by Pamela Clare
One hundred fifteen. One hundred sixteen. One hundred seventeen.
He hadn't held a woman like that for three years, hadn't slept with a woman or woken up with a woman since that last night with Jill. And the last time he'd made a woman come without getting off himself ...
Well, that had never happened.
Until Kat.
One hundred twenty-four. One hundred twenty ... five.
His entire body shaking with the effort, his breath coming in grunts, he forced out the last three pull-ups, then let go, stumbling when his feet hit the crash pad. Winded, he turned to reach for his water bottle--and felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.
Kat stood at the bottom of the stairs watching him, dressed in one of his old T-shirts, her long hair gloriously tangled. The shirt was much too big for her, but damned if she didn't look hot. The frayed bottom hung to a few inches below her scrumptious ass, leaving her legs beautifully bare, the worn cotton clinging softly to the swells of her breasts, revealing the points of her nipples.
Gabe needed that shower--now. If he didn't beat one out soon, he was going to embarrass himself. Somehow he managed to speak. "Morning."
"Morning." She smiled shyly, then looked away, her cheeks flushing pink.
Damned if that wasn't the most adorable thing he'd ever seen--a genuine case of post-orgasmic shyness.
Dude, look at you! You are so fucked!
Ignoring that observation, Gabe walked over to her, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, unable to keep his hands off her. "Did you sleep well?"
She nodded. "Thanks. How about you?"
Her gaze dropped to his chest. She reached out and ran her fingertips through the sweat-damp hair on his chest, the contact making the muscles of his abdomen jerk.
His mouth went dry. "Yeah. Fine. Hungry?"
One touch, and you're reduced to monosyllables. Yeah, you're screwed.
She nodded, withdrew her hand, and met his gaze again, her cheeks burning even pinker. "I can just have toast or--"
"Just give me a few minutes to shower"--and take care of business--"and then I'll whip us up some omelets."
"I don't want to make you late for work."
"No worries." Gabe took a drink. "Last night, Webb wanted to know why you'd suddenly taken an interest in possible looting. When I told him the truth, he fired me."
"What?" The color drained from her face, her eyes wide with shock. "Oh, Gabe, no! I'm so sorry!"
"Don't be. I know you tried to protect me, but I couldn't let you lie for me, Kat."
"But what will you do for--"
He pressed a finger to her lips. "Don't worry about it. I've got lots of money in savings, and the house is paid off. You know what this means, don't you?"
She shook her head, her face still pale.
He grinned. "Since I don't have a job and don't really need one, you've got yourself a full-time bodyguard."
"THEY MUST BE connected." Kat flipped on her turn signal and turned off Speer onto Colfax on her way to the paper. "Can it just be coincidence that looting is going on at the butte at the same time the inipi is shut down and Grandpa Red Crow is killed?"
She and Gabe had already been to her place. Marc and Julian had met them there. The men had checked the condo inside and out before they'd let her enter, then they'd evaluated the condo for security weaknesses and had agreed that Gabe's home was by far the safer of the two. So she'd changed into fresh clothes--a dark blue broomstick skirt and ivory sweater--and packed a small suitcase. Then she and Gabe were off again, this time for the newspaper.
"It could be a coincidence, but I'd say that's pretty damned unlikely. I can't help but think Daniels is part of this somehow. He's the one who called the raid on the sweat lodge ceremony. He was the first cop to respond when Red Crow's body was found, and he was quick to reach the scene yesterday."
"You noticed that, too."
"Of course I did. I also noticed the bastard couldn't keep his eyes off you."
Kat glanced over at Gabe, touched by the aggressive edge in his voice--another sign that he cared about her. He sat in the passenger seat beside her, dressed in business casual--gray tweed sports jacket over a black turtleneck, jeans, and black leather shoes. His jaw was clean-shaven, his eyes concealed behind black sunglasses. But there was nothing casual about the gun he carried in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
Afull-timebodyguard.
He hadn't been joking.
"When we get to the paper, you'll have to go through security. I'm not sure they'll let you bring your gun into the building." For some reason, the idea of bringing Gabe into the newsroom made her nervous.
