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“I Hate Being Attracted To You.”
Kyle’s gaze stormed hers, as fierce as a silent war cry.
Joyce struggled to contain her emotions, to stop herself from tasting every inch of him. “Then get off me.”
“I don’t want to.” He traced her top, running his fingers along the neckline. He moved lower, righting her clothes, respecting her in a way she’d never imagined. “And you don’t want me to, either.”
Like a heart-pounding fool, she let him stay there, body to body, breath to breath. Even so, she fought the urge to put her arms around him, to hold him. She’d known him for eight months, almost long enough to have a baby.
That alone scared the death out of her. Her biological clock wouldn’t stop ticking.
“We’re in trouble.”
Apache Nights
Sheri WhiteFeather
MILLS & BOON
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SHERI WHITEFEATHER
lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.
Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats—domestic and wild. She loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 17146, Anaheim, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.
To the readers who noticed Kyle in Always Look Twice and asked if I was going to write his story, this book is for you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
One
Where in the hell was he?
Joyce Riggs waited at the locked gate in front of Kyle Prescott’s obscure seven-acre dwelling, with an irate rottweiler snarling at her through the chain-link fence.
The guard dog fit Kyle to a T, but so did the other pooch, a miniature dachshund, keeping the rotten rotty company.
How many people would pair a rottweiler and an itty-bitty wiener dog together in the same yard?
And speaking of the yard…
Scattered car parts. Old lawn furniture. Playground equipment. Wagon wheels. A cast-iron stove.
She blinked, deciding it was impossible to itemize everything. Kyle was, after all, a junk dealer. Or at least that was his legitimate profession, his cover, the work he claimed on his income tax returns.
She knew he was a militant who trained other militants, a Native American activist who kept the authorities guessing. And to make matters worse, she had a crush on him, an irritating attraction that had been nipping at her heels since they’d both decided nearly eight months ago that they despised each other.
She blew out a rough breath and did her damnedest to ignore the salivating rotty. But it wasn’t easy. The domineering beast was getting angrier by the second. The wiener dog, on the other hand, was grinning at her like a sweet little goon.
Finally a banging sound caught her attention. The snap of a heavy wooden door, no doubt. Both dogs reacted, and like a muscle-bound mirage, Kyle appeared in the distance, descending the porch steps of his ancient home.
He lived in an isolated section of the high desert where Charles Manson and his merry band of murderers had been rumored to spend time, a place that still seemed like Helter Skelter to the average fear-abiding citizen.
Kyle moved closer, and Joyce squinted at him, wishing he didn’t make her pulse flip and flutter.
It took a while, but he reached the gate, emphasizing his long, lazy strides. And then he smirked, giving her a roguish, Rhett Butler-type look. The rottweiler was still baring his fangs, growling in the name of his gorgeous master. She could tell the dog was male. She could see his I’m-a-boy testes.
Fiddle-dee-dee, she thought. Supposedly Kyle had quite a pair, too. Not to mention the body part that went with them. She’d heard he was hung like a Trojan horse.
Not that she cared.
“Detective Riggs,” he said. “What a surprise.”
“I called and told you to expect me.”
“And I told you not to bother.”
“Aren’t you the least bit curious why I’m here?” she baited.
He angled his head. As usual, his razor-sharp shoulder length hair was held in place with a cloth headband, reminiscent of the Geronimo era in Apache history. At six-four, he was a tall, dark half-blood, a man who carried his heritage like a nineteenth-century rifle.
He wore a blue T-shirt, button-fly jeans and knee-high moccasins. He was thirty-six, the same age as Joyce, but they didn’t have anything in common, nothing but an unyielding attraction.
He
