effective cop, a Special Section detective who tracked serial killers and worked on high profile cases, but she’d come to him for training, for force-on-force drills, for the fight that was supposedly raging in her blood. No matter what, they both knew his tactical skills out-matched hers. His specialty was close-quarter combat, battlefield techniques perfected by the U.S. Special Forces, U.S. Army Rangers and U.S. Marine Corps.
“Is that spiel you gave me true?” he asked.
“What spiel?”
He set her coffee on the counter. “That bit about you going through a tough time. About having personal problems you can’t resolve.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
Although she glanced away, something flashed in her eyes. Confusion, he thought. She appeared to be at war with herself.
Were her problems real? Or was she a skilled actress?
He pushed her further, looking for answers. “Did someone hurt you? Is that what’s wrong?”
“No.”
“You didn’t get in too deep with some guy? With some jerk who screwed you over?” He knew there were men who took advantage, who made promises they didn’t keep. But Kyle wasn’t one of them. His relationships never went beyond sex, beyond raw, honest urges.
“There’s no one,” she told him. “It isn’t like that.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“Nothing I care to talk about.” Her chest rose and fell, her breathing accelerated, just a little, just enough for him to notice.
She wasn’t acting, he decided. She was putting herself on the line, something he doubted she did very often. He couldn’t imagine what kinds of problems a tough-willed detective like her couldn’t resolve. It made him hungry to kiss her, to taste her confusion, to let her seduce him. But he wasn’t about to break his self-imposed code.
He didn’t sleep with white women.
Of course that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to help her. Joyce had come to him for a legitimate reason.
He turned away. “I’ll get the milk for your coffee.”
She blinked. “Are you calling a truce?”
“I’m just trying to be a halfway decent host.” He went to the refrigerator, removed the carton and gave Clyde a silent signal, letting the dog know the upcoming threat wouldn’t be real. “I’m going to train you.”
“You are?” She accepted the milk and poured it into her cup. “What’s your schedule like?”
“I’ll have to check my calendar.”
She glanced up. “I’ve got time off this week. Or is that too soon for you?”
“I’ll try to work something out,” he told her, even though he’d already worked it out.
She stirred her coffee, and he curbed a carnivorous smile.
Joyce’s first session and the surprise attack that went with it was about to begin.
Two
Joyce sipped her coffee. It was strong, but it was far from poisonous. “This is actually pretty good.”
“Glad you think so.” He came forward, taking the hot drink from her hand. “Too bad you won’t get to finish it.”
“What you are doing?”
“This.” He set her cup on the counter and moved even closer.
Too close, she thought. She could smell the soap on his skin. An outdoorsy scent, a blend of lavender and sage, of man and nature.
She met his gaze and noticed the brown and gold pattern. Tiger’s-eye, she thought. Like the quartz stone Roman soldiers used to wear to protect them in battle.
He moistened his lips, and her pulse went haywire. Was he going to kiss her?
She knew she shouldn’t let him. But she was curious to taste him. One long, lingering jolt. One forbidden flavor.
When he pinned her against the counter, she lifted her chin, daring him to do it, to take her mouth with his.
But he didn’t. He grabbed her gun instead.
Son of a bitch.
She tried to stop him, but within seconds he’d confiscated her 9mm and ditched it, right along with the SIG he carried. Both guns went sliding across the vinyl floor, out of sight and out of reach. This wasn’t an armed battle. This was street fighting, a down-and-dirty brawl.
Only he wasn’t hurting her. If anything, she was simply being restrained.
She knew how to punch, how to kick, how land well-aimed blows. But her moves didn’t work on him.
Joyce gritted her teeth and attempted a stomp that was supposed to bring down a giant, someone as big as Kyle.
For all the good it did.
He took her down instead. “You’re blowing it, Detective.”
He landed on top of her, nailing her to the floor. He kept her there, under him, his tiger’s-eye eyes boring into hers. She couldn’t move her arms; she couldn’t even lift her pelvis a fraction.
But the weight of his body felt good.
Much too good.
“Get off me, Kyle.”
He didn’t listen. He continued looking at her. Was this another trick? At this point, she still wanted him to kiss her. Softly. Gently. Yet she wanted to shred his clothes, too. To snap and bite and leave marks on his soap-scented skin.
Nothing in her brain made any sense.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” He climbed off her, ending the exercise, freeing her from his bond. “Tell me what’s going on in your life.”
Caught off guard, she sat up and noticed he was sitting on the floor, too. “We already discussed that.”
“And you didn’t tell me a thing.”
“It’s personal.” She wasn’t about to admit that her biological clock was ticking like a bomb. For Joyce, it wasn’t a natural feeling. She hated the nesting urges inside her, the marriage/baby lust interfering with her job, with everything that used to make her happy. Being a wife and mother had never been part of her agenda. Yet it had begun to take over, like a horror-movie body snatcher.
“Are you sure it’s something you can fight your way out of?” he asked.
“Yes.” It had to be, she thought. Because she didn’t intend to let those urges destroy her. Nor did she intend to cater to them, to marry the first romantic bonehead that came along and have his babies.
