Kye snorted. “What a guy. After three months of silence you get music from a dickhead. So what? You’re going to sit on your hands some more and wait until if and when he condescends to get in touch again?”
“You sound like he ghosted you, instead of me.”
That brought him up short. “He let you stew for months, Yard. You were worried enough to contact the feds. Does your precious doctor know or even care about that? Or is he so wrapped up in his world, whatever it is, that he just fits you in when he can?”
“Don’t say things like that. You don’t know him.”
“He’s no paragon, Yard. I’ve bailed on women before. I’m not proud of it but I know that when a man doesn’t make it his business to stay in touch, it means he’s not attached in any serious way. He saw you as a target of opportunity.”
The angrier he got, the calmer she became. “Dr. Gunnar is nothing like you. He’s a serious man. He’s a professional who doesn’t play it safe. Unlike you, who spends his time guarding holiday vacationers from avalanches that never happen. Running around playing ski bum. Probably hitting on girls young enough to be your daughter.” She saw him flinch and kept throwing verbal jabs. “David save lives every day in scary places. He’s smart and educated and passionate and committed. He’s everything—”
“—but here. He’s not here. I am. You’re with me.”
He kissed her, hot and deep, not waiting to see if this was what she wanted, but knowing instantly it was what they both needed.
Yardley didn’t think of resistance. The heat licking through her was still too strong, the memories of half-light lovemaking too new and fresh to resist the wonder of losing herself in the embrace of his lips.
His kiss was so needful all she could do was hang on and ride. And he took her everywhere, the stroke of his tongue on hers as persuasive as the sexual tension of his body, braced for action but not actually touching hers. She locked her own body into a rigid posture, fighting with everything she had not to give in to the so-easy need to melt into him, fit her body to the harder contours of his. But letting nature take its course would completely derail any self-respect she had left.
Think of David. Think of— Think.
When he lifted his head, Kye looked as hot and confused and needy as she felt. But a whole lot more certain about what exactly he wanted, and how to get it.
He brushed a finger across her mouth. “Your head and heart aren’t saying the same things.”
She curled fingers into his hair though she had no idea when she’d snaked her arms about his neck. “You mean my head and my body.”
He shook his head, looking more serious than ever. “Your body, like mine, isn’t to be considered trustworthy. It’s about your heart. Because when I tune your words out, Yard, what your eyes say isn’t even close to the trash talk.”
She slid her arms from his neck. She wasn’t going back to bed with him. No matter how much she ached to do so. And she ached.
“You don’t know me that well.”
“I’m trying.”
He rubbed a hand down his face. “I know some of what’s made you so tough. But surviving has changed you. And not all for the better. You’d make a great drill sergeant. But you know shit-all about being a woman.” He saw the stricken look on her face. And it stunned him. “Look, I didn’t mean it like—”
“No. You meant it.” She backed up a step, forcing herself not to bolt. “And that’s okay. We’re done.” She turned and walked away.
Kye let her go because what he was thinking was insane. What was trembling on his tongue was the admission that he liked her just the way she was. Thought she was the sexiest, most female woman he’d ever set eyes on. Tough made her better. The challenge to get her coal-black eyes to smolder with sexual surrender called to everything male in him. Gave him a rush of primitive satisfaction. He liked her as much as he had the first time.
Hell. If he was being honest with himself, he liked her more now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Agent Jackson stared at his breakfast on the desk of his D.C. office. It was a ham sandwich from the night before. It was cold. It was thin. It was—no other word for it—sad. A stingy smear of mustard formed an adhesive that after refrigeration tore the center out of the piece of white bread he lifted to inspect the sandwich’s insides. No lettuce. No tomato. No fresh cranberry relish. Worst of all, no crackling bits that made a fresh ham sandwich worth eating.
Jackson’s assistant poked his head through his boss’s doorway. “Sir, we’ve had contact with Dr. Gunnar.”
Jackson dropped the sandwich, forgotten before it hit the foil it had come wrapped in. “Where?”
“He called the U.S. marshal’s office in Phoenix. They’re on line two.”
Jackson wiped his hands and picked up the phone. “Tell me everything.”
“Dr. Gunnar called just after five a.m. local time and identified himself.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“He gave us his safe word.”