by Pamela Clare
When she returned moments later, phone in hand, he could tell she was shaken.
Instinct got him on his feet, the pain in his head forgotten. "What is it?"
"Would you mind if I stayed here tonight?"
KAT WATCHED GABE slam the magazine into his handgun and rack the slide, that same feeling of unreality she'd felt off and on since they'd found Grandpa Red Crow's body settling over her again. The moment she'd told him about the calls, he'd walked off to set the alarm system on his house, a grim look on his face. It both unsettled her--and made her feel strangely pleased. She wasn't used to men being protective of her.
"Do you know how to use a gun?" He turned to her, weapon pointed at the floor.
She nodded. "A shotgun. My grandmother made sure all of us knew how to fire it so we could protect the sheep."
He raised an eyebrow. "Ever actually point it at anything?"
"No."
He laid the gun flat across his palm, the barrel pointed to the side. "All you have to know with a Glock is not to put your finger on the trigger until you're ready to fire. The safety is built into the trigger. See? When you pull on the trigger, you compress it, and the weapon is then able to fire. It's simple. Point and shoot."
Point and shoot?
"Don't you think you're overreacting?" Talking about shooting people wasn't making Kat feel one bit safer. Instead, the idea terrified her and added weight to her own misgivings about the calls. "It was just a few prank calls."
He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. "Those weren't crank calls, honey. Those were death threats--and five is more than a few."
"Whoever it is probably just wants to scare me." That's what she'd told herself as her phone had kept ringing and Gabe had slept off the worst of his drinking binge. "Most of the time, people who make threats don't carry them out."
He settled his hands gently on her shoulders and drew her into his embrace. "Not to frighten you, but it sounds to me that this bastard is trying to take credit for killing Red Crow. If he's killed once, he's capable of killing again. I understand why you don't want to report the calls to the Boulder police, but promise me you'll call the cops as soon as you get back to Denver tomorrow. I don't want you to get hurt."
Kat nodded, her stomach sinking as Gabe's conclusions about the calls reinforced what her intuition had been trying to tell her.
One little Indian dead.
He stepped back from her, dropped his gaze to the floor, a troubled frown on his face. "You know, it might not be a bad idea to call your buddy Marc and have him come get you. I'd take you to his place myself, but I'm pretty sure I'm still over the legal limit. Besides, I think my truck is still downtown, isn't it?"
"You ... You don't want me here?" Her stomach sank even farther.
"No, it's not that. It's just that ... I'm a park ranger. He's a Special Forces veteran, a SWAT sniper, and an ex-con. If he can't shoot this guy, he can beat the shit out of him in a hundred dirty ways you and I can't imagine. You'd probably be safer if you stayed with him."
The expression on Gabe's face told her it hadn't been easy for him as a man to say this. He was trying his best to keep her safe, even if that meant sending her away. How could she tell him that she was still here because she wanted to be here, because she wanted to be with him?
For the first time in her life, she wanted to be close to a man.
"I ... I'd rather stay here--with you."
He watched her for a moment, the way he looked at her making her pulse race. Then he grimaced, as if in pain. "I'm sorry."
"Does your head still hurt?"
"It's my dignity that's killing me now." He reached out, brushed his knuckles over her cheek. "I'm sorry for all of it. I'm sorry about this afternoon--what I said, how I acted. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, drunk-dialing you like that. Thanks for getting me home. Thanks for everything."
Her mind flashed on the sight of him, walking unabashedly naked around the house, his penis and testicles bared to her view. She hadn't looked away. Oh, no, far from it. She had stared at him, taking in every detail from the thick glands half hidden inside its foreskin to the heavy weight of his testicles to the dark curls at his groin, amazed at her first sight of a real, live naked man--erotic, primal, arousing.
She felt heat rush into her cheeks. "I ... I'm glad I was able to help. That's what friends are for."
Slowly, he drew her against him. "Is that what we are, Kat? Are we friends?"
