CHEROKEE MARRIAGE DARE

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Aren't the files encoded?" she asked. "How can they sell encrypted CDs?"

  "The encryption can be broken. Not easily, but it can be done. The Kellys tried to get the encryption program from the Connelly Corporation computer system, but they failed."

  "Does the Chicago P.D. know about the cancer virus? Didn't Rafe have to tell them when they arrested the Kellys?"

  "No," Luke responded. "He didn't have to tell them. He led the police to believe the Kellys stole valuable data relating to the Institute's purpose – a cure for cancer. The fewer people who know the truth, the better. We don't need an international scandal on our hands."

  Maggie nodded, then studied Luke's profile. He sat beside her in his home office, tapping away on a laptop.

  "Why don't you send some undercover agents to Altaria?" she suggested. "There must be someone you can trust to keep an eye on things over there."

  "I've already done that. I've got some former military men on it. Guys I served with. I planted someone at the castle and at the Rosemere Institute. And I've got another man watching the textile mill."

  Maggie thought about the CD that had been accidentally forwarded to her. If the syndicate had discovered their error, her life would have been threatened. She understood how dangerous this case was, and she appreciated Luke for his skill and dedication. "Sounds like you've got everything under control."

  "I'm trying to stay one step ahead of the game." He rolled his shoulders and nearly bumped her arm. The desk they shared was barely big enough for two. "But unfortunately the men I sent to Altaria haven't uncovered any leads."

  He stopped typing and turned to look at her. His face was close enough to see the detail of his skin, the faded scar near his left eyebrow, the slight shadow of beard stubble. She was tempted to touch him, to run her fingers over those stunning cheekbones. As an artist, she was fascinated by his features. As a woman, she couldn't help but admire his rugged appeal.

  "I need to tell you something about Prince Marc," he said.

  Instantly Maggie braced herself. There was always something to be said about her uncle. Prince Marc had been a charming, dashing playboy. Considered one of Europe's most eligible bachelors, he'd juggled lovers the way he'd juggled his finances. He'd also fathered a daughter out of wedlock, but unfortunately hadn't proved to be much of a parent.

  Nonetheless, Maggie had loved him. He was still her blood.

  "Prince Marc had an association with the Kellys," Luke announced

  For a moment she only stared. Her uncle, the free-spirited prince, had been involved in organized crime? A man the media often compared her to?

  Her stomach knotted. "In what capacity?"

  "He owed the Kellys money. His gambling debts were eating him alive." Luke sighed. "We believe he was part of the smuggling scam, Maggie."

  "That can't be." She jumped to her feet, paced a little. "He was murdered in the same speedboat accident as the king. They were together."

  "Think about it. Prince Marc hadn't originally planned on being on the boat that day. He'd gone with his father at the last minute. Therefore, he wasn't the intended hit."

  She stopped pacing. "So what's your theory?"

  "Prince Marc needed to get out from under his gambling debts, so he formed an alliance with the Kellys. In fact, I think they killed King Thomas because they wanted Marc, a man they could easily manipulate, to take the throne."

  "But they accidentally killed Marc instead." Which meant that her uncle hadn't known that the Kellys meant to murder the king. But someone at the castle did. Someone who had kept the Kellys informed of the king's whereabouts, someone who had sent a hit man to the dock to tamper with the boat.

  She blinked, fighting tears she wouldn't dare cry in front of Luke. King Thomas had been her salvation, the only person in the world who truly understood her, who knew how diligently she struggled to earn her family's respect.

  Frivolous Maggie. The temperamental artist. The spoiled Connelly baby. No one seemed to care that she was earning a double major in business and art.

  Damn it, she thought, missing the king's keep-your-chin-up encouragement.

  She worked as hard as she played. Harder, she decided, staring at the stack of paperwork on Luke's desk. She'd studied for finals in the midst of all this. And now she had to contend with images of her traitorous uncle.

  Weary, she shifted her gaze to Luke. He rubbed his temples and went back to the laptop. She could see the strain on his face, the headache forming beneath his brow. He worked hard, too. Only he never gave himself a break. He never had any fun.

