by Diana Palmer
She slid her arms around his neck, blind to the possibility of passersby. They were in a secluded area of the parking lot and it was deserted. It wouldn’t have mattered if it hadn’t been. She was on fire for him.
He groaned into her open mouth and his tongue darted in past her teeth. His big hands slid up her rib cage to the firm, soft thrust of her breasts and he took their delicate weight into his palms, his thumbs rubbing tenderly at the nipples until they went hard.
She shivered.
He lifted his head and looked straight into her dazed, misty eyes. His own were blazing with hunger. His hands contracted and he saw her pupils dilate even as she shivered again with pleasure.
“If you were older,” he bit off.
“It wouldn’t matter, because you’re too attracted to me,” she whispered, tightening her arms around his neck. “You’d run like a scalded dog before you’d take me to bed, Jeremiah,” she murmured shakily. “Because you’d be addicted overnight.”
“So would you,” he replied curtly, angered by her perception. The sound of his given name on her lips was strangely intimate, like the way he was holding her.
“I know,” she said huskily. She tugged his head back down and kissed him with all the pent-up longing of a whole year, enjoying the way he kissed her back, roughly and hungrily, with no restraint.
But all too soon, he caught her upper arms and pulled them down. His head lifted and the look in his eyes was suddenly remote.
“I have more personal problems than I can handle right now,” he said, his tone deep and slow. “I can’t manage you as well.”
“You want to,” she said daringly.
His eyes flashed. “Yes,” he said after a minute. “I want to.”
The admission changed her. She smiled, dazed.
“But I have to deal with the issues at hand, first,” he replied. He drew in a steadying breath and looked down at her soft mouth with real longing. He traced it with a long forefinger. “By Christmas, perhaps, things will resolve themselves. Do you spend it with Derrie, in Charleston?”
“Yes,” she replied, beaming, because he wasn’t saying goodbye forever.
“Think about the job opportunity I mentioned, will you? I’ll get some more details and mail them to you. What’s your address?”
Diverted, she fished for her purse and extracted a notepad and pen. She scribbled down Aunt Derrie’s address in Washington, D.C., where she lived working for Senator Seymour—except on holidays—and her Charleston address. “I guess I’ll stay at Aunt Derrie’s place in Charleston for a while, until I know what I’m going to be doing.”
“The job I’m recommending you for pays really well,” he said, smiling. “And I’d see you often, because I spend a lot of time doing pro bono work in the area of their offices.”
Her eyes were bright with hope. “What an incentive.”
He laughed softly. “I was thinking the same thing.” He hesitated, watching her. “I’m not good with people,” he said then. “Relationships are hard for me. Even surface ones. You’re demanding.”
“So are you,” she said simply.
He grimaced. “I suppose I am.”
“I’m not pushing you. I’m not even asking for anything,” she said quietly.
He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “I know that.”
She searched his dark eyes. “I knew you, the first time I saw you. I don’t understand how.”
“Sometimes, it’s better not to try,” he replied. “And I really do have to go.” He bent and kissed her with breathless tenderness, teasing her mouth with his until she lifted up to him. She moaned softly and tugged at his strong neck. He bent, crushing her against his chest with a harsh groan. She felt her whole body throbbing as the kiss went on and on until her mouth was swollen and her heart raced like a wild thing. He lifted his head reluctantly. But then he let her go abruptly and drew back.
He looked as unsettled as she felt. “We’ve got things in common already. We’ll probably find more. At least you aren’t totally ignorant of indigenous customs and rituals.”
She smiled gently. “I studied hard.”
He sighed. “Okay. We’ll see what happens. I’ll write you when I get back to D.C. Don’t expect long letters. I don’t have the time.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
He touched her chin with his thumb. “You were right about one thing,” he said unexpectedly.
“What?”
“You said that if I missed your graduation I’d regret it for the rest of my life,” he recalled, smiling. “I would have.”