Then he took her mouth in a kiss that was deep and passionate and hot--and, unfortunately, brief. But when he dragged his lips from hers, she saw that he was breathing as hard as she was, his heart pounding every bit as fast as hers. And what he'd said earlier came rushing back to her.
I'd make you come. I'd make the dignified Katherine James scream.
Something in her belly clenched.
"Ever since I met you, I ..." He stopped before he finished the thought, his brows drawn together in a frown. Then he stepped back from her. "You sleep in my bed. It's more comfortable. I'll take the couch. We can talk in the morning."
GABE TURNED ONTO his side, rearranged the pillow beneath his head, jerked the blanket up to his chin, willing himself to sleep. It didn't work. The arm of the couch bent his neck at an unnatural angle. His feet hung off the other end. Worse, the seam of his boxer briefs cut into his nuts like piano wire.
He rolled onto his back, adjusted himself, his hand closing around his cock. And for a moment he considered jacking off. He could kill two birds with one stone--relieve the tension roiling inside him and make himself fall asleep. There was only one catch: what he wanted was in his bedroom, lying in his bed, wearing one of his T-shirts. Touching himself seemed pretty lame compared to touching her.
What would she do if he went to her, if he stretched himself out beside her and started kissing her? Would she tell him to get out, or would she kiss him back? And what the hell was wrong with him that he was even considering it?
He closed his eyes again, his head crowded by a jumble of thoughts, images, memories. Jill lying dead at the morgue. Red Crow lying dead at Mesa Butte. Kat crawling, dragging her broken leg behind her. Kat being dragged out of the sweat lodge by her hair. Her tears as she'd knelt at Red Crow's side. Her whimpers as Gabe kissed and sucked her nipples. Falling at the rock gym. Almost falling outside his own damn door, drunk on his ass.
Somehow it all boiled down to one thing: he wanted Kat.
He shoved the blanket aside and stood, glancing down at the Glock and deciding to leave it by the couch. The alarm would give him plenty of time to retrieve it if he needed it. Before he could think too hard about what he was doing, he crossed the room, walked down the hallway, and silently opened his bedroom door.
She lay on her side facing the door, her hair a dark halo against the white pillowcases. He moved closer and saw that she was sound asleep, her face relaxed, her breathing deep and even, her lips slightly parted. One slender arm rested on top of the comforter, his T-shirt slipping to reveal the soft curve of her shoulder.
For a moment, he stood there, watching her sleep, feeling oddly like a trespasser in his own bedroom. Then he reached out, brushed a lock of hair from her cheek, rubbing the strands between his fingers, feeling their softness.
What was it about her that got to him? If only he knew, he'd get vaccinated, find a cure, look for some way to stop it. Hell, he'd wear a rope of garlic around his neck if he thought that would do the trick. He didn't want to want her, didn't want to need her, didn't want to get any more tangled up in her than he already was. He didn't want to feel whatever it was she made him feel.
As if to prove to him how impossible that would be, she sighed in her sleep and nuzzled deeper into her pillow, and the feeling of protectiveness he always seemed to feel for her grew stronger.
Then something slipped from her hand onto the sheets.
Her cell phone.
The damned thing was still on.
He picked it up. Letting his gaz
e linger on her face for a second longer, he turned, walked out of his room, and closed the door behind him. When he was sure the sound wouldn't wake her, he flipped the little device open and turned it off. He'd be damned if anyone was going to scare her again tonight. Then, setting the phone beside his Glock, he lay down, stared up at the ceiling, and waited for morning.
CHAPTER 11
KAT WOKE TO the sound of the running shower, fragments of her dream still drifting through her mind. There'd been a storm on the horizon, clouds as black as ink rising up to blot out the sun, and at first she'd been afraid. But then she'd found Grandpa Red Crow and Gabe beside her, and her fear had vanished. For the first time in a very long time, she'd felt truly happy.
