* * *
CHEROKEE STRANGER
Sheri Whitefeather
~Silhouette Desire #1563~
* * *
* * *
Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Epilogue
* * *
* * *
Chapter 1
^»
As the mellow tune echoed through the jukebox's hollow speakers, the tall, dark stranger made another selection.
Emily Chapman scooted to the edge of her seat. Everything about the stranger fascinated her, even his taste in music. So far, he'd chosen love songs, tragic ballads steeped in emotion, lyrics that defied his hard-edged stance.
He turned away from the jukebox, and she watched him through curious eyes.
Was he a ball-busting country boy or a street-smart city dweller? She couldn't quite tell. Either way, he carried himself with a wary, don't-mess-with-me gait.
He wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket. His medium-length hair fell across his forehead in a rebellious black line, nearly shielding his eyes. His face; shadowed by the dim light, proved strong and angular.
Ignoring the other patrons, the small scatter of people in the bar, he proceeded to his table, where he'd left a bottle of domestic beer. Next he slouched in his seat, kicked his booted feet onto the rail of an empty chair and lifted his drink, taking a long, hard swallow.
"Here you go." The waitress brought Emily's wine, blocking her view, shutting out the intriguing stranger.
Caught off guard, she shifted her attention to the other woman, a middle-aged, kiss-my-grits redhead whose nametag identified her as Meg. "Thank you."
"You're welcome, hon." Meg motioned to the door that led to the kitchen. "But your appetizer isn't ready yet. It'll be a few more minutes."
"That's fine." Emily wasn't particularly hungry, but she'd ordered stuffed mushrooms, hoping to give herself something to do. She'd never been to a bar by herself, let alone a dusky little lounge connected to a midpriced motel.
Of course, it certainly beat holing up in her room, worrying herself into the ground.
As the waitress departed, Emily glanced at the stranger again. But when he turned in her direction, time stopped, the earth freezing on its axis.
Their gazes met and held, like magnets to metal.
Spellbound, neither blinked. Neither broke the bond. They simply stared at each other from across the room.
Emily's mouth went dry. Within an instant, within one heart-palpitating moment, he'd left her breathless.
He wasn't flirting, she thought. It was more than that. Much more. He watched her with masculine recognition, as if he knew what it was like to touch her, to hold her, to run his hands over every inch of her body.
Dear God.
Determined to regain her composure, to sever the nerve-jangling tie, she lifted her wine and took a small sip, but her fingers quaked around the glass.
What would he think if he knew she had cancer? Would he still be looking at her with longing in his eyes?
Don't dwell on that, her subconscious warned. No self-pity. No fear. She wasn't dying. Sooner or later, the cancer would be gone.
And so would a portion of her skin.
The song on the jukebox ended and another began. This time, an early Elvis tune played havoc with her emotions. Another favored melody, she thought. Another connection to the mysterious stranger.
Did he live in this area? Or had he come to Lewiston to see family members? To meet up with an old friend?
Emily had come here for an appointment at a medical center located ninety minutes from home. She could have made the trip in one day, but she'd decided to stay the night, to reflect, to spend some time alone.
In exactly two weeks, she was scheduled for a wide excision, a surgery that would cut away the cancer. At this point, two weeks seemed like an eternity, but her condition, the melanoma, wouldn't progress in fourteen days. It wasn't an unreasonable amount of time, not between insurance authorizations and the surgeon's availability.
Emily took a deep breath. She'd promised herself that she wouldn't panic about going under the knife, that she wouldn't worry if the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes.
When the appetizer arrived, Meg hovered for a moment, her teased-and-sprayed hairdo bobbing as she moved her head.
"Gorgeous, isn't he?" she said.
"Yes." Emily knew the man continued to watch her. She could feel the heat of his gaze.
"Why don't you buy him a drink?"
"What?" She stared at the brazen redhead.
The waitress cocked her hip. "A beer, darlin'. He's about due for another."
"This probably isn't the best time for me to—" She paused, realizing what she was about to admit. How inadequate she felt, how disjointed.
"That's okay. It was just a suggestion" Meg gave her a friendly smile and retreated, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts.
Should she buy him a drink? Her? The small-town girl diagnosed with skin cancer?
As he finished the last of his beer, Emily lifted her fork, skewered a mushroom and sucked it into her mouth. He pushed his hair away from his forehead, exposing a widow's peak and slashing black brows.
Her entire body went woozy and warm.
To hell with the cancer. She was going to meet this man. Say something to him.
With as much courage as she could muster, she rose, determined to approach his table. As she crossed the room, she spotted Meg leaning against a barstool. She gazed at the other woman, hoping for a boost of encouragement.
The waitress flashed a sly wink.
By the time Emily reached him, her pulse thudded in her ears. He came to his feet, and she realized how tall he actually was. He towered over her by nearly a foot.
She extended a clammy palm. "My name is Emily."
He took her hand, much too easily.
"I'm James." His gaze roamed her body, up and down, over the ruffled silk blouse she'd ordered from a fancy catalog to the simple, five-pocket jeans she'd acquired at a discount store. "Dalton," he added, his voice tinged with an unrecognizable accent. "James Dalton."
