by Pamela Clare
Mr. Martin's office was bright and airy with a view of the Pearl Street Mall below. Photos of him shaking hands with various politicians hung in frames along the walls, marking him as a man who took his career seriously and perhaps had political aspirations of his own. He motioned her toward a plush leather sofa, then sat beside her, Mr. Feinman settling in a matching chair across from them. "How can I help you today?"
"I've come for the documents I requested a week ago or a truthful explanation as to why I don't have them yet."
He nodded. "As I believe I overheard Ira telling you, we're asking for another ten days to fill that request."
"Yes, I just saw the letter, which was written and faxed today." She wanted to let them know that she'd noticed-and that she didn't buy it. "What I don't understand is why it's taking so long to get the documents together. Surely, it would take staff only a matter of hours to find the files and photocopy them."
Mr. Feinman butted in. "The city is perfectly within its legal rights to--"
Mr. Martin held up a hand. "Ira, there's no need to be confrontational about this. Ms. James, the problem we're facing is that you requested all documents pertaining to Mesa Butte, and we're trying very hard to meet your demands. We have files spread out across the city--in the real estate department, with Mountain Parks, with the police department, here in my office, with the surveyor's office--and it's taking us a bit of time to coordinate with everyone to gather those files and eliminate the duplicate documents. If you want to narrow the scope of your request, things might move more quickly."
Kat weighed what he'd told her, still skeptical that it could take more than two weeks for the city's staff to get the job done. "You do know, don't you, Mr. Martin, that it's against the law for the city to use these additional days to sort through those files in an effort to hide information?"
Feinman glared at her. "Are you making accusations, Ms. James?"
"If I were in Ms. James position, I'd probably be thinking the exact same thing, Ira." Martin gave Kat a lopsided grin. "And call me Paul. Yes, I'm aware of the law, Ms. James. We're just trying to be thorough."
Then Martin launched into a long explanation about how the city needed to invest in a citywide computerized records system, rather than relying so heavily on paper, which was not only less environmentally friendly but also less efficient. By the time he finished, much more than a few minutes had passed.
"We're late for our next meeting." Feinman stood and left the room.
"Story of my life. I'm late for everything." Martin rose, looking over his shoulder toward his open office door. Then he leaned closer to Kat and whispered. "Remember what Shakespeare said about first killing all the lawyers? He was right!"
With a wink, he led Kat out of his office.
GABE TOSSED BACK the rest of his whisky, savoring its heat. Yes, it was three in the afternoon, and he was drunk--fall-down, shit-faced, legless drunk. But not so drunk that he didn't notice the sexy brunette checking him out. She sat at a table off the end of the bar, sipping her wine, her gaze fixed on him. She was sending all the signals, giving him flirty smiles, licking her lower lip, stroking the stem of her wine-glass with her fingertips. All he had to do to get inside her was walk over and say hello.
He should do it. Hell, yeah, he should. He should get off this bar stool and walk right over to her and say something romantic like, "Let's fuck." He could use a good orgasm a lot more than another shot.
So why was he still sitting here?
The answer had beautiful hazel green eyes, long dark hair, soft curves--and a frustratingly intact hymen.
Kat.
She'd come into his life, and now nothing made sense, most especially whatever was going on inside his head. He'd had it together before she'd come along, had his life just the way he'd wanted it, but now she was making him question everything. She was even affecting his ability to climb. And still he wanted her, wanted her in a way he hadn't wanted a woman since ...
Well, that was too damn bad, really, because she didn't want him. She'd made that clear. No, that wasn't what she'd said. She wanted him, but she just wanted other things too, things he couldn't give her--rings, vows, happily ever after.
Last night, I ... I wanted you so badly that, if you hadn't stopped, I'm not sure what would have happened.
At the echo of her voice, his cock--the same cock that ignored the brunette--began to get hard. He almost groaned aloud, aggravation and sexual frustration forming a volatile mixture with the scotch in his gut. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he gone insane? Why had he let himself get tangled up in a woman who was never going to sleep with him? That's right--Kat was never going to sleep with him.
Hear that, dick?
His dick got harder, clearly not buying it.
And then the absurdity of the situation struck him.
Man, you're a fucking mess--on the brink of losing your job, drunk in a bar in the afternoon, having a silent conversation with your own stiff cock.
Well, he supposed that was better than talking out loud to some other guy's wood.
Shit, yeah, he was drunk.
He forced himself to check out the brunette, tried to imagine undressing her, kissing her tits, burying his hard-on inside her--and felt a whole lot of nothing.
So you slept with her, but she doesn't mean anything to you?
It was true. The brunette meant nothing to him. Neither had Sam--or any of these random women he'd had sex with since Jill's death. As long as he was inside them, they filled the emptiness in his life. And then they became part of the emptiness. It didn't make one damned bit of sense, but it was true.
And suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to talk her--to Kat. He needed to hear her voice, needed to tell her...
He handed the bartender a fifty, took her business card out of his wallet, then fished in his pocket for his cell phone--only to discover that it was already in his hand. Then, ignoring the little voice in his head that warned him against drunk-dialing her, he punched in her number.
