what?” She pushed back, pressing on his knee-high moccasins. They held no adornment. No fringe, no tiny beading, no colorful paint. “You?”
“I stole your gun, cop-girl.”
“And you can return it now, cheater-boy.”
“I didn’t cheat.”
Joyce couldn’t believe they were playing footsies, flirting like a couple of middle school kids. She tried to quit, but he continued, so she did too, kicking him a little harder. “You pretended you were going to kiss me.”
“It’s not my fault you fell for that.”
No, it was hers. And she wouldn’t let it happen again.
Suddenly he stopped moving and said something in what she assumed was Apache. She frowned at him, then realized he was talking to Clyde. The dog came forward and dropped her gun in her lap.
She glanced at the handle of the 9mm. The rotty had slobbered all over it. “Gee, thanks.”
Kyle grinned. “Wanna know where mine is?”
“Up your butt?” she asked and made him chuckle.
“It’s in my holster. Right where it should be.” He attacked her soles again. “Tricky, aren’t I?”
Joyce couldn’t decide if he was a militant or a magician. She moved her feet away from his, then wiped the handle of her gun with her blouse. “That was a lousy training session. All you did was show off.”
“I was assessing your skills.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She wasn’t about to throw in the towel. “I better get more out of the next session.”
“You will.” He stood and offered her hand. “Come by tomorrow around noon.”
“You better be worth the money.” She refused his hand, hating that he’d bested her. Not in a fight. But in that nonexistent kiss.
The strategy he’d used against her.
After Joyce left, Kyle drove his Jeep to Olivia’s downtown loft. He didn’t like going to other people for help, but he didn’t have a choice. Besides, Olivia was a friend, or as close to a friend as a female could get.
Women were a strange breed. He appreciated their bodies. He considered them the Creator’s most compelling work of art, but he didn’t understand their minds. And Joyce was no exception. She baffled the hell out of him.
Edgy, he sat on Olivia’s sofa. She was perched on the chair across from him, waiting for him to speak. He used to call her Liv, but he’d decided to stop using the nickname, to stop being overly familiar with her, especially now that she was sleeping with someone else.
She crossed her legs, and he noticed her short black skirt and fishnet stockings. Olivia had always dressed like a dominatrix. Her naughty style is what had attracted him to her. That, and her Lakota/Apache blood.
“Do you know what’s going on with Joyce?” he asked.
She ran her hand through her hair. She wore it short and choppy. Her lips were a bold shade of red and her eyes were rimmed in a smudgy kohl liner. “Going on how?”
“With her personal life.”
“She doesn’t confide in me.”
“No girl talk?”
“No.”
He blew out an irritated-sounding breath, letting his former lover know that he didn’t believe her. He’d always heard that women stuck together. That they chattered like gossip-addicted magpies. “You told her stuff about me.”
“So?”
“So did you tell her I was hot in bed?” He sure as hell hoped so, or else he would look like a fool, considering he’d already bragged to Joyce and accused her of wanting him.
“Of course I did. It’s the only thing you’re good at.”
He wasn’t flattered, not completely. He took pride in other aspects of his life, in the Warrior Society that dictated his missions. “I’m good at other things.”
“You were a lousy boyfriend.”
Okay, so she had him there. He hadn’t mastered the art of romance, of wining and dining. And he totally sucked at the emotional stuff. But he’d never claimed to be polished or poetic.
“Who cares?” he said.
“Apparently you do or you wouldn’t be asking me about Joyce.”
“I was asking about her personal problems.” The mystery of why she was troubled was driving him crazy. “She came to me for training. She wants to fight her way out of her dilemma.”
“I know. She told me.”
“Right.” He gave Olivia a hard stare. “During the conversation that wasn’t girl talk.” To him, evaluating a man’s performance in bed was as girly as a discussion could get, even if the man in question was grateful for it. “I can’t believe she didn’t go into more detail. That she didn’t admit what’s bothering her.”
“Well, she didn’t.”
They both fell silent. Frustrated, Kyle looked around the loft. The walls were decorated with a mural Olivia’s sister had painted, with fantasy creatures that included an armor-clad knight and a fire-breathing dragon.
He squinted at the knight and wondered if there was a damsel in distress waiting in the wings somewhere.
If women like Olivia and Joyce ruled the world, they would be slaying the dragon. Not that Kyle didn’t respect ass-kicking females. They totally turned him on. But he appreciated their softer sides, too. The vulnerability that made them women. Which, he supposed, was why Joyce’s secret was chipping away at him.
He picked up a decorative pillow and fussed with the froufrou tassel, flicking the gold fringe. “Why didn’t you try to zap into Joyce’s mind and pick her brain? Why didn’t you try to find out what’s going on?”
Olivia glanced at the front door. “I wasn’t going to invade her privacy. That wouldn’t have been right.”
Right, smight. Kyle wished he were psychic.
Just then, the door opened and a dark-haired man in a black suit entered the trendy building and set his briefcase down. Olivia must have sensed his presence.
Special Agent Ian West. Her FBI lover. She stood and West came toward her. They didn’t say anything. They locked lips instead, sweet and slow, as if they hadn’t seen each other for a thousand years. But that wasn’t the case. They worked together as often as they could, and whenever the hotshot profiler was in town, he crashed at her place.
When the other man deepened the kiss, Kyle made a disgusted face. “Knock it off.”
They