"They'll probably make me check it. As long as they give it back again when we leave, I've got no objections."
"We usually have an I-Team meeting at nine. My boss, Tom Trent, can be a difficult man. He's a great journalist, but he's got a terrible temper and tends to intimidate people."
Gabe grinned. "Well, honey, he won't intimidate me."
"I'm afraid you're going to get really bored and--"
"Would you relax?" Gabe looked over at her, gave her thigh a squeeze. "I'm here to watch over you, not have you watch over me. I'll be okay."
Kat turned into the paper's main parking lot, parked the truck, and waited while Gabe got out and walked around to the driver's side as they'd discussed. She waited for Gabe to open her door, then climbed out of the truck. Shielding her with his body, he looped an arm around her waist and hustled her to the paper's employee entrance, then opened the door for her and followed her inside.
She reached for her press card, which always hung around her neck when she was working, and held it up for Gil Cormac, the regular morning security guard. A former corrections officer, Gil had gotten a job at the paper thanks to Sophie, who'd felt sorry for him after his role in abetting Marc's escape from prison had gotten him fired. With a big beer belly and deep smile lines etched in his cheeks, he always brightened Kat's day.
"Good morning, Gil. This is Gabe Rossiter. He's--"
"I'm Ms. James's bodyguard." Gabe took out his driver's license and a small piece of paper, then opened his jacket to reveal his holstered gun. "I've got a permit for concealed carry."
Gil stood, a frown on his face, his gaze shifting from Gabe's driver's license and what must have been the concealed-carry permit to the weapon that lay against Gabe's side. "You'll have to check the firearm, sir."
Gabe drew the gun out of its holster and handed it, barrel pointed down, to Gil, who gave Gabe back his license and permit, took the gun, and bent down to lock it in some kind of safe behind the desk. "What's happened that you need a bodyguard, Ms. James?"
Kat was grateful when Gabe answered for her.
"She's gotten death threats related to one of her investigations. Yesterday afternoon someone fired several rounds at her with a high-powered rifle."
Gil stood upright with a jerk, his eyes wide, his gaze shifting to Kat. Then a look of gritty determination came over his face. "You're safe here, Ms. James. No one's going to get past me. Glad to have you watching over her, Mr. Rossiter."
"Thank you, Gil." Kat turned and took a few steps toward the elevator, but Gabe wasn't finished yet.
"Would you mind if I came back a bit later this morning to ask you some questions about the building security?"
"Not at all. I'd be happy to help, sir."
"Nice guy," Gabe said in a low voice as they walked away. "But I doubt he's fit enough to run a fifty-yard dash much less fight off an armed assailant."
Kat glanced back over her shoulder to see Gil still watching them, a worried look on his dear face.
CHAPTER 15
GABE HAD NEVER been in a newsroom before and had no idea what to expect. Taking up one entire floor of the six-story Denver Independent building, it looked like a maze, desks in clusters from wall to wall divided by shelves, filing cabinets, and periodic banks of televisions. He'd hate to be the techie whose job it was to keep these hundreds of comp
uters plugged in, networked, and online.
"That's features over there--news features, entertainment, fashion, food," Kat said, pointing to divisions in the room that he couldn't discern. "Sports is in that corner. General assignment reporting is toward the middle near the copy desk. Opinion, obits, calendars are all toward the far wall, and the I-Team is up ahead."
"The I-Team are the rock stars of the paper, right?" Gabe had seen the advertisements and billboards.
Bringing you news that matters. The I-Team.
Her lips curved in a smile. "Don't let the opinion columnists hear you say that."
Still, it was clear to Gabe that the I-Team were the elite of the reporting staff. Their part of the newsroom was less crowded, with fewer desks and ample room for bookshelves and filing cabinets. Posters with quotes by Thomas Jefferson, Maya Angelou, and Martin Luther King Jr. hung in frames on one wall, while framed awards covered almost every square foot of another. He didn't have to look to know he'd find Kat's name on some of those.
