Look Twice and asked if I was going to write his story, this book is for you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

Where in the hell was he?

Joyce Riggs waited at the locked gate in front of Kyle Prescott’s obscure seven-acre dwelling, with an irate rottweiler snarling at her through the chain-link fence.

The guard dog fit Kyle to a T, but so did the other pooch, a miniature dachshund, keeping the rotten rotty company.

How many people would pair a rottweiler and an itty-bitty wiener dog together in the same yard?

And speaking of the yard…

Scattered car parts. Old lawn furniture. Playground equipment. Wagon wheels. A cast-iron stove.

She blinked, deciding it was impossible to itemize everything. Kyle was, after all, a junk dealer. Or at least that was his legitimate profession, his cover, the work he claimed on his income tax returns.

She knew he was a militant who trained other militants, a Native American activist who kept the authorities guessing. And to make matters worse, she had a crush on him, an irritating attraction that had been nipping at her heels since they’d both decided nearly eight months ago that they despised each other.

She blew out a rough breath and did her damnedest to ignore the salivating rotty. But it wasn’t easy. The domineering beast was getting angrier by the second. The wiener dog, on the other hand, was grinning at her like a sweet little goon.

Finally a banging sound caught her attention. The snap of a heavy wooden door, no doubt. Both dogs reacted, and like a muscle-bound mirage, Kyle appeared in the distance, descending the porch steps of his ancient home.

He lived in an isolated section of the high desert where Charles Manson and his merry band of murderers had been rumored to spend time, a place that still seemed like Helter Skelter to the average fear-abiding citizen.

Kyle moved closer, and Joyce squinted at him, wishing he didn’t make her pulse flip and flutter.

It took a while, but he reached the gate, emphasizing his long, lazy strides. And then he smirked, giving her a roguish, Rhett Butler-type look. The rottweiler was still baring his fangs, growling in the name of his gorgeous master. She could tell the dog was male. She could see his I’m-a-boy testes.

Fiddle-dee-dee, she thought. Supposedly Kyle had quite a pair, too. Not to mention the body part that went with them. She’d heard he was hung like a Trojan horse.

Not that she cared.

“Detective Riggs,” he said. “What a surprise.”

“I called and told you to expect me.”

“And I told you not to bother.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious why I’m here?” she baited.

He angled his head. As usual, his razor-sharp shoulder length hair was held in place with a cloth headband, reminiscent of the Geronimo era in Apache history. At six-four, he was a tall, dark half-blood, a man who carried his heritage like a nineteenth-century rifle.

He wore a blue T-shirt, button-fly jeans and knee-high moccasins. He was thirty-six, the same age as Joyce, but they didn’t have anything in common, nothing but an unyielding attraction.

He shifted his stance, and the sandy soil settled around his feet. “If this is official police business then you’ll have to get a warrant.”

“Why?” The October wind snapped like a whip, stinging her face. “Did you kill someone?”

His smirk faded. Kyle was a highly decorated Desert Storm soldier, a full-blown war hero. He didn’t take death lightly. But neither did she. Joyce was a homicide detective.

For an instant, they simply stared at each other, trapped in a challenging moment. Then she glanced at the rottweiler. He remained on teeth-gnashing alert. “Will you call off that damn dog?”

The smile returned, the crisscross pattern on the fence distorting Kyle’s handsome features. “He doesn’t like cops.”

“I doubt he likes anyone.”

“He likes Olivia.”

Trust Kyle to bring up his former lover. Olivia was a mutual friend, a psychic who assisted the LAPD and the FBI and every other law enforcement agency Kyle claimed to hate.

But Olivia was also a beautiful, strong-willed woman who trained with Kyle in his private compound, something Joyce was hoping to do.

Especially now, while she was desperate to piece her shattered emotions back together.

“I’m willing to pay you,” she said.

That caught his attention. He gave the dog a subtle command, and it stopped snarling. He’d spoken in what sounded like a foreign language. Not anything Joyce recognized. Most likely, he’d trained his rotty to respond to Apache.

“Pay me for what?” he asked.

“For your sessions. Hand to hand combat. War games. Everything you offer here.”

“I don’t train cops.”

“Then I’ll be your first.”

He gave her a suspicious glare. “Why?”

“Because I’m going through a tough time, some personal issues I can’t seem to resolve.” She didn’t like revealing herself to him, but she wasn’t going to unearth every little detail. Joyce’s biological clock was ready to explode, something she couldn’t begin to understand, something that was spinning out of control. “I need to blow off some steam. Get physical. Take my mind off my problems.”

“Then go to the police range and fire your gun. Do whatever your kind do.”