CHAPTER 10
KAT PARKED HER truck on the street in front of Gabe's house, then dug the police report out of her briefcase. Dropping her keys in her coat pocket, she stepped out into the cold wind and headed up the walkway toward his front door, trying not to notice the nervous flutter in her stomach. A part of her was excited to see him again, but a part of her wished she could climb back in her truck and drive away.
I wanted you so badly that, if you hadn't stopped, I'm not sure what would have happened.
She cringed inwardly at the memory of her own words, feeling exposed in a way she'd never felt before. But her feelings really didn't matter. Her people were depending on her. Grandpa Red Crow was depending on her.
She climbed Gabe's front steps, rang the doorbell, and waited.
And waited.
Disappointed that he wasn't home, she headed back down the walk to her truck, planning to call and leave him a message when she got back to the office. She unlocked the door, climbed into the cab, and was about to drive off when her cell phone rang. She dug her phone out of her purse and saw that the call was coming from a pay phone. Hoping Pauline's mother hadn't kicked her out of the house again, she answered. "Katherine James."
But the voice she heard was not Pauline's. It didn't even sound human.
Cold and mechanical, it sang in her ear. "Ten little, nine little, eight little Indians/Seven little, six little, five little Indians/Four little, three little, two little Indians/One little Indian ... dead."
The last word lingered in a long, drawn-out exhalation that made Kat's pulse spike and the hair on her nape rise. Then there was silence.
"Who is this? Who's calling?"
But the caller had already hung up.
Kat drew the phone away from her ear and stared at it, stunned. Like any reporter worth his or her salt, she'd gotten death threats before, but there was something about this call, something malevolent ...
One Indian was dead. Grandpa Red C
row.
Chills shivered down her spine.
Was someone claiming responsibility for killing him? Or was the caller threatening her?
Report it to the police.
That's what she needed to do. But not the Boulder police. She didn't want to have to deal with Daniels again. She'd wait to report it till she was home in Denver. She drew a breath and glanced around her but saw no one.
What did you expect to see, Kat? Some thug in a ski mask watching you?
Feeling silly, she stuck her key in the ignition and started the engine.
She'd just pulled out of the parking space when her cell phone rang again. Her foot slammed on the brake, and for a moment she froze. Then slowly she reached over and picked up the phone--relief rushing through her when she saw Gabe's name on the LCD display.
She answered. "This is Kat."
"Hey, it's me, Gabe. I need to see you. I need to talk to you." His words were slightly slurred, and there was an edge to his voice that she hadn't heard before. Was he drunk? "Can we meet someplace? I just really need to see you."
"Where are you?" It sounded like there was a party in the background.
"At the West End Tavern. Been here since they opened. It's happy hour, but they won't serve me another drink. I guess they figure I'm happy enough."
So he was drunk.
"I'm in Boulder." She didn't tell him she was in the middle of the street in front of his house. "Stay there, and I'll meet you in a few minutes, okay?"
"You're coming here?" The surprise in his voice made him sound boyish and strangely vulnerable.
"I'll be there in about ten minutes." She took her foot off the brake and pressed on the gas. "And Gabe?"
"Yeah, honey?"
She'd be lying if she said that hearing him call her honey had no affect on her. "Ask the bartender for a glass of water."
"HERE WE ARE." Her arm around his waist, Kat leaned Gabe against the brick wall just outside his own front door, having maneuvered him out of her truck and up the walk--no easy task when he was almost a foot taller than she and outweighed her by at least eighty pounds. Not only did the extra weight hurt her right leg, but she was afraid she'd slip and they'd both fall. "Do you have your keys?"
"In my pocket." He made no move to get them, but ducked down and nuzzled her cheek, then buried his nose in her hair, breathing deep. "Mmm. God, you smell good--sweet and clean and good enough to eat. Do you know that?"
"Um ..." Kat tried to stay focused on what she was doing, not what she was feeling, her skin burning where his lips had touched her. She reached inside his coat pockets but found no keys. "Are you sure you didn't leave your keys at the bar?"
"Back pocket." He shifted, drew her against him, almost tottering them both to the concrete as he nibbled her earlobe. "God, I want you! I want to kiss you until you can't think. I want to kiss those perfect breasts. I want to taste you everywhere. I want to fuck you so damn bad. You don't even know what I mean, do you?"
Kat was forced to press herself against him to reach his back pocket, her hand sliding over the worn denim of his jeans, only butter-soft fabric between her palm and the disturbingly hard muscles of his butt. "I ... I think I do know what you mean."
He groaned, his breath hot, his hips flexing against her, giving away his erection, his tongue seeking and teasing the whorl of her ear. "You might know what I mean, but you can't really know what I mean. You're extra virgin, honey."
She retrieved the keys, twisting to her left so that she could unlock the door. She tried to change the subject, this one far too unsettling, especially when he nibbled the sensitive skin below her ear. "D-do you like your coffee black?"
"You have no idea what it'd feel like to have my mouth between your legs. I'd suck on your clit till you came. Then I'd slide my cock inside you, and you'd be so wet and so tight." He nipped her throat with his teeth, his big hand sliding up from her waist to cup her breast, the contact scorching even through her sweater and bra. "I'd make you come. I'd make the dignified Katherine James scream. Mmm, yeah."
