by Pamela Clare
"You were blushing." His voice was deep and dark as midnight. "It couldn't have been the topic of conversation, so it must have been something you were thinking. What were you thinking, my sweet little Kat? Hmm? Tell me."
"I ..." Kat sank back against him, tilting her head to make more room for his kisses as he traced the curve of her neck down to her shoulder. "I ... wasn't blushing."
He chuckled. "You're such a bad liar. I think you were thinking about--"
In the other room, his cell phone rang, the jarring sound giving Kat a mini adrenaline surge, her pulse pounding.
"Damn." He pressed a kiss against her hair, then strode off to answer it.
And with her next breath, everything she'd been trying so hard to forget came crashing in on her. The bone fragment. Bullets flying. Looting at Mesa Butte. Grandpa Red Crow's death.
One little Indian . . . dead.
"Rossiter."
Not wanting to eavesdrop but unable to shake the feeling that this call in some way had to do with Mesa Butte, she turned off the water, reached for a towel, and walked slowly toward the living room.
"Go ahead," she heard Gabe say, the gentleness that had been in his voice moments ago now gone.
She stepped into the hallway, her heart beating faster.
"Were they able to ID it?" he asked.
And she knew he was talking about the bone.
Her stomach fell.
She took another step.
"Was he able to say where it came from? Where would anyone get a hold of something like that?" A pause. "Really? Son of a bitch!"
She reached the end of the hallway and found Gabe standing with his back to the fireplace, cell phone to his ear, his face grave.
"She's handling it pretty well. Yeah. Thanks, man. I'll be in touch." He hung up, then turned and saw her. His gaze met hers, his eyes troubled. "That was Julian. There were no fingerprints on the bone besides yours. Forensics identified it. Like I thought, it's human--and at least three hundred years old. The soil traces he recovered from it are a dead match for the soil in the trenches at Mesa Butte."
THE COYOTE CAME from behind her. Yipping and howling, it ran circles around her in the darkness. She shouted at it, told it to leave her alone, but her voice disappeared in the wind. She tried to kick it, tried to run, but her legs wouldn't move.
Then the coyote froze beside her, bared its teeth, growled, the fur on its neck and back raised. But it wasn't growling at her. It was growling at something else--something that moved in the shadows, something that stood just beyond the circle of firelight, something that was coming nearer.
A skinwalker.
She screamed.
"Kat, honey, wake up! It's okay. I've got you."
She heard Gabe's voice and found herself in his arms, in tears, shaking, drenched in cold sweat. She buried her face against his chest, his embrace a refuge. He whispered reassurances, stroked her hair, held her. But it was a long time before she was able to fall asleep again.
CHAPTER 20
IT WAS THE second morning in a row that Gabe had awoken in his own bed to find himself holding a woman in his arms. The same woman.
Kat slept deeply, her head resting on his chest, her breasts pressing softly against his ribs, one of her legs tucked intimately between his, her peacefulness at odds with the salty tearstains on her cheeks and the dark circles beneath her eyes. She'd had a rough night, whatever she'd dreamed so terrifying that she'd actually screamed, waking Gabe from a dead sleep. He'd sat bolt upright and reached for his HK before he'd realized she was just having a nightmare. It had taken most of an hour for her trembling to subside.
He needed to take a leak, but he didn't want to wake her. And so he watched her sleep, something he hadn't done since ...
What kind of game are you playing with her, Rossiter?
Hell if he knew.
He didn't want to hurt her, did not want to hurt her, but that's exactly what he'd do in the end. She had feelings for him. He'd seen it last night--that soft glow a woman got in her eyes when she thought she was in love. But he knew what she wanted from a man--a loving husband, a lifelong partner, a devoted father for her kids--and no matter what she believed, he was none of those things.
He'd given everything he had to Jill. He had nothing left to give.
And then he understood, as if somehow he'd worked it out in his sleep. The reason he hadn't yet pushed Kat away like all the other women he'd fucked is that he hadn't actually fucked her yet. Like any horn dog, he was busy chasing what he hadn't caught, all the kissing and even last night's mind-blowing hand job nothing more than foreplay. If he ever were to get inside her, the protectiveness he felt for her, this strange tenderness, would vanish. He'd come--and it would go. Then he'd have to watch that glow in her eyes turn to hurt and maybe even to hate.
That's why you need to keep your cock to yourself.
Yeah, right.
Who was he fooling? The only reason he hadn't fucked her yet is that she hadn't let him. If and when she did, he couldn't imagine himself being noble enough to refuse. Wasn't he already taking advantage of her vulnerability and using his sexual skill to move her slowly in that direction?
No.
Something in him rejected that idea. He was an asshole when it came to women, but he wasn't that much of an asshole. There had to be more to his need for her than scratching his insatiable sexual itch.
Like what, dickhead?
When no answer came to him--at least not one he was willing to consider--he knew he couldn't trust himself where she was concerned. It was time he put some distance between them. No matter how badly he wanted her, he needed to go back to keeping his hands to himself and sleeping on the couch.
He could forgive himself for a lot of things, but hurting Kat wasn't one of them.