  Maggie gazed out the window, at the perfectly beautiful winter day, at the snow Luke had predicted. "Let's get out of here," she said. "Let's ditch these files and go build a snowman." With a big, carrot nose, she thought, and a smile made of twigs.

  He gave her an incredulous look. "I'm not going to waste valuable time goofing around. I've got a schedule to keep." Not easily deterred, she moved away from the window and devised a brilliant plan. One way or another, she and Luke were going to play in the snow. "How about lunch? You have to eat, don't you?"

  He shrugged. "I suppose."

  "Then let's go out for lunch."

  He agreed, albeit reluctantly, to take an hour off for a meal. Precisely one hour, he stipulated, sounding like the ex-military man that he was.

  Maggie buttoned her coat and slipped on a pair of kidskin gloves. Luke reached for a leather jacket, then pulled a hand through his hair, smoothing a few stray locks into place.

  Dressed for the weather, they exited the house, and he locked the door behind them. As he turned and strode toward his SUV, Maggie knelt to the ground. And then, as quickly as her hands would allow, she formed a snowball.

  Rising, she took aim and heaved it. The snowball sailed through the air and hit Luke in the back, dissolving into a white burst as it made the connection.

  He spun around, and Maggie swallowed her triumphant smile.

  The first thing out of his mouth was a curse. The second was a complaint.

  "Damn it. I dropped the keys." He kicked the fresh powder. "And now I've got to dig through this mess to find them."

  She offered to help, thinking he had to be the biggest grump on earth. The snow wasn't that deep. How far could the keys have gone?

  Luke put on his gloves, and they sifted through the powder, neither uttering a single word. Disgusted, Maggie turned her back and searched in another spot.

  And that was when a huge clump of snow fell right on top of her head.

  Stunned, she wiped away the moisture dripping onto her face. The sound of keys jangling caught her attention. She turned and saw Luke standing above her, a dastardly grin on his handsome face.

  "You've been had," he said, shoving the keys back into his pocket, where they had apparently been all along.

  "Oh, yeah?" Maggie wanted to hug him breathless, but instead she packed another snowball, making her intentions clear.

  Instantly he ducked for cover, choosing a battle station on the other side of the car.

  The war was on.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  Maggie peered around the tailgate, but saw neither hide nor hair of Luke. Her hide and her hair, on the other hand, were drenched. He'd outsmarted every maneuver she'd tried so far.

  Where was he? Under the vehicle? Wedged against a tire? She had an arsenal of snowballs ready to go, just waiting for him to show his sneaky face.

  Determined to win, she opted for another tactic. The damsel-in-distress ploy ought to work. A macho guy like Luke should fall for that. Her brothers usually did. Men, she thought with a feminine gleam in her eye, were natural-born suckers.

  "It's time to quit," she called out. "I'm freezing, and I want to go inside."

  She continued to peer around the SUV, armed with a carefully packed snowball. Testing the weight in her hand, she smiled. It was, in her estimation, a solid sphere of ice.

  "Luke!" she called out a
gain. "This isn't funny. I'm exhausted, and you have the keys to the house."

  "Nice try, princess," a deep voice said from behind her. She turned and saw Luke aiming a bucket of snow at her. Still clutching her ammunition, Maggie let out a girlish squeal and took off running.

  Bucket in hand, he chased her.

  They danced around a tree, back and forth, like foolhardy kids. There was no time to think, to stop and admire the husky sound of his laughter or the way his dark eyes crinkled when he smiled.

  She was having too much fun to analyze the moment. And so was he.

  Maggie tossed the snowball at him. It sailed past his shoulder and splattered against the tree. White flecks glistened against the bark, the edges icy and sharp.

  Luke moved toward her, slowly, teasing her with the bucket, giving her a chance to turn tail and run.

  Instead, she did something to catch him off guard. She charged him, full force, intending to knock the ammunition out of his hand.

  The bucket went flying, and so did she.

