Apache Nights (3 page)

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.

K
yle 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 adult
hood, 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.”

She stepped out of range. “You wish.” Her TV played in the background. “What are you doing here?”

“Aside from annoying your neighbors and getting felt up by you? I came to—” he paused to wince “—apologize.”

“And I can see that it hurts.”

“Groveling is hard for me.”

“Then you should do it more often.”

“I'm sorry.” This time, he managed to get close enough to reach her hair, to let it slide through his fingers. “I'm not a bigot, Joyce. I swear, I'm not.”

“Then what are you?” she asked, snaring his gaze, challenging him to delve into his soul.

“A mixed-up mixed-blood, I guess.”

After that, he quit touching her. He dropped his hand, trying to look more casual than he felt.

She waited for him to continue. “Aren't you going to tell me why you're mixed up?”

While she was staring at him? Hanging on his every word? “Maybe later.” He broke eye contact and glanced around her apartment.

He noticed that she favored dark woods and feminine colors. Her floral-printed sofa reminded him of rainbow sherbet, and the ceramic bowl on her mahogany coffee table was mint green. Just as he'd sus
pected, she didn't have any living plants, nothing to water or fuss over. The flowers on her dinette set were silk.

He opened the sliding glass door in the living room and walked onto her balcony. It was nothing more than a slab of concrete, but she'd dressed it up with a café table. He envisioned her drinking coffee there, stealing a few quiet moments before she left for work each morning, the calm before the storm that made up her day.

Her footsteps sounded behind him. “What are you doing, Kyle?”

“Analyzing your life.” He turned to look at her. She wasn't wearing the same skimpy top she'd had on earlier. The push-up bra was gone, too. She'd donned an oversize T-shirt, tan leggings and thick socks.

“My life?” She leaned against the rail. “You're supposed to be telling me about yours.”

“My problem with getting involved with white women?” He knew he owed her an explanation, even if he had to share his jumbled emotions with her. “My parents' relationship influenced me. The interracial difficulties they had.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“In New Mexico on the Mescalero Reservation. The Mescalero, Lipan and Chiricahua Apache are there. My mom was Chiricahua, and my father was a teacher on the rez. A white man living out of his element.”

She sat at the table. “But he married your mom?”

“She got pregnant with me. It wasn't a match made in Heaven.” Kyle didn't sit. He remained standing on the balcony. “They're both dead now.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I still have family on the rez. Some family in L.A., too. This is where my dad was originally from.” He pulled his hand through his hair, removing his headband and stuffing it in his pocket. His hair was thick and dark, like his mom's used to be. “I look like both of my parents. I got his stature and her features. My skin color is somewhere in between. It's obvious to most people that I'm a mixed-blood.”

She watched him through soft blue eyes. “You're a handsome man.”

“Thanks.” He shrugged and pushed the headband farther into his pocket. “Being handsome didn't help when I was growing up. I was part white, and I got a lot of flack for that. Mostly because my dad didn't appreciate Native ways. In those days, a lot of reservation teachers were like that. They were still trying to tame the savages.”

“So the other kids took it out on you?”

He nodded. “I did everything I could to seem more Indian, to prove that I wasn't like my dad. All I wanted was to drain the white blood from my veins.”

“But you can't, Kyle. It's part of who you are.”

“I know. But it only got worse. After my parents got divorced, I stayed on the rez with my mother, and my father went back to L.A. It should have been okay then, but Mom died soon after that.” He blew out the breath he was holding. “She was my salvation. The parent who understood me. And then she was gone.”

Joyce left her chain and stood next to him, searching his gaze. “What happened? Were you forced to move to L.A. with your dad?”