Apache Nights. Sheri WhiteFeather

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.”

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