“My kind?” She wanted to kick him through the fence, but she knew the rottweiler would go nuts if she staged an attack. “Quit hiding behind your dog and let me in.”

“Nice try, Detective. But I’m not macho enough to fall for that.”

Yeah, right. He was as macho as a modern-day warrior could get. “Olivia told me all about you, Kyle. Everything.”

He had the gall to grin. “So you know I’m good in bed. So what?” He paused, looked her up and down. “Is that why you’re really here, Detective? To bang my brains out?”

She roamed her gaze over him, giving him a taste of his own chauvinistic medicine. “What brains?”

He almost laughed. Almost. But not quite.

As for her, she was used to sparring with hard-edged men, with criminals, with other detectives. Being a woman in a male-dominated environment made her stronger.

But sometimes it made her lonely, too.

A second later, Kyle surprised her by unlocking the gate. “You can come in if you want to.”

She motioned to the rottweiler. “What about him?”

“Clyde won’t hurt you. Not unless I tell him to.”

Clyde. She glanced at the sturdy black and tan canine. He didn’t move a well-toned muscle. He sat like a statue at his master’s feet. She scanned the grounds for the dachshund and couldn’t help but smile. The little wiener dog was wiggling like a ballpark frank trying to escape from a bun.

“What’s that one’s name?” she asked.

Kyle’s lips quirked. “Bonnie.”

She raised her eyebrows. Bonnie and Clyde. He’d named his dogs after bank robbers.

He rattled the gate. “Are you coming in or not?”

Suddenly a voice in her head told her to go home, to stay away from Kyle Prescott. But the need to fight her way out of her problems, to train with him, kept her grounded.

Besides, he didn’t have a record. And although his activities often bordered on the suspicious, Joyce wanted to believe that when the chips were down, he could be trusted. On the day they’d met, he’d helped the LAPD apprehend a killer, a case that involved Native witchcraft. Of course, he’d only done that for Olivia, for a woman who’d fallen in love with someone else. Not that Olivia had ever been in love with Kyle. She’d claimed he was a bit too bizarre to make her feel secure.

Nonetheless, Joyce took a chance and stepped onto his property. Instantly he moved forward and snapped the padlock back into place, locking her into his domain, telling her, without words, that it was too late to turn tail and run.

As if he could scare her off. She wouldn’t dream of chickening out, even if the rational voice in her head was calling her an idiot.

When he turned away from her, she noticed the small-of-the-back holster attached to his belt. She glanced at the semiautomatic SIG and wondered if he armed himself every morning. She knew darn well that Kyle didn’t have a permit to carry a gun, open or concealed, but he was on his own property and that put him within the limits of the law.

“Expecting some bad guys to show up?” she asked.

“Just a bad girl.” He caught sight of her holstered gun, too. “But she’s already here.”

“Touché.”

“It was your idea to invade my world.” He motioned to his house. “Want some coffee?”

“As long as you don’t poison it.”

“My coffee is poison.”

And so were his pheromones, she thought. The sparks he sent flying, the sexual energy that made him seem like a predator.

She walked beside him, and Clyde fell into step. She could tell the rotty was aware of everything she did. But so was Kyle.

Refusing to give the males too much attention, she focused on Bonnie. The sweet little thing tagged along, her low-slung belly nearly dragging on the ground.

As they continued toward the house, as Bonnie skirted around salvage items that got in her way, Joyce studied the outbuildings on Kyle’s property.

“Is that where you store the rest of your merchandise?” she asked.

He followed her line of sight, then nodded. “Furniture, collectables, memorabilia. Things you’d find in trading posts and antique stores. I’ve got some nice pieces for sale.” He paused. “Do you like vintage stuff?”

“Yes.” She loved browsing in charming old stores, shopping for rare finds. “But atmosphere is important to me, too.”

He made a grand gesture. “You don’t think my place has atmosphere?”

Was he joking? She couldn’t quite tell. “Your airplane hangar has appeal.” The enormous structure sat behind everything else, taking up ten thousand square feet of space. She knew the building had been modified to support a highly sophisticated laser tag course, a compound she was anxious to see. But he still hadn’t agreed to train her.

To help her with her cause.

To battle the emotions that threatened to swallow her.

Kyle slanted the lady cop a sideways glance. He intended to grill her, to figure out if she was on the level. For all he knew, she’d heard about his upcoming mission and wanted to poke her investigator’s nose into his business.

He studied her profile, the chin-length sweep of blond hair, the simple curve of feminine eyelashes. This wasn’t a case for a homicide detective. He didn’t plan on hurting anyone—no guns, no knives, no weapons of choice. But what he intended to do was still illegal, and Joyce could easily turn him over to one of her peers.

