Rival Forces (12 page)

One sight of the wolfdog baring two rows of gleaming teeth had been enough to bring Stokes under control.

He'd actually whimpered and groveled in the mud as Kye secured him. “Don't let him bite me. Okay? Please don't let her sic that dog on me.” Stokes, the man who'd set one of her K-9s on a fellow officer, was terrified of being bitten.

Yardley whipped tendrils of hair back from her face with her hand, bewildered by her own memories. “Stokes was a coward. I was fighting a coward.”

“Bullies often are cowards when they find themselves the victim. Let it go, Yard.”

“I can't.” She stared at him, her dark eyes gleaming with angry tears she would never shed. “I want the anger to stop. But it's stuck here.” She thumped her chest with a fist. “Maybe I should get stupid drunk and pass out.”

“I don't think that's what you need.” Kye's voice sounded strange even in his own ears. That was because her thump had caused her breasts to jiggle very provocatively behind her shirt.

His tone brought her head up. “What do you think I need?”

His smile was slow and deliberate. “Something physical, something that will make you sweat and your heart pound and—”

She stiffened. “Now look—!”

“Hold on. I've got an idea.” He pushed her plate toward her. “Stay here and eat. I'll lock the door behind me. I won't be long.”

He stood and headed out into the night.

*   *   *

By the time she finished half her chicken—rage wasn't an appetite suppressor, she discovered—the front door was being opened. Oleg, who'd been lounging at Yardley's feet, stood up and walked calmly to the kitchen door. Yardley followed.

Kye was back, a dusting of snow in his hair and on his shoulders. His duffel bag was slung over one shoulder, and he carried a set of big stuffed boxing pads in one hand and a pair of boxing gloves in the other. It was gear from the bunkroom gym. After hours the handlers often felt the need to blow off steam.

Grinning from ear to ear, he held up the gloves to her. “Let's get physical, Ms. Summers.”

Yardley frowned. “You can't be serious?”

“Damn straight, I'm serious.” He dropped his backpack on a chair and motioned her forward with an impatient hand. “You're angry. You were ready to go the distance. I get it. Sometimes, when the fight's over too quickly, even a professional fighter can be left high and dry with all this leftover energy he can't shake. You need physical release. Come on, take your sweater off. Get comfortable.”

“I—uh, I don't have on anything—”

“Oh.” He frowned for a second then tossed her the gloves. He rumbled through his backpack and came up with a sleeveless muscle shirt. “Put this on.”

Reluctantly Yardley took it with her into her room to change. It was much too big, the armholes bagging away to expose inches of her torso. She thought about putting on a sports bra, but there were bruises she didn't want to irritate. She gathered the shirt bottom, twisted, and tied it in a knot at waist level. This time she couldn't avoid her image in the mirror: slightly swollen eyes with an angry dark-red bruise riding her cheek. She turned from side to side until she was satisfied that she was minimally decent.

Even so, she saw the interested look Kye gave her when she returned to the living room, though he didn't say a word. She also noticed that Oleg had joined Lily in being kenneled, separately.

Kye slipped the gloves on her and secured them tightly then stepped back and picked up the punch mitts. “Okay, you know the drill. Aim for the middle. Mark an X in your mind and throw the punch toward that X. Smash it!”

Yardley shook her head. “I feel foolish doing this here.”

“Come on. It's just you and me. And we both know you don't give a damn about what I think. Step forward and put your weight into the punch. Jab like you mean it.”

She took a stance, knees slightly bent, gloves up, then sized up her target and threw a punch.

“That's right. Again. Yeah! Again, Yard.” He chuckled as he watched her. “This isn't the first time you've had the gloves on.”

She shrugged, bobbing and weaving a little as she gained confidence. “I took a kickboxing course years ago. Ex-marine instructor said I punched like a girl. So I trained until I could prove him wrong.”

“Why does that not surprise me?”

She smiled, remembering what she'd once liked best about him. His humor. His laughter contained irresistible infectious joy.