His words drove the breath from her lungs, heat rushing into her cheeks. It took her a moment to realize she had no idea which key opened the door. She held the keys up with a shaking hand. "Which key ... Which key is it, Gabe? Can you help me?"
"Have you ever had an orgasm? But you don't want ... And I can't ..." He dropped his forehead head against her shoulder, the hand that had touched her breast now balled into a fist as he drew it away. "Get a grip, Rossiter, you stupid fuck."
"Gabe?" If he passed out, they would both land in the snow. "Which key?"
GABE WOKE UP naked in his own bed, certain he was an inch from death. His head throbbed. His mouth was as dry as sand and thick with the sour aftertaste of single malt. And his stomach ...
Oh, God!
His skull seeming to shatter, he sat, felt his stomach revolt, and made a staggering, stumbling dash to the bathroom, where he spent the next ten minutes puking his guts out like a frat boy. When he was reasonably certain it was over, he flushed and rested his cheek against the porcelain rim.
"Do you feel better now?" a feminine voice asked softly.
Kat?
What the hell was she doing here?
He opened one eye, saw her standing in the doorway. And then he remembered. He'd called her from the bar. She'd come for him, driven him home, and ...
I'd make you come. I'd make the dignified Katherine James scream.
He closed his one eye, groaned.
You're lucky she didn't drop you on the concrete, dickhead!
Now, he was sprawled naked on his bathroom floor using the toilet as a pillow.
Yeah, well, if that didn't turn her on, nothing would.
He heard the sound of running water, and then she was there, kneeling beside him, wiping his face with a cool, damp cloth. "Oh, you poor, silly goat!"
Silly goat?
He sat up, wincing as his skull exploded, then felt her press a glass of cold water and two pills--Christ, he hoped they were aspirin!--into his hands. He opened both eyes and almost wept for joy when he recognized them as Excedrin. Then he popped the pills and washed them down with gulps of cold, wonderful water. "More."
FIVE MINUTES LATER, he'd traded slumping buck naked against the toilet to slumping over the kitchen table in a pair of jeans, a jackhammer pounding inside his cranium. The only thing he could say for himself in that moment was that he'd at least gotten off the floor, gotten his ass in pants, brushed his teeth, and made his way into the kitchen without her help. He raised his head enough to look at the clock and saw it was almost midnight. Had she been here this entire time?
Then he remembered seeing documents spread out on the living room floor just now--it seemed like an hour ago--and he guessed she'd had.
"Here." She came up behind him and draped something--the blanket from his bed--around his shoulders. "I'll make you some coffee."
"Thanks." An almost forgotten sense of warmth grew inside Gabe's chest. It had been a long time since anyone had shown this kind of concern for him. Then again it had been a long time since he'd let anyone get close to him. "Sorry about this."
"You've rescued me a few times, so I figure it's alright if I rescue you." She had her back to him, her hands busy measuring out coffee grounds.
It was then he noticed. She'd cut her hair, the dark strands hanging to just below her shoulder blades. He was about to say something about it when he remembered that it was a sign of mourning in some American Indian cultures.
She's grieving the death of someone she loved, but instead of being home, she's rescuing you--from a bottle of scotch. Could you be any more pathetic, Rossiter?
"So ..." He wasn't sure how to ask this. "Did you undress me?"
He sure as hell hadn't left the bar naked.
She shook her head. "You ... um ... took off your clothes when we got inside. Then you got a glass of water from the kitchen, walked off to your bedroom, and passed out. I did pull the covers over you, thoug
h."
He wasn't body shy in the least, but if he was going to bare it all in front of her, why couldn't he have done it under more flattering circumstances? "I haven't been that wasted since I was in college."
"Do you want to talk about it?" She set the filter in the coffeemaker and then turned to the sink to fill the coffeepot with water.
"About what?"
"About whatever drove you into the bar in the middle of the day."
"Not particularly."
She got two clean mugs out of the cupboard but said nothing.
His brain must have still been pickled in booze, because the next thing he knew his mouth opened and he found himself telling her how Webb had saved his ass when the city attorney had threatened to fire him today.
"Ira Feinman?" She set a cup of coffee in front of him.
He took a sip, almost groaned. "Yeah. You know him? The guy is a serious asshole. He wanted me to withdraw my complaint against Daniels. Then he told me that if he found out I was giving you information, he'd fire me."
She sat across from him, coffee mug in her hands, a troubled look on her face. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to cause problems for you."
"It's not your fault." Gabe reached across the table and took her hand, surprised by the current of awareness that passed between them.
She looked away--but she didn't withdraw her hand. "I had a confrontation with Mr. Feinman today, too. I went to the city manager's office and refused to leave until they gave me the files on Mesa Butte or the city manager himself explained why I haven't yet received them. He threatened to have me arrested if--"
On the other side of the wall, her cell phone rang.
She went rigid, her face suddenly pale.
"Kat?"
She stood, walked almost hesitantly into the living room. When she spoke, there was genuine fear in her voice. "Who are you? What do you want?"