Still surrounded by a warm bubble of happiness, she closed her eyes, savoring the feeling, Gabe's scent all around her--in the air she breathed, in the sheets, in the T-shirt that lay against her skin. She stretched, imagined his big body filling the bed, and found the idea that he slept here somehow exciting.
You're not in bed with him, Kat. You're just in his bed.
Ignoring that nagging voice, she let herself drift, knowing she needed to get up, but not yet willing to leave the warmth of his bed, imagining that its embrace was his embrace, the sound of the shower like a distant rainstorm.
She must have fallen asleep again, for in the next instant she heard Gabe's voice.
"Kat?"
Her eyes flew open, and she saw Gabe silhouetted in the doorway, light flooding in from behind him, making her blink. He wore only a towel, which he'd wrapped around his waist, and she could tell his hair was wet.
He opened the door wider. "Sorry there's no prince here to wake you, Sleeping Beauty. Time to rise and shine."
And just like that, her bubble of happiness burst.
"THE CORONER RULED it an alcohol-related accident, and I know that can't be true."
Gabe had to admit the news surprised him, too. He'd thought for sure the old man's death had been a homicide, given what he'd seen at the scene.
Then again ...
Still wearing only a damp towel, he poured freshly brewed coffee into two clean mugs and set them on the table. Then he sat, keeping his gaze on her face and not the curves of her breasts, so nicely outlined by the gray angora sweater he'd been too drunk to notice last night. "The coroner wouldn't make that kind of ruling without concrete evidence to back it up."
Kat's chin came up, her hair still tousled by sleep. "When you stood there at the scene and looked at his body, did it feel like an accident to you?"
"That wasn't my first thought, no." He hadn't even considered it. "Do you have the coroner's report?"
"Yes, but ..." Her gaze dropped to her coffee mug, her lashes dark against her cheeks, her expression troubled. "I haven't been able to read it. I tried last night, but the details are too ... I just can't read it."
Gabe understood. He'd forced himself to read every word of Jill's autopsy report, an experience that was as close to hell on earth as he ever hoped to come. There were some things a person wasn't meant to know.
He changed the subject.
"Maybe you didn't know Red Crow as well as you thought you did. Maybe there was another side to him, one he didn't let you see." Gabe knew firsthand what that was like, too--the shock, the sense of betrayal, the soul-deep disappointment of trusting someone, of believing in them, and then discovering you were so very wrong.
Her gaze met his once more. "I know what you're trying to say, and as a journalist I have to agree that it's possible he was hiding some things from us. But as someone who knew him, I will never believe that he caused his own death by drinking, especially not on sacred land."
Gabe wasn't about to argue with her. "So, you said you needed my help."
She nodded, opened the file folders and drew out what he recognized as a police report. "I got this first thing this morning, and I've read through it. They've redacted a few lines here. I keep feeling like I should remember everything from that night, but I don't. I was wondering if you had some idea what it might say."
Gabe read through the report, stopped when he came to the lines that had been blacked out, and almost groaned out loud, wishing now that he hadn't drunk-dialed her--for both of their sakes. He stood, walked a few paces, leaned against the counter, trying to figure out what the hell he should tell her, Feinman's threat echoing through his mind. "Are we on or off the record?"
"I guess because you ask that means we're off the record."
"You got that right." He turned toward her and met her gaze, running a hand over the jaw he hadn't had time to shave. "I really don't want to be the one to tell you this, so just be sure you want to hear it."
"Is this where you tell me I can't handle the truth?" Her voice was calm, but he could see the uncertainty in her eyes.
He sat again, took a sip of his coffee. "On the ground beside Red Crow's body were piece of what looked to me like a pot."
"A pot? You mean ..." Her eyes went wide. "An artifact? That kind of pot?"
"Yeah."
She frowned. "Why would the police redact that?"
Clearly she wasn't putting and two and two together yet. "It's standard policy for the city to omit references to artifacts from public documents in order to discourage looting. When people find out that an area is rich in Native objects, we start seeing local artifacts turn up on the black market from here to Saudi Arabia. If the public knew that Mesa Butte was an archaeologist's paradise, the place would be crawling with looters."
