by Karen Hughes
That he remembered—and mourned—the woman he’d once adored was the thing that had prompted him to confront his aunt weeks ago about the blackmail. Maybe he’d hoped to see some regret in the dark eyes that had once sparked with love. Perhaps a softening in the brittle shell she’d built around herself. All sentimental feelings he’d harbored for his aunt had died when she’d displayed even less remorse than his father had over their affair. Faced with her cold aloofness, Jackson had warned her he would report her extortion to the police if she didn’t end it.
And now, he thought, he had his own problems with the police. Serious problems.
“Is something wrong?” Cheyenne’s quiet question told him his face mirrored his grim thoughts.
“Just some things I need to work out.” He massaged his fingers across her knuckles. “Tell me about Cheyenne James. Why did she wind up counseling kids from troubled homes?”
“My reasons have a lot to do with River. Our mother was full blood Mokee-kittuun, our father white. When she died giving birth to me, my father let my aunts raise me on the rez as long as they sent me to Anglo schools. He took River to live with him on his ranch. I lost contact with my brother after that,” she said with an edge of regret. “Before either River or I were born, our mother had another son, Rafe. My father adopted him, but because Rafe is full-blood Indian, my father shunned him when our mother died. From the stories Rafe tells me, our father was an alcoholic. A mean drunk. For years Rafe took the brunt of his anger to save River. That changed after I was born and our father left Rafe and me on the rez and took River away.”
Jackson shook his head. “Rough life for a kid.”
“Yes. One day, River showed up at school covered with bruises. A social worker took him to live at Hopechest. Your aunt and uncle later became his foster parents and River moved to their ranch.”
“So, was it a happy coincidence that you and River found each other again?”
Cheyenne matched his gaze. “Some people have called it that.”
Jackson cocked his head. Those rich, dark eyes held secrets, he realized. Perhaps that was why she was beginning to fascinate him. “What do you call your finding your brother again?”
“Destiny,” she said almost reverently. “Living with the Coltons was the first time River had ever known a real family life. Your uncle encouraged him to work with his horses and that built River’s self-esteem.”
“Uncle Joe’s good with people.”
“Yes.” Cheyenne played her index finger along the handle of her cup. “When I realized the foster care the Coltons gave my brother saved his life, I knew I wanted to help kids who had no control over the circumstances they were born into. I went to college, got a Masters in Social Work. I’ve been at Hopechest about a year. I counsel the kids, help them get the work skills they need to support themselves. I also teach a sport.”
“What sport?”
“Archery.”
“Archery?”
She rolled her eyes. “Go ahead and make your comment. I’m used to hearing them.”
“What comment?”
Her mouth curved. “About how I must have reverted back to ancient days when my people rode swift ponies and hunted with bows and arrows.”
“Now that you mention it,” Jackson said with consideration while his hand stroked hers, “You riding bareback, armed with a bow and arrow while all that dark hair flies behind you conjures up an interesting image.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but an image is all it is. I didn’t learn archery on the rez. I learned it at the college.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Actually, I didn’t think about Indians or bows and arrows when you mentioned archery.” As he spoke, he cupped his hand around her bare, tanned forearm.
She was tense, muscles tight. What would it be like, he wondered, to loosen her, to get to the soft woman beneath the tenseness?
“Jackson?”
He skimmed his thumb up until he felt the pulse inside her elbow skitter. “Yes?”
“I…” She took a deep breath. “What did you think about when I told you I teach archery?”
Hearing her voice hitch gave him a small thrill of power—and pleasure. He smiled. “I thought that you must be stronger than you look.” He squeezed her arm. “You are. You fascinate me, Cheyenne. I’m not quite sure why.”
He saw a brief, uneasy flicker in her dark eyes before she shifted away, forcing his hand from her arm.
“I’ve told you about myself. Why don’t you tell me something about Jackson Colton?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Why are you a lawyer?”
Resigned with her distance for the time being, he leaned back in his chair. “Because my father groomed me to be one,” he replied, then hesitated. He had never thought of things that way, but it was the truth. His mother had barely acknowledged his existence, which had made him as pliable as clay in his father’s hands. Jackson supposed he would have agreed to a career of digging ditches if that would have gained him the love of the one parent who’d paid him any attention.
That he’d never felt truly satisfied working at his father’s side had been something Jackson had chosen to overlook. Until last month when he’d discovered Graham’s affair with Meredith. Learning his father had paid for his aunt’s silence not out of remorse for his actions, but from fear that Joe Colton would write him out of his will if he found out the truth had put a sick feeling in Jackson’s gut.
“Is that what you wanted, too?” Cheyenne asked. “To be a lawyer?”
“I thought I did until recently.” He moved his shoulders carelessly. “I don’t know. Could be I’m just in the wrong area of the law. One reason I’m hanging around Prosperino for a while is to figure that out.”
She sipped her latte. “What’s another reason?”
