“I’m sorry.”
“I still have family on the rez. Some family in L.A., too. This is where my dad was originally from.” He pulled his hand through his hair, removing his headband and stuffing it in his pocket. His hair was thick and dark, like his mom’s used to be. “I look like both of my parents. I got his stature and her features. My skin color is somewhere in between. It’s obvious to most people that I’m a mixed-blood.”
She watched him through soft blue eyes. “You’re a handsome man.”
“Thanks.” He shrugged and pushed the headband farther into his pocket. “Being handsome didn’t help when I was growing up. I was part white, and I got a lot of flack for that. Mostly because my dad didn’t appreciate Native ways. In those days, a lot of reservation teachers were like that. They were still trying to tame the savages.”
“So the other kids took it out on you?”
He nodded. “I did everything I could to seem more Indian, to prove that I wasn’t like my dad. All I wanted was to drain the white blood from my veins.”
“But you can’t, Kyle. It’s part of who you are.”
“I know. But it only got worse. After my parents got divorced, I stayed on the rez with my mother, and my father went back to L.A. It should have been okay then, but Mom died soon after that.” He blew out the breath he was holding. “She was my salvation. The parent who understood me. And then she was gone.”
Joyce left her chain and stood next to him, searching his gaze. “What happened? Were you forced to move to L.A. with your dad?”
“He was my legal guardian. He got custody of me after Mom died. And he was bound and determined to teach me to live in his world.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.” He smiled a little, recalling how rebellious he’d been. “I fought him every step of the way. I became the biggest, baddest urban skin you ever saw.”
“Skin?”
“Indian.”
“Big and bad.” She opened her hands, gesturing to him. “Like the man you are today.”
“Pretty much. I got involved in the American Indian Movement. To my dad, that’s the worse thing I could have done. AIM was the anti-Christ to him.”
“A bunch of hotheaded Natives campaigning for their rights?”
“Exactly. He didn’t respect our values, the changes we were trying to make. That’s the sort of behavior he’d been trying to tame on the rez. He was backward in that way.”
“And it rubbed off on you,” she said catching his attention, making him frown.
“My so-called bigotry?”
“You reversed his prejudice. You turned it around to make it work for you.”
“I told you I was mixed up.”
“You don’t have to be. You don’t have to avoid non-Native relationships. If you’re attracted to someone, it shouldn’t matter.”
“I know. It shouldn’t. But it does. And not just because of my dad. I’m not actively involved in AIM anymore, but I’m part of a Warrior Society, a militant group. I’m a full-force activist, Joyce.”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I know who you are.”
Of course she did. She was a cop. The lady who’d confiscated his gun. “How would it look for a half-blood who fights Native causes to date non-Native women? Especially white women?”
She heaved an audible sigh. “So you’re living by an image? By what’s expected of you?”
“Yeah. I guess I am.” And the revelation hit him like a fist, hard and deep, right in the solar plexus. “That sucks, doesn’t it? The big bad skin worrying about what other people think?”
“It’s keeping you out of my bed,” she said, walking into the house and leaving him alone on the balcony.
He simply stood there, for at least five minutes, staring after her. What the hell was that? A make-him-suffer rebuff? A slap in the face?
Screw this, he thought. He followed her, catching her in the kitchen, where she was preparing to make a cup of herbal tea. How frigging refined of her.
“Do you want some?” she asked.
“No.” He crowded her.
“Back off.” She tried to nudge him out of her way.
“Don’t act like all of this is my fault. If push came to shove, you wouldn’t be seen with a guy like me. Not publicly.”
She turned on the stove and the flame ignited, a bit like her temper. “Is that your answer to everything? Blaming other people?”
He ground his teeth. He wanted to grab her and kiss her, shut her up with his tongue. “You’re avoiding my accusation.”
“This is about sex, Kyle. Neither of us is looking for anything beyond an affair.”
How was he supposed to know what she was looking for? Women never made any sense. How many times did they say one thing, then do another? “I thought you weren’t interested in banging my brains out. I thought you came to me for training. To fight your way out of your problems, not to fu—”
“Don’t talk to me like that.” She cut him off before he could get too crude. “It’s offensive.”
He watched her remove a jar of honey from the cabinet above her head. It bothered him that she was still being pissy. That she hadn’t let him off the hook. “Will you go on a date with me?”
She nearly dropped the honey. “What?”
“You heard me.”
She pressed the bear-shaped jar against her chest. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. We’ll go to a strip club or something.”
“Very funny.”
“Fine.” He refused to smile. “We’ll have dinner.”
She removed the near-boiling water from the stove and poured it into her cup. She wasn’t smiling, either. “Will you wear a suit?”
“Get real.” He bumped her arm and made her spill the water.
She rounded on him. “You did that on purpose.”
He stood his ground. She knew better than to try to fight him. “Are you going to go out with me or not?”
“I suppose I could.”
“Such enthusiasm.” He turned to leave. “You better heat some more water.”
“Just get out of here.”
“Be glad to.”
Before he walked out of the kitchen, she stopped him. “What time are you picking me up tomorrow?”