A look of sudden comprehension crossed her face. "Grandpa must have caught looters in the act, and they killed him for it."
Gabe wasn't surprised she'd leapt to that conclusion. What else could she believe? "There's another possibility."
"What's that?" She watched him expectantly, her faith in the old man so strong that the obvious still hadn't occurred to her.
Oh, he so did not want to go here.
He steeled himself. "A part of the pot was in his pocket."
KAT'S PULSE THUNDERED in her ears as she struggled to grasp what Gabe had just told her. "No! No, he would never have stolen artifacts from the land! He always told us that pot pinching was wrong, no matter who did it."
"Maybe he felt guilty and tried to make up for it by speaking out against it."
"No!" She found herself on her feet, her face burning with anger. "I don't believe it. I won't believe it. Why would he go against everything he stood for?"
"I don't know." Gabe shrugged. "Maybe he needed the money."
The absurdity of the idea made a hysterical laugh bubble up inside her. She took several steps through his kitchen, then stopped, tears pricking her eyes. "He looted sacred land because he needed cash to fund his secret drinking habit. Is that it?"
"I have no idea. I'm just telling you what I saw."
She closed her eyes, drew breath into her lungs, trying to rein in her anger and her panic. "I know. I'm sorry. This isn't your fault."
She felt him standing behind her, then his hands cupped her shoulders.
"Kat, honey." Slowly, he turned her to face him, his arms sliding around her, drawing her close, his hand caressing her hair.
Fighting tears, she sank against him, wrapped her arms around his waist, taking the comfort he offered, her cheek against his bare chest, the feel of his heartbeat and the shower-fresh scent of his skin both soothing and arousing. She allowed herself to savor being close to him, amazed by how right it felt, unable to keep from remembering what it had been like to kiss him, to have his hot mouth on her breasts, to have his weight pressing down on her. And for a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Kat slowly, reluctantly pulled away. "I ... I should go."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "Don't you want breakfast? Rumor has it that even reporters need to eat."
She couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, but I want to get a good look at the land around the butte before I head into Denver."
He frowned. "What?"
&nb
sp; She walked over to the table and tucked the police report back in the correct file folder. "Looting leaves certain signs. You can see it all over the rez--little holes dug here and there. If there's looting going on at Mesa Butte, I'll be able to tell."
He took a step toward her. "And if you catch someone pinching pots, what then?"
"If I catch anyone in the act, I'll call nine-one-one." Kat took her coat from the back of her chair and slipped it on, her back to him.
"You'd damned well better hope the cops arrive in time." He sounded angry. "If Red Crow's death is somehow related to looting, then what's to keep whoever killed him from killing you?"
"What do you want me to do? Should I just stand by while people say things about Grandpa Red Crow that I know aren't true?"
"And what if you find out that they are true?" His words hung in the air.
Kat's fingers fumbled with the zipper of her coat as she forced herself to consider the unthinkable. And some part of her wondered whether she'd be making things worse if through her hard work she managed only to prove that Grandpa Red Crow had been a pot-pinching alcoholic who'd simply staggered off a cliff.
She looked up at Gabe, found him watching her intently, his jaw set. "I'm a journalist. Either way, I have to find out the truth."
"All right. Fine." He set his mug down. "But you're not going there without me. I get off at four. I'll meet you there."
THE DAY TURNED out to be one of the most difficult in Kat's life.
It started out well enough. She called the Denver police immediately after the I-Team meeting to report the death threats and spent nearly an hour answering the detective's questions, while Sophie sat at her desk, pretending not to eavesdrop, a slow smile spreading over her face when Kat told the detective where she'd spent the night.
"We'll need your permission to access your cell phone records," the detective told her. "If we can find the pay phones this person used, there might be surveillance video that can shed light on his identity. In the meantime, we'll increase patrols on your street. If you don't already own a gun, now might be a good time to buy one."