But as far as he was concerned, his mission was sacred, a spiritual issue, something that was worth going to jail for. Even dying for, if it came down to that.

Of course, neither of those risks appealed to him. And neither did Joyce involving herself in his affairs.

Within minutes, they reached his house. After taking the weather-beaten steps, he opened the front door, gesturing for her to enter. She went inside, the dogs trailing after her.

She glanced around his living room and made a face. “Olivia warned me that you weren’t much of a housekeeper. But this looks like somebody ransacked the place.”

Typical, he thought. Females always grumbled about the clutter in which he lived, including his former bedmate, a woman who’d accused him of being the biggest slob on the planet.

But he didn’t care. He’d decorated with an eclectic style of furniture, with vintage pieces from different eras. And yeah, it was messy, with books, magazines and old clothes littering almost every surface. But he liked it that way. It kept his lovers from getting domestic ideas about him.

“Are you ready to get grossed out by my kitchen?” he asked.

“Is it that bad?”

“You’ll probably think so.”

Sure enough, she did. When they rounded the corner, the dogs in silent pursuit, she wrinkled her nose. “This is beyond gross.”

Kyle merely shrugged. The food-encrusted plates in the sink were probably growing mold. But he had lots of extra dinnerware, boxes and boxes of secondhand stuff. When his dishes got too disgusting, he threw them away and started over. The same with pots, pans, glasses and flatware. The whole shebang.

“Is the coffeepot clean?” she asked.

“It’s new.” He plugged in the reconditioned unit and set about to make a dark, Colombian brew. He kept hundreds of preowned machines on hand. “Or sort of new. I’ve never used it before.”

“Thank God.”

He spared her a quick glance. He suspected that she lived in a tidy West L.A apartment, with silk flowers and a concrete balcony. Pretty but practical. Just like her.

While the coffee brewed, he leaned against the counter and took the time to check her out, to analyze her appearance. Neatly styled hair, blue eyes, noteworthy bone structure and minimal makeup. As for her clothes, she’d chosen an average white blouse, a lightweight blazer and black slacks.

Conservative, he thought. Coplike.

But damn if she didn’t have a stimulating body, toned and athletic. Her mouth aroused him, too. The pillowy fullness, the insatiable, go-down-on-a-guy shape. He’d heard that she had a teasing nature. That she flirted for the fun of it. Of course, he’d never seen that side of her.

He wondered how she would look in a push-up bra, smoky eyeliner and stiletto heels. Incredible, he decided.

She glared at him. “Cut it out.”

“Cut what out?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“A Cro-Magnon.”

Amused, he bit back a smile. Clyde was watching her with guard dog awareness, and Bonnie was sniffing at her nondescript shoes. “Cro-Magnon men were capable hunters and food gatherers. Artistic cave painters, too.”

“You know darn well I was referring to their sexual habits.”

“Dragging womenfolk off by their hair? It’s a fascinating theory, but I don’t think it’s true. Homo sapiens weren’t dim-witted brutes. They were much more sophisticated than—”

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.

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 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.

He couldn’t help but grin. “Is this a sexual thing?”

“Don’t get cute.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He decided it might be fun to let a lady cop pat him down. He hung the skeleton back on its nail, spread his legs and pressed his palms against her door. The only problem was that he’d lied about not being armed. He had his favorite SIG shoved in the waistband of his pants, aimed at the family jewels and covered by his shirt.

Good thing the safety was on.

She searched him, getting familiar in all the right places. “Just what I figured.” She confiscated the semiautomatic, grazing his abdomen in the process. “Where’s your CCW license, Kyle?”

“I don’t have one.” He’d never bothered to apply for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Mostly because he knew he’d never get one. California was stingy that way. He turned around, his stomach muscles jumping. Her hands on his body had felt damn good. “Are you going to bust me?”

She motioned with the barrel of his gun. She’d already holstered hers. “Get inside.”

He entered her apartment, wondering if she liked cartoons. Quick Draw McGraw had been one of his favorites when he was a kid.

She followed him into the living room, closed the door and removed the magazine from his weapon. Then she retrieved a metal pistol box, put his unloaded SIG inside and locked it. Only then, did she return his now useless gun.

He frowned at her. She hadn’t given him the key. Or the magazine. He set the locked box on a nearby table. “I ought to file a complaint against you. Illegal search and seizure. Or sexual harassment or something.”

Her smile was brief. Faint. Barely there. By now, she’d stored her pistol, too, keeping it away from him. “You do have nice abs.”

“Oh, yeah?” He moved closer, attempting to touch her hair. As much as he hated to admit it, the pale yellow color fascinated him. “So it was a sexual thing.”

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