Doing her darnedest to breathe, to keep a steady flow of oxygen filtering in and out of her lungs, she motioned to her table. "Would you care to join me?"
He didn't respond. Instead he reached behind her and undid the gold barrette that secured her ponytail.
Spellbound, Emily merely stood, her long, wavy hair spilling over her shoulders. She knew Meg was watching, equally bewitched by James's bold behavior.
He hooked the ornament onto his jacket pocket as if he meant to keep it. "I like the color of your hair," he said. "It reminds me of…"
Her heart leaped for her throat. "Of what?"
"Someone I used to know."
His expression turned dark, and she realized he'd yet to smile. The eyes that had been studying her seemed haunted, and his golden brown skin wore a shadow of beard stubble.
But he was still beautiful, even more enchanting up close. A jagged scar interrupted the pattern of his right eyebrow, and a slight cleft indented his chin. His cheekbones, she noticed, slashed like twin blades, balancing an Anglo versus Indian heritage. Was he from the Nez Perce reservation? Was that the reason he was in Lewiston?
He moved closer, and a shiver streaked up her spine. How would it feel to immortalize him? she wondered. To create his image on canvas?
Emily made her living waiting tables at her hometown diner, filling coffee cups and chatting with people she'd known all her life, but she dabbled in art, selling her work at weekend craft fairs. She wasn't aspiring to be more than she was. She simply enjoyed having a hobby, painting faces that fascinated her.
"Dance with me," he said.
She blinked, felt his fingers slide through her hair. "There's no dance floor."
"But there's music."
Yes, she thought. Music he'd chosen. "Meg said I should buy you a drink."
He combed through the strands, separating each wave. "Meg?"
"The waitress." Did he know he was seducing her? He must be part wizard, part warrior, part wolf – the hero of a magic tale.
"Dance with me," he said again.
She should have told him no. She should have walked away. Because somewhere deep down, she knew where this was leading. When the evening ended, James Dalton would ask for more than a dance. He no doubt wanted a warm, willing blonde to share his bed, a one-night stand, a moonlit affair to satisfy his needs.
But even so, she allowed him to take her hand, to guide her to a cozy little spot near the jukebox.
Emily had needs, too. Needs that had remained dormant for much too long. She deserved to feel whole, to see desire on a man's face, to know that he wanted her.
Especially now.
She didn't want to think about her responsibilities, even though her mind drifted to her six-year-old brother Corey, to the little boy she'd left with an overnight baby-sitter.
She'd called Corey earlier, and he'd chattered gleefully on the phone. But he didn't know that his sister was—
"Emily." James said her name, and she looked up, relinquishing her thoughts, giving him her undivided attention.
He took her into his arms, and she clung to his shoulders. Such strong shoulders, she thought. So broad. So capable.
Emily and her partner swayed to the music, moving to a slow, rhythmic song. His heart pounded against hers, the sound melding into one dizzying chant.
"They're watching us," she said. Meg, the bartender, the other patrons in the bar. She knew they were observing every fluid motion, every satin-draped pulse.
He lowered his head to nuzzle, to brush her cheek with his. His beard stubble abraded her skin, marking her with his touch.
"Can you blame them?" he asked.
"No." She couldn't blame their audience. Nor could she blame herself. Heaven help her, but James Dalton was impossible to resist.
When he cupped her face to kiss her, she leaned into him. He didn't invade her with his tongue. Covering her mouth, he sipped gently, offering a persuasive promise of what was yet to come.
He tasted of warmth, of beer, of secret liaisons, of a night she would never forget.
The kiss ended, and they stepped back to look at each other. His eyes were still haunted, still ghostly somehow, and she wondered how a tortured soul could be so beautiful.
He reached for her hair again, taking possession, confusing her even more.
Emily prided herself on being a good girl. She valued right from wrong, yet here she was, prepared to sleep with a stranger, hoping, praying that he would lead her astray.
They were an unholy combination, she thought. She reminded him of someone from his past, and he was like no one she'd ever met before.
No one at all.
*
James rubbed Emily's cheek with his thumb, soothing the abrasion he'd left on her skin. She was so pretty, he thought. So soft. So dangerous.
When she wet her lips, he kissed her again, only this time he used his tongue, his teeth, his entire mouth to devour her.
Greedy, hungry, desperate for more, he dragged her against his body. Her breath rushed into his, warm and silky, like the wind on a summer night. He closed his eyes, absorbing her texture, her scent, the thickness of her hair wrapped around his hands.
He'd promised himself that he wouldn't do this. That he wouldn't stalk the local bars for sex. Yet he'd done it. He'd found a soft, sweet blonde on his first night in Idaho, the first night he was free. From prison. From the equally sequestered weeks that followed.
She made a throaty sound, and he realized he didn't even know her last name. But somehow that didn't matter. In his mind, she could be Beverly.
His lover. His friend. His wife.
*
James opened his eyes and broke the kiss. Emily stepped back and gulped some air. She looked ravished, and much too willing to be taken again.