He spotted her desk right away. A small dream catcher adorned with four small turkey feathers hung in the window beside it. Aging bouquets of white flowers stood in vases toward the back. Manila folders sat in organized stacks off to one side, a framed photograph of an old Navajo woman standing in front of a hogaan on the other. The old woman's face was a mass of deep wrinkles, reminding Gabe of an old apple. She wore a blue headscarf, a green long-sleeved shirt and long black skirt, a traditional squash blossom necklace of silver and turquoise hanging around her neck.
Kat set her purse and briefcase down on the desk and turned on her computer. "That's my grandmother. She--"
"Kat! God, I'm glad you're safe!" Another I-Team member--a pretty woman with strawberry-blond hair--stood, hurried over to her, and gave Kat a fierce hug.
Kat hugged her back. "Thanks, Sophie."
"I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry!" Sophie looked up at Gabe, held out her hand, and gave him a warm smile. "You must be Gabe Rossiter, the rock jock. I'm Marc's wife, Sophie Alton-Hunter. Marc tells me you saved Kat's life. I'm so happy to meet you and to have the chance to thank you in person. I hear you were hit."
So this was the woman Marc Hunter had taken hostage at gunpoint--and then married. Gabe shook Sophie's hand. "It was just a graze, so--"
"Oh, Kat!" A woman with long dark hair and the features of a porcelain doll came up behind them, still wearing her coat, briefcase in hand, and gave Kat a quick kiss on the cheek. "I just about had heart failure when Tom told us someone had tried to shoot you. Bless your heart! Are you okay?"
The woman spoke with a southern accent of some kind. New Orleans?
Kat took the woman's hand, gave it a squeeze, the look in her eyes telling Gabe that she was deeply touched. "Thanks, Natalie. Yes, I'm fine-thanks to Gabe."
Natalie held out her hand. "Oh, the park ranger. Hi, Gabe. I'm Natalie Benoit. I work the cops and courts beat."
"There she is! Mi chula!" A young Latino with a camera bag over his shoulder hurried down the hallway toward them. He dropped his bag on the desk and drew Kat into his arms in a way that instantly raised Gabe's hackles. Then the kid drew back, one hand lingering on Kat's shoulder. "Did they catch the bastards yet?"
"No." She put her hand on Gabe's arm. "Joaquin, this is Gabe Rossiter. I wouldn't be here this morning if not for him."
Joaquin stepped away from Kat and held out his hand to Gabe. "Thanks for watching her back. She means a lot to us."
Gabe found himself wondering exactly how much she meant to Joaquin. Mi chula, huh? He had an absurd impulse to put his arm around Kat's shoulders to mark his territory and warn the kid away.
You're a Neanderthal, Rossiter. You've got no claim on her.
Instead, Gabe shook the young man's hand. "I'm glad I was able to help."
He watched while Kat gave her friends the Reader's Digest version of what had happened yesterday at the butte, answering a dozen questions and reassuring her friends she was fine before everyone went back to their desks.
"You can sit here if you want." Kat motioned to a vacant workstation beside hers. "This is usually the intern's desk, but we don't have an intern at the moment. The computer is connected to the Internet if you need to check e-mail. Can I get you a cup of coffee or some water?"
"I'm fine for now. If there's a cafeteria here, I might head down while you're in your meeting and get some--"
"Hey, Harker, what's up, man?" Joaquin called. "You look like hell!"
Gabe followed Kat's gaze and saw a young man with reddish hair walking slowly down the hallway. Unshaven and sporting a serious case of bedhead, he looked like someone had just run over his dog.
Kat took a few steps in his direction. "Matt, what's wrong?"
The man--Matt--stopped and looked up at Sophie. "The city's finance director..."
"The man who embezzled city pension funds?" Kat prompted.
Matt nodded slowly, anguish on his face. "He committed suicide last night. In front of his wife and teenage kids. Blew his own head off."
There was a collective gasp.
"Oh, Matt!"
"Jesus!"
"Harker, you're late." A big bear of a man strode into the newsroom, a newspaper and notepad under his arm, a cup of coffee in his other hand. "Snap out of it. If a corrupt public official decides to be a coward and kills himself to avoid lawful prosecution, that's not your fault."