“Come on, now. Back to work, Ms. Summers. Give me a few more jabs. Hard! Harder! Cream puff! Girl, put your back into it! You're fighting yourself. You're fighting your fear. Change it up. Roundhouse kick. Make the mitt the face of that asshole who tried to get a leg over on you. There! There you go! Again. Again!”

Kye was smiling but his tone was tough, barking orders in rapid rhythm over the next few minutes.

“Do it. The left! The right! Good combination! Again. Yes! Again. That's a beaut!”

They sparred until Yardley waved him off and collapsed on a chair, legs rubbery with sweat slicking every inch of her body. Her hair had come undone, cascading over her shoulders and into her eyes. Yet she no longer felt stiff or achy. Or wound too tight.

“Feel better?” He reached out to undo one of her gloves.

She nodded, her breath coming in quick gasps. “I feel—” She laughed. “Relieved.”

He nodded and smiled. “Anytime you need to let off steam, you come see me and we'll go a few rounds. Anytime.”

Something changed between his other words and the last one.
Anytime.
Like he was there for her. Ready and willing to help. With anything. Anytime.

For a moment, while his gaze moved over her, taking in every aspect of her, she felt the warm flush of another kind of heat. Hot. Explosive, expanding her lungs and melting everything below her belly button.

She knew her face must be maroon from her exertions. Sweat dripped from the end of her nose. No need to think she looked the least bit attractive anymore. Yet she didn't think he was seeing any of that.

His eyes were now hooded. The gold in the hazel glittered beneath his lashes, amped up by their exertions. That golden gaze dipped to follow the track of a sweat droplet skiing down her sternum into the cleft between her breasts. Her nipples were stiff. Now that she thought about it, she could feel them achingly tight and sensitive from the abrasion of the shirt she wore, his shirt. And he was looking his fill. She could feel the heat. His chest was rising and falling a little fast. His smell became a bit sharper. Every female instinct within her came alert. It wasn't fear of the predator this time. It was the instinct of sighting a potential mate.

But he didn't make a move. Instead he let his lids droop, his gorgeous mouth going downright grim as he worked the fastener of her last glove. When he had slipped them both off he got up and walked into her bedroom. He came back with two towels and tossed her one.

He disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a glass of water. “Drink it slow.”

He moved back a few steps, leaned his shoulders against a wall, and crossed his arms. She drank half the glass before he spoke again. “You should keep up your boxing practice. With the proper coaching, you could do some damage. Of course you'll have to keep getting your wardrobe from the house of McGarren.” His gaze slid from her face down to the soaking-wet shirt plastered to her body. “What you do for an undershirt is just short of illegal, Ms. Summers.”

His slow seductive grin made her toes curl inside her shoes. The heat in her middle slid lower down. He was flirting. This was crazy. She wasn't ready. “I need to go to bed.”

“Yes.” He said the word slowly, keeping eye contact as he moved away from the wall toward her. “I suppose you do.”

She stood up, the action bringing them closer together. “Thank you.”

The humor had left his face, replaced by an intensity she recognized. “Anytime.”

She looked away, unwilling to encourage what she was beginning to think she wanted very much. “I mean it. You let me be angry. You didn't try to deflect it, or tell me the anger was useless, or unnecessary and unproductive.”

“I figured you could work that out for yourself.”

“I—did.” She stopped to listen to her heart, which beat hard but steadily. “The fear's gone.”

She was feeling brave and fearless. And he was suddenly much closer and much more available than she'd expected. It was there in his expression. His breath was coming a little fast between his lips. Lips more lush than should be legal on a man. He was sweating, too. After all, he'd been on the receiving end of her very physical workout. But sweat didn't drip off his nose or run in rivulets down his back. No, he—glowed.

She hadn't allowed herself to feel the rush of gratitude that had overtaken her when Kye appeared over Stokes's shoulder. Now it came back with heightened awareness that he had probably saved her life. Even in her extreme distress, she'd registered that he'd looked a whole lot like her own personal avenging angel. Protector. Rescuer. The Good Guy.