"I'm not seducing you," he said.
She smoothed her hair, calming the strands he'd tousled. "You're not?"
"No. It's you who's seducing me. And you're good at it." Damn good. He would make love to her here, right now, in a dark corner of the bar if he thought he could get away with it.
"You're teasing me, right?"
No, he wasn't joking, not in the least. From the instant, the very moment he'd laid eyes on Emily, he'd thought about his wife. How much he'd loved her, how much he missed her.
"Are you still interested in buying me a drink?" he asked, giving her the opportunity to change her mind, to walk away from this twisted game.
She wasn't Beverly. And he wasn't James Dalton, even if that was the identity the government had given him. His real name was Reed Blackwood, and he was an ex-con, a former mobster, an accessory to murder and a thief.
But those were his secrets. The burden of his sins.
"Yes," she said.
"Yes?" he parroted.
"I'm still interested in buying you a drink."
They proceeded to Emily's table, where he ordered a beer. The waitress didn't say anything about the sexy scene he'd caused, but she managed to slant him a Sister Mary Redhead look. Suddenly the brassy server was behaving like a nun.
James blew out a rough breath. Should he defend himself? Or would vouching for his own rotten character only earn him another spot in hell?
He turned to Emily. "She's worried about you."
"Who?"
"The waitress."
She lifted her wine, took a small sip. The glass was still half-full. "But she encouraged me to meet you."
"I know. But she's having second thoughts." He kept his hands still even if his pulse wasn't quite steady. "I guess she hadn't expected me to be so … aggressive." To paw Emily in public, to jam his tongue down her throat and swallow her saliva. A sex-and-sugar flavor, he thought. A sweetness men craved.
Emily gazed at him with emerald-colored eyes. Beverly's eyes had been green, too, as clear as the jewels he used to steal.
James shifted in his chair. Did she know how tempting she was?
She chewed her lip, peeling away the pale pink color, the barely-there gloss. With her heart-shaped face, fair complexion and long, sweeping lashes, she looked innocent, much too delicate to be messing around with someone like him.
"I won't hurt you," he heard himself say.
She moved closer. "I won't hurt you, either."
"Really?" Touched by her tenderness, he almost smiled. "You mean you're not a wacko? A female serial killer who preys on gullible guys in bars?"
She laughed, and the light, natural sound made him yearn for his wife. Unable to help himself, he grazed Emily's cheek, wishing he could kiss her again.
The redhead brought his beer. Guilty, he dropped his hand and let Emily pay for his drink.
"The next round is on me," he said.
The next round came an hour later, and by that time the lounge was empty. James and Emily were the only customers left.
Stumbling through a conversation, they talked about movies and music and things that hardly mattered. He'd been tempted to ask her to dance again, but decided that remaining at the table, pretending to get to know her, would make their upcoming union seem a bit more proper.
"Are you staying at the motel?" Emily asked.
"Yes. Are you?"
She nodded. "I have a room upstairs."
He wondered whose bed they would make love in. Hers, he hoped. He didn't want to alert the man in the room next to him that he'd picked up a woman in the bar. The WITSEC inspector had warned him, albeit jokingly, to stay out of trouble for at least one night.
Then, again, he wasn't breaking any rules. The Witness Security Program didn't stop their members from engaging in co
nsensual sex.
James pulled on his beer. Emily would agree to sleep with him, wouldn't she?
Of course she would. She wasn't as innocent as she looked.
"When are you leaving?" she asked.
He set the bottle down. "Tomorrow."
"Me, too." She finished her second glass of wine. "Are you going home from here?"
He tried not to frown. Home? He hadn't had a home in ages. He'd spent a year and a half on the run from Beverly's crime lord father, the following year in a secured unit of a federal prison, testifying against the mob and serving time for his involvement in a hit that still haunted him. From there he'd spent two weeks at a safe-site orientation center, being briefed about his new identity and his relocation to Idaho.
"James?" Emily pressed.
"What? Oh, yeah. I'm going home. First thing in the morning." To a place he'd never been.
"So am I."
He didn't ask where she lived. He didn't want to know. James Dalton wasn't comfortable with small talk. And neither was Reed Blackwood. Both men had plenty to hide.
"Where are you from?" she asked before he could change the subject.
He offered up a lie, relying on the background WITSEC had created for him. "I was born in Oklahoma, but I moved a lot." Refusing to let the conversation go any further, he indicated the redhead, who thumbed through her receipts, then the bartender, who appeared to be stocking his station. "Looks like they're getting ready to close. We better head out."
James left a tip and escorted Emily to the door. He could feel the waitress watching them. He wanted to tell her that he would be good to Emily, that she was his salvation, the companion he needed for one lost lonely night, but he couldn't say something like that out loud. So he glanced over his shoulder and caught the redhead's eye, letting her know he was aware of her concern.
Outside, the night air sent a cool breeze blowing. James slipped his arm around Emily. They walked in the direction of the motel, then stopped beneath a stairwell.
"Well?" he said.
"Well?" she repeated, gazing up at him, her hair tumbling around her face.
CHEROKEE STRANGER Page 1