“Seven.”
She refilled the pot. “Don’t be late.”
“You, either.” He went into the living room and wondered what he’d just gotten himself into.
He reached for the metal box with his SIG and decided to pick the lock. While Joyce made tea, he poked around for a paperclip on her rolltop desk, found one and opened the box. Then he located the magazine, loaded the gun and shoved it in the waistband of his pants.
“I’m leaving,” he called out to her, deciding she would think twice about disarming him again.
Four
Joyce sat across from Kyle in a restaurant in Universal Studios CityWalk. It wasn’t a quiet eatery, considering it boasted three mechanical bulls, three full bars, an outdoor dance floor and stage, live music, karaoke, video monitors and diagonal big screens.
He’d taken her to a tourist attraction for their date.
“Interesting choice,” she said.
“We can’t avoid the public here.”
No kidding. The steak house was centrally located between the entrance of CityWalk and a Universal Studios tour bus parking lot, where the foot traffic was horrendous.
Kyle gestured to a nearby bull. Wooden tables, including theirs, surrounded the pen that housed it. “Want to go for a ride later?”
“Not on your life.”
“They give women easy rides.” He leaned forward. “Slow and sexy.”
She ignored the chill that sleeked up her spine. “With all these people watching. No way.”
“I’ll do it if you will.”
She wasn’t about to fall for his bait, to let him talk her into it. “You’d probably kick butt. It’s probably right up your alley.”
&nbs
p; “I’m always up for trying something new.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Like dating me?”
“You’re my worst nightmare.” He flashed a naughty smile. “But damn if you don’t look hot.”
“Thanks.” She wore a slim black dress and classic pumps. “Can you imagine me on the bull in this?”
“Yeah, I can.” He took a swig of his beer and settled his gaze on her décolleté. “I totally can.”
She fussed with the gold chain around her neck. He was looking at her as if he wanted her to ride him instead. But what did she expect? She’d made good use of the push-up bra, something that was bound to capture his attention.
The waitress brought their meals, and Joyce told herself to relax. She tracked serial killers for a living. Having dinner with Kyle was no big deal.
Then why wouldn’t her heart quit pounding?
He was dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt. His jacket was leather. She imagined that was as formal as he got. As for his hair, he’d pulled it into a ponytail, leaving the hard, handsome angles of his face unframed.
She glanced at their plates. She’d ordered a center cut of New York, and Kyle had gone for a twenty-two ounce porterhouse, the biggest steak on the menu. He assaulted it the way he attacked the world. He liked his meat blood red, but that didn’t surprise her.
She shifted her gaze, studying his fingers, the way he held his fork. “How did you pick that lock?”
He looked up. “What lock? Oh, you mean the pistol box at your house?”
“The very one.” She knew he hadn’t found the key. She’d secured that in her pocket.
“I used a paper clip.”
She clamped her jaw before it fell. “I paid eighty bucks for that case.”
“Then you got ripped off. Either that or I’m a damn good thief.”
“What about tonight?” It was impossible to tell what he had going on under his jacket. “Are you armed?”
“No, but if you want proof, you can pat me down. I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance.”
“I’ll bet.” She wielded her knife. Her heart was still pounding, still thumping in her chest. Finally she cut into her steak. It was well-done, the opposite of his.
“Do you think your fellow officers will think you’ve gone native?” he asked. “Or aren’t you going to tell them you’re seeing me?”
“I haven’t decided.” Going native meant police burnout, a cop suffering a mental breakdown, drinking too much, doing drugs, carousing. “Clever play on words.” In this case, going native meant keeping company with a lust-driven Apache.
They both fell silent, and she wondered if he was going to tell his Indian comrades about her. Somehow, she envisioned him keeping quiet.
“This is a good start,” she said. “I’m glad you brought me here.”
His gaze drilled hers. “Are you?”
“Yes. This place is perfect.” It was loud and raunchy, but the tourists made it seem normal. They were regular people, not L.A. hipsters.
Proving Joyce’s point, a fifty-something woman in polyester pants and a lightweight sweater climbed onto the mechanical bull. Her ride was slow, but far from sexy. Yet that hardly mattered. Her family was cheering her on.
Kyle watched the activity. “Looks like they’re having fun.”
“Yes, it does.” She felt a pang of familiarity. The woman’s husband was giving her pointers, and the people Joyce assumed were her children were young adults, probably with chaotic lives of their own, but the bond was there, the undeniable connection. “My family is like that.”
“Your mom would come here and ride a bull?”
That made her laugh. Her mother was an old-fashioned, sweetly behaved homemaker. “No. But she’s our foundation. She holds all of us together.”
“All of you?” He sat back and examined her. “Do you come from a big family?”
“Six girls.”
“Damn. I’ll bet your dad went crazy. All that hairspray and perfume in one house.” He made a face. “Not to mention PMS six times a month.” He paused, pondering the situation. “Seven if you include your mom.”
Joyce shook her head. Kyle never failed to express his chauvinist views. She balled up an extra napkin and threw it at him. He shrugged and tossed it back at her.
