Apache Nights. Sheri WhiteFeather
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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