  When she tackled Luke, he lost his footing and took her down with him. Arms and legs tangling, they rolled, like snowmen toppling to the ground. Maggie's breath rushed out in gasping pants.

  He ended up on top, his weight sinking into hers, powdery flakes fluttering around them. He wiped the snow from her face, his gloved hand brushing gently.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Yes." She touched his face, too. Then ran her hands through his hair, combing the dampness away from his forehead.

  Their eyes met and held. Without speaking, they stared at each other, their emotions frozen in time.

  It could have been a dream, she thought. A fantasy drifting on the edge of reality. If she looked past him, she would see a rainbow, an arc of gems shooting across the December sky.

  He whispered her name, and the jewels grew brighter – diamonds, rubies, emeralds falling from the heavens.

  Maggie and Luke moved at the same time, in the same instant. She drew him closer, and he lowered his head.

  The wind whipped over them, and they kissed.

  Desperately.

  He sucked on her bottom lip, caught it with his teeth. The imaginary rainbow blurred her vision, sending sparks over every inch of her skin.

  Thrusting his tongue into her mouth, he clasped both of her hands in his, taking possession, staking his claim.

  Maggie wanted to possess him, too. To make Lucas Starwind hers. To take everything that he was and wrap him tightly around her heart. He tasted like heat and snow, like ice dripping over a long, dark, dangerous candle, the wick igniting into a flame.

  A gust of cold air sliced over them, but neither noticed. They kissed, again and again, questing for more – nibbling, licking, absorbing every thrilling sensation.

  Luke released her hands, and they went after each other. She unzipped his jacket; he unbuttoned her coat. He slid his hips between her legs; she bumped his fly.

  They were making love in their minds, mimicking the rocking, rubbing motion with their bodies. Maggie clung to the man in her arms. This was, she thought, the most wildly erotic moment of her life.

  Until a neighbor's car door slammed.

  Luke shot up like an arrow. Then he cursed, clearly chastising himself for losing control.

  "You're going to catch pneumonia," he said, fumbling to rebutton her coat.

  Maggie didn't think that was possible. She was as warm as sealing wax. And she wanted to melt all over him. But she knew the opportunity had passed.

  Luke was Luke again. Tough. Tense. Guarded.

  "Come on." He reached for her hand and drew her to her feet. "You need a hot bath. And something to eat."

  She needed to kiss him again, she thought, but she didn't argue. She rather liked being protected by the big, tough detective. He actually swept her into his arms and carried her to the front door.

  Luke Starwind was dark and dangerous. Exciting. When she'd slid her hands over those sturdy muscles, she'd felt the holstered gun he kept clipped to the back of his belt. It seemed, somehow, like an extension of his body, like part of the man he was. The Cherokee warrior, she thought. The former Green Beret.

  He fumbled with his keys. Maggie put her head on his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold. Feeling delightfully feminine, she pressed her lips to his neck and smiled when he sucked in a tight breath.

  He deposited her in the master bathroom, where a sunken tub awaited – an enormous, dark-green enclosure surrounded by rugged antiques. She caught a glimpse of his four-poster bed and tried not to swoon. His house was growing on her.

  Feeling as boneless as a rag doll, she allowed him to remove her coat.

  "Will you start a fire?" she asked, wishing he would undress her completely.

  He didn't, of course. Her coat was as far as he went.

  "Yeah. I'll heat up a can of soup, too."

  "Thank you." She pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek and felt him shiver. "You're cold, too," she remarked.

  "I'll dry off in the other bathroom."

  He backed away and thrust a towel at her. Maggie accepted the offer, thinking how incredible using his soap was going to be.

  She eyed a bulk of terry cloth hanging behind the door. "Can I wear your robe, Luke?"

  "What?" He followed her gaze, a frown furrowing his brow. "No," he responded, his voice strained. "I'll get you a pair of sweats."

  "All right." She shrugged as if his robe held little consequence. When he was gone, she decided, she would slip it on. Just for a second. Just to feel it caress her bare skin.