The woman’s ride ended. She walked over to her family, where good cheer erupted. Her husband gave her a playful swat on the bottom.
The pang of familiarity returned. Joyce’s dad did that to her mom, too. “My father is a retired police officer.”
Kyle frowned a little. “Is he the one who influenced you?”
“I always loved hearing about his job.” To her, it had seemed far more exciting than her mom’s station in life. But now she didn’t know what to think. Those baby urges were messing with her brain.
“Are any of your sisters cops?”
“No.” They all had a career of some kind, and they all had husbands and kids, but no one, not even their husbands were in law enforcement. “They worry about me the way they used to worry about Dad.”
“That’s understandable. It’s human nature, I guess. We live in violent times.”
She gave him a pointed look. “With men who carry guns. Men who aren’t supposed to.”
He came forward in his chair. “Then your sisters have a lot to worry about, don’t they?”
“I should have busted you.”
He smiled. “Yeah, but you went out with me instead.” He saluted her with his empty beer. “The girl’s got guts.”
She smiled, too. “Or mush for brains.”
They finished dinner, and he insisted on dessert. Not that Joyce was opposed to a hunk of chocolate cake. She just imagined it going to her hips. Still, it didn’t take much to persuade her.
“Do you want to dance later?” he asked. “The band comes on around eleven.”
She dived into her cake, knowing she would have to hit the gym first thing in the morning. “Dance?”
“Did you think I was goofing around with the skeleton? Those were some serious moves.”
She bit back a smile, recalling the way her neighbors had gaped at him. “Very serious. Debonair, too.”
“Damn straight.”
She glanced at her watch. Eleven o’clock was still an hour away. “What should we do in the meantime?” Her dessert was nearly gone. His, too. He’d practically inhaled it. But he probably worked out for at least four hours a day, loving every excruciating minute of it. For that, she wanted to kick him.
“We could browse around like everyone else,” he said.
“Are you suggesting that we behave like tourists?”
“Why not? There’s a slew of specialty stores. There’s even a gothic shop. An entire building filled with creepy collectibles.”
“Just what every homicide detective needs. More gore.” She ate the last of her cake and decided that being a tourist sounded fun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d shopped in nonsensical stores. And never with a man like Kyle.
To Kyle, CityWalk was like Disneyland, Hollywood Boulevard and the set of a blockbuster movie all rolled into one. Where else could you find a crashed flying saucer protruding from the roof of a sci-fi store? Or how about a rock and roll bowling alley? Music madness and retail mayhem, he thought. It didn’t get any better than this.
A stroke of marketing genius, CityWalk catered to over eight million people a year. Kyle and Joyce became two in a crowd.
The first store they wandered into was a place that specialized in wind-up toys. Kyle felt like a kid in a pineapple under the sea. He found a SpongeBob Squarepants boat he was dying to have.
He showed it to Joyce. “It drives around in circles.”
She angled her head. “So?”
“So, I’m buying it.”
“For who?”
“Myself.”
She clucked her tongue. “Seriously?”
“Would I lie about my favorite cartoon character?”
“No. I su
ppose not. My nieces and nephews like him, too. But they’re a lot younger than you.” She removed the boat from his hand and examined it. “Is this for the tub?”
“Yeah.” He moved closer, stealing a perverted peek down the front of her dress. “Want to soak with me later? We can test it out.”
She held the wind-up toy between them. “Not without bubble bath.”
Was she kidding? He would buy her a gallon of whatever tripped her fancy.
He paid for the boat, then escorted her outside, where they returned to the shopping walk. He kept his eye open for girly stores, retailers that might sell bath and body products. He had no idea if Joyce was teasing him, but he was willing to take a chance.
He spotted a shop with pretty things in the window. They went inside, and sure enough, there was a collection of bubbly items on a glass display.
“Pick out what you want,” he said.
“I never said I wanted anything.”
“Humor me,” he told her. “Give me a thrill.”
She couldn’t decide. She looked at everything, fingering all the festive bottles and shrink-wrapped baskets. Finally she chose a bubble bath with an oceanic scent.
Kyle wasn’t sure what that meant. “It doesn’t smell like saltwater, does it? That might be okay for SpongeBob, but—”
She laughed and popped the cap, waving the bottle under his nose. The fragrance was crisp and sensual, breezy and fresh. It made him want to strip her where she stood.
He took the bubble bath to the front counter and noticed a package of little pots advertised as lip sugar.
He glanced at Joyce. She stood next to him in line, her stretchy black dress capturing her breasts and flowing to her ankles. He decided that lip sugar was just what they needed.
In or out of the tub.
He grabbed the shimmering pots, and she slanted him a curious look. He read the package. “They’re flavored. Cranberry, papaya, watermelon and mango. Just imagine what we can do with this stuff.”
She leaned against him, pressing her mouth to his ear. “This isn’t a sex shop, Kyle.”
It might as well have been. He turned his head and kissed her, fast and furious, leaving her breathless when he was done. He didn’t care how many people were in the store.
Apache Nights Page 4