WILLING HERSELF TO concentrate, Kat tried once again to read through a memo from the city's real estate department to Paul Martin, the city manager, discussing the proposed purchase price for Mesa Butte. The owners--a company called Mesa Butte Corporation--wanted three million dollars, but the city Realtor felt the land was worth at most half that amount and ...
The back door opened, and Gabe stepped in, his arms full of firewood, fresh, cold air rushing in behind him, a dusting of snowflakes on his shoulders and in his hair. He dropped the wood next to the fireplace, then walked back outside without sparing Kat a glance. It was as if he'd forgotten she was there.
You're being ridiculous, Kat.
He was probably just giving her space to work. Hadn't he told her that he didn't want to distract her? She ought to be grateful that he respected her enough to let her do her job. Except that . . . It felt more like he was trying to avoid her.
She couldn't put a finger on it. He hadn't done or said anything rude. All morning he'd been polite, making sure she was comfortable and had what she needed--coffee, a pen, enough light. But she might have been a stranger for all the warmth he'd shown her. Half the day was now gone, and they'd barely spoken. He hadn't once held her, hadn't kissed her, hadn't so much as touched her. It was as if the past two nights had never happened, as if she were a guest in his house--and nothing more.
She'd been telling herself all day that it didn't mean anything. He cared for her. She knew he did. He'd been there for her these past two weeks without fail. He'd watched over her, protected her, saved her life more than once and been injured in the process. He'd lost his job helping her do hers. He'd respected her sexual boundaries. And now, after years of working in the mountains, he'd chosen to stay cooped up indoors with her in order to keep her safe, when he could easily have washed his hands of the situation and let Chief Irving put her in a police safe house.
A man did not do those things for a woman if he didn't care about her, and what a man did mattered more than what he said--or didn't say.
Or so Kat told herself.
But the truth was that she'd fallen in love with a man who'd loved another woman and had lost her--a man who wasn't ready t
o love again. If only Kat knew what had happened, if only she knew how Jill had died, then she might understand what was going on inside him. She'd already guessed that Jill's death had something to do with rock climbing. Maybe Jill had fallen and Gabe blamed himself. Or maybe ...
Kat, listen to yourself!
What was she doing? Was she hoping for something that would never happen? Was she hoping for a kind of love from Gabe that he couldn't give?
You're right, Kat you've got no claim on me. I've made no promises, and we both know I never will.
She blinked back a surprise rush of tears, trying to ignore the growing ache in her chest. She needed to pull herself together. It was almost two in the afternoon, and she'd barely made headway through the stack of documents she and Gabe had copied at Martin's office yesterday. She had a job to do. People were depending on her. She couldn't let her emotions get in the way of her responsibilities.
The door opened, and Gabe stepped inside again. He dropped another armload of firewood. "Chief Irving's men are here. They're sitting across the street in a black Impala. I thought you'd want to know."
Before Kat could respond, he was gone again.
GABE STARED AT the map of Boulder and the five dots he'd drawn in red marker until his head ached. Someone had called Kat from pay phones at these seemingly random locations and threatened her life. But because none of the phones happened to be near any of the city's surveillance cameras, Gabe didn't know whose ass to kick.
He'd hoped that by looking at the locations on a map and noting the time of each call, he'd discover a pattern or find a common center point. No such luck. The phones were spread across town from Table Mesa to a North Boulder grocery store. The first two calls were made twenty minutes apart, but the others had been made at completely arbitrary intervals, forty-five minutes being the shortest and two hours being the longest. Gabe had lived his entire life in Boulder and knew the intervals had nothing to do with the distance between the pay phones.
He was looking for a pattern, but there was no pattern. Goddamn it!
He threw his pencil down on the table, feeling ready to explode.
Any more bright ideas, Rossiter?
No. Not a single one.
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath. He needed to work out or have a beer or do something to take the edge off. He felt frustrated, tense, angry. It was as if his skin were on too tight, and the damned death threats were only part of his problem. The other part had soft skin and big eyes and long dark hair and was sitting upstairs on his living room floor.
What an idiot he'd been to think he could just ignore her! All day long, X-rated images from last night had filled his mind, making it damned hard to concentrate. Kat naked in the bathtub. Kat exploring his body, wrapping her fingers around his cock. Kat riding his hand, a look of bliss on her sweet face as they both climaxed.
Hell, yeah, he wanted to get inside her, but the truth was that somehow she'd gotten inside him. He didn't just want to fuck her. He wanted to talk to her, to sit and watch her work. He wanted to banish her fear, to make her feel safe. He wanted to hear her laugh, to see her smile again. And it pissed him off. He felt torn between going upstairs just to be with her--and running as far and as fast as he could.
Call Darcangelo. Ask him to move her to a safe house.
Even as the thought occurred to him, he knew he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't be able to stand being away from her. So if he couldn't take not being around her and he couldn't face her without risking his sanity, what exactly was he supposed to do? Hide in the basement all day?
Coward.
He glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost five--time to think about making supper. And that meant facing Kat.