  * * *

  Luke washed his face, towel-dried his hair and slipped on a T-shirt and a pair of old, comfortable jeans. Next he built a fire and headed to the kitchen to heat some soup. He tried not to think about Maggie soaking in his tub, sleek and naked, her skin warm and flushed.

  He'd behaved like a kid, goofing around in the snow, letting Maggie pull him under her playful spell. But worse yet, he'd lost complete control, kissing her until his body ached with a hot, feverish lust.

  Dumping the soup into a pot, he added the required amount of water and reminded himself that Maggie was off-limits. Way off-limits. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a woman practically young enough to be his daughter. Luke rarely took a lover, and when he did, he made damn sure his partner was mature enough to handle a sex-only relationship.

  Then again, he doubted free-spirited, frolic-in-the-snow Maggie was looking for a lifelong commitment. He'd seen pictures of her in the society pages with her former beau – a twenty-something Italian race-car driver. A live-for-the-minute European playboy.

  Which made Luke wonder what Maggie saw in a crusty, pushing-forty P.I. like himself.

  "Luke?"

  Squaring his shoulders, he turned to acknowledge her. She stood in the doorway, her freshly washed hair combed away from her face, her blue-green eyes sparkling.

  Luke squinted through a frown. What spell was she about to cast? And how could a woman look downright breath-taking in a pair of standard-gray sweats?

  His sweats, he reminded himself.

  "That smells good," she said.

  "It's ready." He reached for a cup. "Do you want crackers?"

  When she nodded, he pulled a box from the cupboard. Minutes later, they sat in front of the fire, sipping tomato soup. Flames danced in the stone hearth, warming the room with a flickering gold light. Maggie spooned up soggy crackers and watched him through her magical eyes.

  "Tell me what you said, Luke."

  Confused, he shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

  "When we danced at Rafe's wedding reception. You said something to me. Something in Cherokee."

  He fought to steady his pulse. A qua da nv do. My heart. He would never forget those words or the moment he'd said them. "I don't recall saying anything."

  She scooted closer. They sat cross-legged on a wool rug, just a few feet apart. Her hair had begun to dry, and the fire bathed her in an a
mber glow. She looked young and soft, her skin scrubbed free of cosmetics.

  "But you have to remember. They sounded so pretty." She struggled to repeat the phrase. "I can hear them in my head, but I can't pronounce them."

  He could hear them in his head, too. Could feel them pounding in his chest. "I'm sorry. I just don't remember."

  Maggie glanced down at her soup, and Luke frowned. He knew his lie had hurt her feelings.

  But how could he tell her that for an instant in time she had actually become part of his heart? He didn't understand why he'd felt such a tender, almost haunting connection to her. And he never wanted to go through something like that again. She had no right to touch his heart, not even for an instant.

  "I bought a book about the Cherokee," she said. "I curled up one night in bed and read about your ancestors. It's a fascinating culture. So beautiful. So noble."

  He placed his empty cup on the mantel. "I'm only half Cherokee." And he was neither noble nor beautiful.

  Maggie watched him, and he felt self-conscious under her scrutiny. He knew she was studying his features – eyes lined with well-earned crow's-feet, a nose that had been broken on the worst day of his life, a jaw as hard as granite.

  "It's still part of your legacy, Luke."

  "So you bought that book because of me?"

  "Yes." She tilted her head, her hair falling to one side. "The chapters about the Trail of Tears made me cry. All those people being forced to leave their homeland, starving and freezing and dying on the way."

  Something inside him nearly shattered. In some small way, she had cried for him. "I'm Eastern Band Cherokee. My ancestors hid in the Great Smoky Mountains in order to escape removal." Men, women and children, he thought, whom the army had pledged to hunt down like wild dogs. But he supposed Maggie had read about that, too.

  "Where do your parents live?" she asked, her voice still filled with emotion.

  "My dad's dead."

  "Oh. I'm sorry." She glanced at the fire. For a moment, they both fell silent.

  He knew she was going to ask him about his mom next. Somehow, that hurt even more. His mother's sheltered, fragile lifestyle was a constant reminder of the pain his family had endured.