Her fingers slid over his long mouth, tingling at the touch. “Me, too,” she agreed, with her heart in her eyes as they met his.
He bent and kissed her one last time before he reached across her and opened the door. “I’ll write.”
She got out, nodding at him. “So will I.” She closed the door and stared down into the car. “I hope things work out for you at home,” she added.
“They will, one way or the other,” he replied. He studied her with turbulent eyes and an uncanny sense of catastrophe ahead. His father and uncles and the medicine men who were his ancestors would have found that perception a blessing. To him, it was a nuisance.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, because the look on his face was eloquent.
He shifted. “Nothing,” he lied, trying to ignore the feeling. “I was just thinking. You take care, Phoebe.”
“You do the same. I enjoyed my graduation.”
He smiled. “I enjoyed it, too. This isn’t goodbye,” he added when she looked devastated.
“I know.” She felt uneasy, though, and she couldn’t understand why. He gave her one last look. His eyes were dark and shadowed and full of misgiving. Before she could ask why he looked that way, he rolled the window up.
He waved, and pulled out of the parking space. She watched him until he was out of sight. Her mouth still tingled from the press of his lips, and her body was aching with new sensations. With a sense of excitement and wonder, she turned and went slowly back into the hotel. The future looked rosy and bright.
CHAPTER TWO
Three years later
THE SMALL NATIVE AMERICAN museum in Chenocetah, North Carolina, was crowded for a Saturday. Phoebe smiled at a group of children as they passed her in the hall. Two of them jostled each other and the teacher called them down, with an apologetic smile at Phoebe.
“Don’t worry,” Phoebe whispered to the teacher. “There’s nothing breakable that isn’t behind glass or a velvet rope!”
The teacher chuckled and walked on.
Phoebe glanced at the board that translated Cherokee words into English. It wasn’t exact, but it was an improvement on the board that had hung there previously. The museum had been so ragged and unappealing that the county was thinking of shutting it down. But Phoebe had taken on the job of curator, and she’d put new life into the project. At the top of the board was the name of the town, Chenocetah, and its Cherokee translation: “See all around.” You really could, she thought, considering the tall, stately mountains that ringed the small town.
Phoebe had completed her master’s degree in anthropology by doing distance education and spending the required few weeks on campus during the summer in order to graduate. She was given the curator’s job in the Chenocetah Museum on the poviso that she was to obtain her master’s in the meantime.
Here, only a few minutes away from Cherokee, North Carolina, land was at a premium. The Yonah Indian Reservation, a small stronghold of native people, reached almost to the city limits sign of Chenocetah. On the outskirts of the small mountain town that boasted more hotels per square inch than Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, three construction companies were racing to put up several hotel complexes. One of the conglomerates was erecting up a Las Vegas-type theme hotel complex. The other two were luxurious tourist resorts with wildlife trails included in the design. They had the added attraction of being located with their backs to a mountain h
oneycombed with caves, a sure draw for spelunkers.
Two members of the city council had protested violently at the ecological impact of the mammoth projects, but the other three and the mayor had voted them down. The water rates alone would fill the city coffers, not to mention the tourists they would draw into the already tourist-oriented area.
Phoebe, like the two protesting councilmen, was thinking of the cost of enlarging the sewage system and water delivery system to accommodate the added demands of the huge hotels. They were going up close enough to the Chenocetah Cherokee Museum that they would probably impact the water pressure in the museum, already less than she liked with so many visitors. Another problem was going to be the headache of traffic snarls that would accompany the increased traffic near the small town’s city limits at one of the county’s worst intersections. One of the sheriff’s deputies who flirted with her regularly had mentioned that consequence. She didn’t flirt back. Phoebe had a grudge against anyone with a badge these days.
“You frown too much,” her colleague, Marie Locklear murmured dryly as she approached her. Marie was half Cherokee and a graduate of Duke University. She was the museum’s comptroller, and a precious asset.