For the space of a heartbeat, he considered telling her that the police suspected him in the two attempts on his uncle’s life. That he could be arrested. Go to jail. And that she might be in a position to help the cops put him there.
Just as quickly, Jackson pushed away the urge. He was innocent and he planned to clear his name—maybe as early as the following day if the trip he planned to make to L.A. paid off. If it did, there wouldn’t be any reason for Cheyenne to know he’d even been questioned by Detective Law. No reason for this woman, who had slid into his thoughts so easily and often over the past months, to have cause to avoid him.
He took in her fine-boned features, dark eyes, the seductive arch of her throat. She looked…elegant, he decided. A kind of inner elegance that wasn’t the least diminished by the simple blouse and slacks she wore. Granted, he’d always preferred more flamboyant women, but this was the first time in his life he’d felt so intensely drawn to one woman. Right now, he didn’t know why. He was only sure that he wanted her in his world where he could see and touch her. And find out just what those secrets were he saw in her eyes.
“I’ve thought about you a lot since my uncle’s party,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to let you get away this time. I have to go into L.A. tomorrow. Will you have breakfast with me the day after?”
She regarded him steadily. He had the uncomfortable feeling she knew more was going on than what he’d said.
“I have an early archery lesson,” she said after a moment. “And a counseling session later that morning.”
“I’ll come to Hopechest Ranch. We can squeeze in breakfast between the two.” He linked his fingers with hers and thought of how good her hand felt against his. “Say yes, Cheyenne. I need to see you again. Say yes.”
“Yes, Jackson, I’ll have breakfast with you.”
Never before had she fascinated a man.
The thought tightened Cheyenne’s belly as she walked at Jackson’s side along the neat sidewalk illuminated by streetlights that took on the hazy glow of tiny moons.
When they’d sat across from each other at the café’s small table, it had not
been a simple matter to ignore the heat that raced up her arm when he touched her. His hand wasn’t soft, but hard and callused. That had been the first wayward thought that stumbled into her brain. Now, with that same hand pressed against the small of her back, she felt the pressure of each of his fingers, the strength. Power.
Jackson Colton might make his living as a smooth, sophisticated attorney but he knew how to work with his hands. And the feel of those hands made her knees go weak.
She rubbed an unsteady palm across her throat. She knew she was breathing too fast. Feeling more than the brief contact of a man’s palm against her back warranted.
“Which car is yours?” he asked when they turned a corner and stepped into the parking lot on one side of the Cinema Prosperino.
She tried not to think about the fact that his arm was brushing hers.
“The white Mustang.”
As they neared the car, she dug in her purse for her keys. Very deliberately, she turned enough away from Jackson that he was forced to drop his hand.
Cool, common sense was the order of the day, she reminded herself. He was in trouble—that was the reason her vision had brought her to him. She didn’t yet know why, but she doubted fate had reunited her with Jackson Colton just so she could get a reminder of how a man’s touch could stir her. She’d found that out years ago. That knowledge had left her with a bruised heart. She wasn’t likely to ever forget that experience.
She shoved the key into the door’s lock, then swung it open. Before she could slide behind the wheel, Jackson’s hand settled on her shoulder.
“Cheyenne?”
She closed her eyes for an instant, then turned to find him standing only inches away. His face was bathed in a mix of moonlight and shadows; the woodsy scent of his cologne drifted to her on the cool, night air.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad we had the good luck to run into each other.” As he spoke, he ran a fingertip down her jawline.
The lightning response of her body to his touch sent a wariness through her that had her wanting to back away. Even if she chose to retreat, it wasn’t an option, she realized. She was trapped with him in the small V formed by the side of the car and the open door.
Her breath shuddered. Her gift of sight, not luck, had brought them together tonight. Destiny would guide them from here. “I enjoyed talking with you, Jackson.”
“Talking was good.” His fingers closed over one of her hands. “At my uncle’s party, I wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looks. Tonight I found out it does. Now I’m wondering if your skin tastes as rich as it feels.” Moonlight glittered in his gray eyes when he pressed his lips deep in the center of her palm. “It does,” he murmured.
Her heart shot straight up and lodged in her throat. “I don’t think…” Her voice trailed off when his lips brushed across hers, soft as a whisper.
“You don’t think what?” he asked, touching his mouth to hers again with a lightness that had the blood pounding in her head.
She had ignored her physical needs for so long, she had forgotten what it was to want a man. One man. “I…don’t know…what to think.”
“Me, either.” One of his hands slid beneath her heavy braid to cup the base of her neck. His fingers felt cool and strong against her heated flesh. He lowered his lips to within a whisper of hers. “Why don’t we forget about thinking and just let ourselves feel?”
Softly, slowly, his mouth roamed over hers, sending thick, liquefying pleasure seeping into her. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her hands went limp; in the recesses of her mind she heard the jingle of metal when her keys hit the pavement.