She raised a hand to his chest, palm spreading over the heated surface of his shirt. For just a moment she longed to lean her head against that solid wall. As if she could hide her face in the warmth of the man smelling faintly of sweat, and desire. And be safe.

Lust, pure and simple as a struck match, caught fire inside her chest. The instinct to survive was still raw and bright and needy inside her. He could meet that need and soothe it. She saw that as his eyes widened and darkened looking into hers.

She heard a raw sound coming from her throat, his name. And then her arms were sliding around his neck, and she was reaching with her mouth for his. She found it.

Warm firm lips met hers. But he didn't touch. This time he hesitated, but she didn't. She licked at the seam of his closed mouth until she heard him moan. His arms came up. One found her shoulders, the other sliding down her back until a hand gripped her ass and pulled her close. She was tall enough to fit perfectly against him. His arousal pressed thick and hard against her sex.

The hot caress of his tongue sent shivers of pleasure through her. Little fireworks went off behind her dropped lids. She strained against him, not wanting to break the kiss to tell him what she wanted.

“Yard?” He'd lifted his head. When she opened her eyes he was staring at her. “Damn. This really isn't the best idea. After tonight.” The want was plain in his taut features, but something else shown through in his gaze. Regret. “Rain check?”

She stared at him. Trying to hear sense over the thunder of her heart.
After tonight?

She must have said the words aloud. He nodded and backed off, the moment avoided. “Good night, Yard.”

She glanced at his retreating back. He picked up his backpack.

“There's no need for you to leave. The beds upstairs are made up. You can sleep here.”

He watched her for a moment then nodded slowly.

She wasn't sure if she'd just made the best decision of the day, or the worst.

*   *   *

It was two thirty-seven a.m. Sleep had long ago gone from being elusive to becoming the Impossible Dream. The silence magnified everything in the dark house. Kye could hear each time Oleg shifted in his sleep inside a downstairs crate. He'd listened to the clock down the hall ticking until he had to get up and unplug it. He would swear he could hear the snow falling. He was absolutely certain he could hear Yard breathing directly below him.

God, she tasted and felt good. He'd almost muffled the voice in his head telling him he was taking advantage. Yet he'd spent the past four years dealing with vulnerable people, some of whom had survived horrible ordeals. You learned to pull back from sometimes spectacular offers of generosity, even if the victim didn't understand.

Tonight that self-control was costing him. Costing him more than peace of mind. It was taking him back to a time when he'd failed her.

He'd been military, sent to Harmonie Kennels for two weeks with his K-9 unit for rappelling practice from rooftops and helicopters with their dogs. He'd heard all the stories about Yardley Summers, seen her from a respectful distance. Every man knew the boss's daughter was off limits. They made jokes about her, calling her the Citadel. He'd never even spoken to her. Until the day he'd stumbled across her alone cleaning out the kennels.

She was on the phone. She was talking with her father, a one-sided conversation that had her in tears. He hesitated, unsure how to back away without being seen.

Then she'd looked up, trapping him with an angry and defiant stare as she wiped hard at the tears staining her face. “What are you doing here, McGarren?”

He was stunned that she knew his name. And grateful. Feeling like the top of his head was floating away, he'd smiled at her. “Who do you want me to kill?”

She blinked. “What?”

He pointed to her phone. “Way I figure it, anyone who makes someone as special as you cry needs murdering.”

He wasn't sure why he'd said such an outrageous thing. He knew he was talking about her father.

She looked at him in surprise. “You'd take on Bronson Battise?”

“For you? Hell, yeah.” It was supposed to be an empty boast. All the handlers admired Battise's K-9 training techniques. Some noticed how he treated his daughter. Like less a member of the family than a hired hand. Not his business

Until Yardley laughed, a sound so sexy that it nearly brought him to his knees. Then she'd looked at him with those shining black eyes and he'd heard trumpets sound and swords clash. One glance had him thinking he could slay her dragons and share a happily-ever-after. It was like a goddamn Disney movie playing in his head.

They began meeting in secret. No one could know. By the end of his two weeks he'd known this was love, the real thing. They were going to be together forever.