“I smile when I’m alone,” Phoebe confessed. “I wouldn’t want to upset the staff.”
“My cousin Drake Stewart’s coming by at lunch, again,” she said, naming the deputy sheriff who patrolled the area. “I asked him to bring us a couple of those spicy chicken salads from the new fast-food joint.” Marie added, “He’s sweet on you.”
Phoebe winced. “I’m off men.”
“Drake’s thirty and drop-dead gorgeous,” Marie reminded her. “He’s got just enough Cherokee blood to make him sexy,” she added. “If he wasn’t my first cousin, I’d marry him myself!”
“He’s also a deputy sheriff.”
“That’s right. I forgot. You’re down on lawmen.”
Phoebe went into her office, with Marie right behind. “I’m down on men, period,” she replied.
“Why?”
Phoebe ignored the question. Dragging up the past was just too painful.
“Can we afford to fix that hole in the parking lot?” Phoebe asked. “We’re getting complaints.”
“If we forego fixing the roof, we can,” Marie said demurely.
“Not another leak!” Phoebe groaned. “Where is it?”
“In the men’s bathroom,” Marie replied. “There’s a puddle in front of the sinks.”
Phoebe sat down at her desk and put her head in her hands. “And it’s November already. We’ll have snow and sleet soon and the roof will just collapse under the weight. Why did I take this job? Why?”
“Because nobody else wanted it?”
Phoebe actually chuckled. Marie was incorrigible. She grinned at the younger woman. “No, actually because nobody else wanted me,” she corrected.
“I can’t believe that. You graduated in the top one percent of your class, and you did a great job with your master’s degree, which you completed in record time,” Marie recalled. “I read your curriculum vitae,” she added when Phoebe looked surprised.
“Credentials aren’t everything,” Phoebe replied.
“Yes, but your area of expertise is forensic anthropology,” came the reply. “There must be a lot of jobs going in that area, because it’s so specialized.”
“There were none when I needed one,” she said quietly, pulling a file toward her. “I wanted to get away from my family, from everything. This is an area where I didn’t know anyone, and where I wasn’t likely to run into…” She was going to say Cortez, but she bit her tongue. Marie perched her ample figure on the edge of the desk, pushing back her long, thick straight hair. “I know you don’t talk about it,” she said, “but I think you’re better now, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Yes. I think I’m over it.”
“You will be when you rush out to Drake’s car and kiss him blind and beg him to take you on a date,” Marie said with a wicked grin.
Phoebe glared at her. “From what you’ve already told me, Drake’s got a girl on every street corner,” she said. “He loves women, all shapes and sizes and ages, and they love him. I don’t want an overused man.”
Marie’s eyes popped.
Phoebe realized what she’d said and burst out laughing. “Well, hypothetically speaking,” she murmured, flushing. “And don’t you dare tell Drake I said that!”
Marie touched her ample bosom. “Would I do that?”
“In a heartbeat,” Phoebe agreed. “Get to work. Find me a way to budget roof repair and pothole repair into our fiscal year.”
“We could go over to the Yonah Reservation and talk to Fred Fourkiller,” she replied. “He can make medicine. Maybe he can influence the board of directors to give us a bigger budget!” Medicine reminded her of Cortez, who was descended from a long line of medicine men. Involuntarily her hand rested on her middle desk drawer. She jerked it back.
“We may have to try that if all else fails,” Phoebe said, turning on her computer. “I’d better get my paperwork done before the school crowd arrives,” she added. “We have another busload at eleven, from the middle school.” She glanced at Marie wistfully. “When I first came here, we were lucky to get two tourists a month. Now it’s busloads of kids every week.”
“A lot of people around here have Cherokee blood, because we’re so close to the reservation,” Marie reminded her with a smile. “They want to learn about their heritage, so history classes like to come here.”
“It’s nice revenue, like all those regional books on local history that we sell in the souvenir shop,” Phoebe had to admit. “I only wish we had a patron.”