“You stir something in me, Cheyenne,” he murmured as his mouth took hers, warm and coaxing. His fingers stroked the back of her neck. She didn’t need a vision to see the teasing image of what his hands could do to her body.
Her arms moved upward; her fingers locked tight on his shoulders. Beneath her hands she felt the bunch of muscles that veered toward a hard, dangerous strength. Passion came to life inside her like a fire that had been smoldering beneath cold ash. Her lips parted beneath his, opening, accepting, urging.
His arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer until she fit tightly against his hard, lean body. His mouth became more greedy, taking her deeper, demanding equal response. Her legs trembled, and blood swam so fast in her veins that she could hear the roar of it in her head. A low moan sounded in her throat while reason slipped against the pull of need.
Desire gripped her as if it had claws. His mouth continued its assault on hers, seducing her senses, peeling away the layers of caution that guarded her secrets.
An alarm sounded somewhere in the recesses of her dazed mind.
The will to survive smothered the yearning for pleasure. She hadn’t come here tonight to be kissed. She was here because the man whose mouth was currently ravishing hers was in trouble and fate had brought her to him.
“Stop.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Jackson, we need to stop.”
“Why?” His voice was a raw whisper as his mouth trailed down her jaw, nuzzled her throat.
“I… Because.” She flattened her palm against his chest, forced him back. Breathing jerky, she stared at him while every pulse point in her body hammered. “Just…because,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.
“Well.” He expelled a ragged breath. “I guess that’s as good a reason as any.”
“I…” She waved a hand vaguely. “We don’t even know each other.”
His smile was slow and potent. “Seems to me we’re working on changing that.”
When he reached to touch her cheek, she jerked her head back. “I have to go. Now. Right now.”
“I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”
He bent down, scooped up her keys, then stood with them in his hand while his concerned eyes skimmed over her face, lingering on each feature. “It’s just that you’ve been in my thoughts for so long. I still can’t quite believe you’re here tonight.” He handed her the keys, his fingers sliding against hers. “With me.”
She stared into his face, the shadowy lights of the far-off street lamps emphasized his ruthless good looks. She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip, bringing his taste back to flood her mouth…and a swell of fresh desire into her system that made her legs go weak all over again.
“Good night.” It didn’t matter that her voice was unsteady. What mattered was that she get into her car before her wobbly legs gave out.
“Good night.” The eyes that had looked so rock-hard in her vision were now the color of smoke. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”
“Yes.” She was reasonably sure her system would have settled by then.
It wasn’t until she pulled the Mustang out of the lot that she released the breath she’d been holding. Whatever trouble Jackson Colton was in, it had brought her to him. Until she knew why, she needed to keep a clear head. Then, when the knowledge came, she would be capable of putting two rational thoughts together. Unlike she had been while wrapped in Jackson’s arms.
When she turned onto the winding coast road she flexed her fingers against the steering wheel, pleased that her hands no longer trembled. Her breathing had evened. Finally.
Before this night, only one man had ever rocked her senses and taken her so swiftly toward the edge of control. After she’d given herself to him and told him about her gift, he’d looked at her as if she were crazy. Even now, the memory of the names Paul called her had her blinking back tears.
Holding a part of yourself back wasn’t deception, she reminded herself. It was self-preservation—as she’d learned through hard experience.
With Jackson, she would let fate take her hands and lead her.
And she would hold her secrets close.
Three
Jackson knew the drive along the dark coastal highway should have calmed him, helped his thoughts steady. Instead, his mind was as restless as the sea that churned against the ragged cliffs edging the shoreline.
How many women had he kissed? Slept with? He neither knew nor cared. He’d indulged in nights of mutual pleasure, then walked away unscathed. Tonight he and Cheyenne had shared a few kisses, nothing more. They’d been exceptional kisses, but kisses all the same.
Why, then, while he held her in his arms, had he been hit with aching desire when he had expected to feel the usual careless, carefree passion? The memory of her hot, unrestrained mouth pressed against his crept into his mind like a seductive phantom. He wanted her taste again. Wanted to hold her. Wanted her. Just her.
“Dammit.”
Something was happening inside him. Because he wasn’t precisely certain what that something was, he felt a tug of worry. He’d always been sure of his ground when it came to the opposite sex, yet he could have sworn he’d felt the earth move beneath his feet when Cheyenne’s mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in.
He just needed to get his balance back, he told himself as he steered the Porsche off Highway 1 onto Colton land. After all, his usual afternoon and evening didn’t include having the cops accuse him of two attempted murders, then running into—and ravishing—the woman whose testimony could place him in almost the exact spot a wannabe killer had stood during one of those attempts.
No matter how perverse, right now dealing with the dilemma of how to keep his butt out of jail was preferable to trying to figure out what was going on inside him where Cheyenne James was concerned.
In Jackson’s mind, the first order of business was to tell his uncle that the cops suspected he was the person who’d tried to put a slug into him. Twice.
“Can’t wait,” he muttered.