So this is Tom Trent.
He was almost Gabe's height but probably outweighed Gabe by a good sixty pounds. He exuded an air of a man who was used to being in charge and didn't put up with bullshit. He turned to Gabe. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my newsroom?"
Kat stepped forward. "Tom, this is--"
"I'm Gabe Rossiter, the park ranger who saved Kat's life yesterday." Gabe didn't need her help dealing with this prick. He held out his hand. "I'm acting as her bodyguard until this is over."
Tom took his hand and shook it, measuring him through cool blue eyes. "Good to meet you. You can stay. The rest of you get to the conference room. We've got a newspaper to make. Not you, Harker. You go home, take a shower, and get yourself together. I want you in my office in an hour."
The I-Team members sent Matt looks of sympathy--and glared at Tom's back as he walked off down a side hallway.
Kat walked over to her desk and picked up a notepad and pencil. "Are you going to be okay here? This usually takes about an hour."
"I'll be fine." With Joaquin still in the room to see, Gabe gave in to his inner caveman, ducked down, and planted a light kiss on Kat's lips.
Her eyes went wide for a moment, pink spots blooming in her cheeks.
He watched her walk away, then sat and booted up the computer. He had a few things he wanted to research.
"WELL, THIS is quite the conundrum." Tom tapped his pencil against his notepad, his gaze fixed on Kat's. "We're damned if we do and damned if we don't. If we report that there's looting of artifacts at Mesa Butte, we'll be letting every pot pincher in North America know that Mesa Butte is worth a visit. On the other hand, our readers have a right to know what is happening out there, including the truth--whatever it turns out to be--concerning Red Crow's death."
With those words, Tom summed up the dilemma that had been gnawing at the back of Kat's mind since breakfast. As a Native woman, she wanted to do all she could both to clear Grandpa Red Crow's name and to protect the artifacts at Mesa Butte. But now those two goals seemed to contradict one another. Should she protect Grandpa Red Crow's name and preserve all that he meant to Denver's Native people, or protect Mesa Butte and its heritage? What was more important--her duty to Grandpa Red Crow and the present or her duty to the land and the past? And what about her duty as an investigative journalist--a duty to tell the truth?
"Does it make any difference that they've closed the butte?" Natalie held up a press release. "The city of Boulder just announced that the place is now closed to the public and under round-the-clock surveillance."
Kat considered that for a moment. "What happens when this blows over and they quit watching the site? Anyone interested in looting Mesa Butte simply has to wait till the coast is clear."
"Maybe these bastards have stolen everything worth stealing," Joaquin offered.
Sophie shook her head. "I don't think they'd have tried to shoot Kat and Gabe if that were true. People don't kill to keep secrets that aren't worth keeping."
"That's right." Tom leaned back in his chair. "Clearly, someone didn't want James and the park ranger to see what they saw. But I'm not certain that our priority as the press is to conceal the existence of these artifacts so much as to expose the looting and the public officials who allowed it to happen."
For a moment, the conference room was silent.
It was Tom who spoke next. "James, what do you think we should do?"
Kat hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I think our priority should be to find out exactly what's going on at Mesa Butte and to report it in a way that's culturally sensitive. That might mean being vague about what kind of artifacts are there, or it might mean reporting on the issue of looting in such a way that the public comes to see how damaging it is from the Native perspective."
Tom tapped his pencil a few more times, his brow drawn into a thoughtful frown, then pointed the eraser tip at Natalie. "Benoit, you cover the shooting. The News had a paragraph on it this morning, but nothing worth reading. Interview James and the park ranger and see what you can put together."
Syd, who'd sat silently this entire time, turned to Tom. "Will ten inches do?"
Tom nodded. "James, you stay on the main story. Get us something for the front page. I don't care what. Just keep the Mesa Butte story moving. We'll leave the cultural sensitivity to you. Let's get to work."
And the meeting was over.
Kat walked back to the newsroom with Natalie, the two of them working out a time for their interview and strategizing about how Kat could get the documents she'd requested from the city last week without waiting till after Thanksgiving.