“It’s early days yet,” Marie said with a smile. “I’ll get to work.”
She went out, closing the door behind her. Phoebe’s one assistant on staff, Harriett White, was taking the classes through the exhibits. Harriett was widowed, and in her fifties. She’d once been a professor of history at Duke University, but she didn’t want to go back to a full-time job. She’d applied at the museum without any real expectation of acceptance, and Phoebe had phoned her the minute she read the application. At first, she couldn’t understand why someone with Harriett’s credentials would be applying for an assistant’s job, but she learned that Harriett wanted a less demanding position that enabled her to continue in the field she loved. The woman turned out to be a hard worker and much appreciated.
PHOEBE HESITATED for a minute before she opened her middle drawer and took out a small prayer wheel dangling a feather—not an eagle feather, or she’d have been in trouble. It was an odd little gift. Cortez had mailed it to her the week after her graduation. It was one of only two letters she ever had from him. It contained this prayer wheel, wrapped in rawhide, with the feather attached and a blade of sweetgrass woven into the center. Cortez had said that his father wanted her to have it, and to keep it close. She wasn’t superstitious, but it was something of his family…and precious. She was never far away from it.
Next to it was another letter, very thin, with her name and address scrawled in the same hand that had addressed the letter with the prayer wheel. She touched it as if it were a poisonous snake, even after three years. Gritting her teeth, she made herself take out the small newspaper clipping it contained—nothing else had been in the envelope—and look at it. It reminded her not to get sentimental about Cortez.
She read nothing except the small headline—Jeremiah Cortez Weds Mary Baker. There was no photo of the happy couple, just their names and the date of the wedding. Phoebe never forgot that. It was three weeks to the day from her graduation from college.
She tucked the clipping back into the envelope, pushing back the anguish of the day she’d received it. She kept it beside the prayer wheel always, to remind her not to get too nostalgic about her brief romance. It kept her single. She never wanted to take a chance like that again. She’d thrown her heart away, for nothing. She would never understand why Cortez had gi
ven her hope of a shared future and then sent her nothing more than a cold clipping about his marriage. No note, no apology, no explanation. Nothing.
She would have written to him, if for no other reason than to ask why he hadn’t told her he was engaged. But there was no return address on the second letter. Worse, the letter she’d written to him at the first letter’s address was returned to her, unopened, as unforwardable. She was shattered. Utterly shattered. Her sunny, optimistic personality had gone into eclipse after that. Nobody who’d known her even three years ago would recognize her. She’d cut her hair, adopted a businesslike personality and dressed like a matron. She looked like the curator of a museum. Which was what she was. Sometimes she could go a whole day without even thinking about Jeremiah Cortez. Today wasn’t one of them.
She shoved the envelope to the back of the drawer and closed it firmly. She had a good job and a secure future. She kept a dog at home for protection in the small cabin where she lived. She didn’t date anyone. She had no social life, except when she was invited to various political functions to ask for funding for the small museum. Sadly, the politicians who came to the gatherings had little money to offer, despite the state of the economy. Probably it was that her small museum didn’t have enough political clout to offer in respect to the funding it needed. They got some through private donations, but most of their patrons weren’t wealthy. It was a hand-to-mouth existence.
Phoebe sat back, looking around the office which was as bare of personal effects as her little house. She didn’t collect things anymore. There was a mandala on the wall that one of the Bird Clan of the Cherokee people had made for her, and a blowgun that a sixth-grader’s father had made. She smiled, looking at it. People were always surprised when they were told that the Cherokee people had used blowguns in the past to hunt with. Usually they were more surprised to find that Cherokee people lived in houses and didn’t wear warbonnets and loincloths and paint, unless they were portraying the historical Trail of Tears in the annual pageant, “Unto These Hills,” on the not-too-distant Quallah Indian Reservation near Cherokee, North Carolina. People had some strange ideas about Native Americans.