Maybe he could order pizza and distract himself with a few climbing videos. If they watched TV while they ate, they couldn't talk. In his experience, nothing made the average woman's eyes glaze over faster than watching scruffy men inch their way up some big wall in Canada or a mountain in Nepal. Yeah, tonight might be the perfect night to catch up on Masters of Stone. How many of those damned DVDs did they plan on making, anyway? The series had more sequels than Rocky.
With that plan in mind, he stood, glanced down at the red dots on the map. "Well, you son of a bitch," he said to the dots, "you sure were lucky."
Somehow, the bastard had managed to pick pay phones that were nowhere near city surveillance and was probably going to get away ...
And then Gabe knew.
That was the pattern.
The son of a bitch who'd made those calls hadn't been lucky. He'd chosen those phones precisely because they weren't under city surveillance. Gabe might not be able to prove it, but he knew in his gut he was right.
He headed for the stairs, took them two at a time. He'd call Hunter or Darcangelo--whoever answered first--and get them on it. They could find out who had access to information about the city's surveillance system, and that would give them a list of potential suspects. They'd finally have something to go on.
KAT RUBBED THE back of her neck, tried to ease the stiffness. She'd read halfway through the file of documents, but she hadn't found a single thing that might explain what was happening at Mesa Butte. There was nothing to indicate the city knew Indian people used the land. There was no mention of looting or Indian artifacts. There were no complaints about the inipi ceremonies either from city land-use officials or nearby residents. The documents she'd read so far indicated that Mesa Butte was just a boring plot of land on the outskirts of town. But she knew that wasn't true.
She leafed through the remaining documents and saw only more of the same--property--line surveys, various plant and wildlife studies, GPS surveys, soil studies, groundwater surveys. Was something missing?
She pressed her fingers to her temple to soothe away a nagging headache, feeling sleepy despite three cups of coffee, her mind sluggish. Maybe she needed a fourth cup of coffee or more water--or a break. Realizing it had been at least two hours since she'd budged from this spot, she set the documents aside.
She got to her feet, started to stretch, but she must have stood too quickly. Blood rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy. She stumbled forward a step, catching the arm of the sofa, the toes of her left foot hitting something hard, sending whatever it was skidding across the floor. Only when the wave of dizziness and the pain in her toes passed did she see what it was.
A photo album.
It must have been just hidden beneath the sofa. Now, it sat near her foot, its cover kicked open to reveal the first page. Without meaning to, without even thinking, she reached for it, picked it up, her gaze fixed on an image of Gabe and Jill.
They sat next to each other near a campfire, leaning toward one another, but not touching, smiles on their faces. Gabe had the same long hair he'd had in their engagement photo, but no goatee. He was wearing a flannel shirt over climbing pants, while Jill, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, was wearing a hoodie and blue jeans.
"The day we met," read the caption, the words printed on a little strip of paper. "Camp 4, Yosemite, September 15, 2004."
Slowly she turned one page and then the next, lost in the photographs, years of Gabe's life laid out before her. Gabe walking along a rope strung high in the air between two pine trees while his friends watched from below. Gabe and Jill skiing, ice climbing, camping in the snow, always with the same group of friends. Gabe and Jill sitting in front of a Christmas tree, looking sleepy and very much in love. Jill catching snowflakes on her tongue. Gabe and Jill naked in a hot springs together, Gabe's hands cupping Jill's breasts to hide them from the camera. Gabe and Jill drinking beer with a group of friends beside a row of overturned kayaks as the seasons came around to spring.
Kat knew the man in these photos, and yet she didn't know him at all. She'd only ever glimpsed this happier, lighter side of him. And she wondered again what had happened to change him from a man who had loved so deeply to a man who no longer believed in love.
She gasped, looked up, clearly startled. She'd been so busy snooping into his past that she hadn't even known he was there.
"Where did you find that?" No one had seen these photos except for him and Jill. No one knew what they meant to him, how much he hated them, how much he hated himself for holding on to them.
"It was under the sofa. I ... I tripped on it, and it came open, and I--"
He crossed the room in two strides, jerked the photo album from her hands, and slammed it shut. "Just because we've fooled around a little doesn't mean you can pry into my life!"
Kat's head snapped back as if he'd slapped her. "I ... I'm sorry! I didn't mean to pry. I stubbed my toes on it--"
Some part of him saw her distress, but he was too damned angry to care. "You didn't mean to pry? Why the hell were you looking though it then?"
Kat stood up straighter, glaring defiantly up at him. "Maybe I was trying to understand why a man with so much heart acts like he no longer has one."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"You know exactly what it means!" And then she blindsided him. "How did Jill die?"
The question was like a body blow. His heart slammed against his breastbone, and it took him a moment to find his voice. When he did, his words came out low and gruff. "That's none of your fucking business."
But Kat only pushed him harder, her soft voice cutting deeper. "You say you don't believe in ghosts, but she haunts you."
He took a step back. "You don't know a damn thing about it."
She reached out, put a hand on his chest--as if she cared, as if she had some idea what she was doing to him. "I know you loved her. I know you wanted to marry her. I know you were happy with her and that her death hurt you horribly."
She doesn't know anything, Rossiter. She doesn't understand.