Sheri WhiteFeather - Apache Nights

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.

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.