CHEROKEE DAD

by Sheri WhiteFeather

Michael frowned. "My dad was a bastard. Your dad was a bastard. And so was Reed's. We all got the shaft."

  Childhood images surfaced. Her father bellowing about his rotten stepson, her brother slamming out the door, her mother chain-smoking in front of the TV, Heather scurrying around the kitchen like a mouse, washing dishes and praying she didn't break one.

  "I think it was worse for you," he said. "Reed barely remembers his real dad, and I never met mine. But you tried to please yours."

  "I was glad when he left. When he walked out on us." Yet her frantic, flighty mother had begged him to stay, mourning his absence for the rest of her anxiety-ridden life. "It'll be different for Justin." She placed her hand on the crib, gripped the wood. "It already is."

  He blew a breath. "I didn't mean to bring up all that junk. To upset you."

  "I'm not upset. How can I be?" She lifted her mood, the dark veil floating over her heart. She'd spent too many nights dwelling on the past, too many long, shiftless hours wondering why her father had been cruel and demanding, why her mother had taken his side, why her brother had gotten tangled up in the mob, why the baby she'd given birth to had died. "Look at this room. Look at the magic you created." She stepped forward, reached out to hug him. "It's incredible."

  He accepted her embrace. And suddenly, everything changed.

  Heat swirled low in her belly. He ran his hands down her back and pressed his body closer to hers.

  She held on to his shoulders; he nuzzled her neck.

  Memories filtered through her mind – the first time they'd made love. The first time he'd unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her bra, unzipped her jeans, slid his hand down her panties.

  She tipped her head back. "I wish…"

  "Me, too." He brushed his lips over her skin.

  Unable to stop herself, she rubbed against him. He was tall and hard and virile. Familiar, yet not.

  He seemed stronger, a little older, more intense. She could feel his muscles bunch beneath her fingers.

  "Tell me what you miss the most," he said.

  "I…"

  "Tell me."

  She closed her eyes, fought a wave of dizziness. "Your hands. Your mouth." He licked the shell of her ear, and her knees went weak. "Your tongue."

  "Foreplay," he whispered.

  "Yes." And being in love, she thought. Of allowing herself to fall under his spell. Of dreaming that they were meant to be.

  He brought his face next to hers. And for a moment, for one silent, life-altering moment, neither moved.

  Then he kissed her.

  So hard, so rough, so desperately, she imagined climbing all over him, devouring him inch by inch.

  He pushed his hands through her hair, wound it around his fingers, twining and turning, tugging her head back a little more. "I missed being inside you. The warmth. The wetness. All that hot, slick…"

  She felt his pulse hammer, the rush of masculine excitement. He missed the orgasm, the final release, the surge of his body spilling into hers.

  "Come to my room." He kissed her again. "Be with me."

  She wanted to, more than anything. "For how long?"

  "I don't know. I can't think about that. Not now." He held her, gently, reverently. "I can't make promises. I never could."

  His admission stabbed her heart, yet his touch, those warm, capable hands, belied his words. "You confuse me."

  "I need you, Heather."

  She buried her face against his chest. It hurt not to be with him, not to have him. "I need you, too. So help me, I do."

  That was all it took. He scooped her into his arms and carried her to his room, shouldering his way into the open doorway.

  His bed was unmade from the night before, sheets tangled, pillowcases twisted.

  She looked around, saw the whirlwind that was Michael: clothes piled in the corner, an empty beer bottle on the dresser, coins scattered, five-dollar bills folded and crumpled.

  He deposited her on the bed and followed her down. A night-light burned, shadowing the room in golden hues. When his hair fell across his forehead, he pushed it back, away from his face.

  That strong, angular face.

  She looked into his eyes and met his gaze, the dark desire, the power he wielded over her.

  Michael Damian Elk, with the slashing eyebrows and slow, determined smile.

  This was dangerous, she thought. Letting him take what he wanted. Letting him—

  As he went after her blouse, his voice rasped, grazing each syllable. "Heather. Sweet, sexy…"

  Michael. Her Michael. "Don't stop," she told him. Not now. Not ever.

  "I won't." He popped the third button, cursed and fumbled with the next one.

  She yanked at his shirt, dragging it from his pants. They rolled over the bed, groping, grasping, tearing off clothes and tossing them onto the floor.

  Greed lashed through her system, quick and feral, like the snap of a whip, the brand of leather against skin.

  His flesh was hot and hard, gloriously male. But he didn't let her touch him, not nearly enough.

  Instead he pushed her onto the bed, lifted her hips and lowered his head.

  To drive her crazy. To flay her to madness.

  Lifting her legs onto his shoulders, he pulled her closer, using his mouth, his tongue, a clever nip of teeth.

  She arched. She bucked. She sizzled.

  He knew what this did to do her; knew it made her mindless; knew his ministrations made her crave him.

  All of him. Deep inside her.

  Scraping a hand across the ridge of his cheekbone, the slant of his jaw, Heather gulped the air in her lungs.

  "I want you." She tried to pull him up, but he resisted.

  "Not yet."

  No, not yet. He wasn't done with her yet. He—

  A shiver racked her body. Sensation sliced sensation, battering her senses. He kept licking, tasting, spurring her on.

  Until she exploded.

  Until she cried his name and clawed his shoulders, until the pleasure left her molten and weak, dizzy and dazed.

  And desperate, so incredibly desperate, for the man she loved.

  * * *

  Michael wanted her like this, just like this, coming unglued before his eyes. Her hair spilled everywhere, down her arms, over her breasts, across the bed.

  He rose to straddle her, to poise above her, to watch the last shuddering wave of her orgasm.

  Her eyes locked onto his, and she reached for him, stroking between his legs. He couldn't get any harder. He was already fully aroused, seeping moisture at the tip.

  She rubbed the pearly bead into his skin, and he kissed her.

  Heather was every blonde he saw, every erotic actress in the movies he watched, every long, leggy model in a centerfold, on a bikini calendar.

  His fantasy.

  His obsession.

  He kissed her again, rougher this time. She dug her ragged nails into his back, giving him more of the same.

  And then he plunged into her.

  Wet and slick, she welcomed him, drawing him deeper, coveting what they both needed. Wanted. Craved.

  A year and a half, he thought. Eighteen torturous months of celibacy.

  He moved; she moved with him.

  Synchronicity. It had always been like this, from the moment he'd taken her virginity, from the instant she'd offered him her innocence.

  He'd cherished her then. He cherished her now.

  And hated himself for it.

  No woman should do to a man what she did to him.

  Michael pumped harder, setting a fast, driving rhythm. Animal sex. Human lust. The lines were blurring, misting his vision, graying the edges of sanity.

  She wrapped her legs around him, and he rode her, telling himself not to fall in love. Not to let her bewitch him.

  She reared up to drag his mouth to hers, to tease his tongue, to nip his bottom lip, to use her magic, her power.

  He wanted to curse, to damn them both to hell. But he held her instead, letting h
er heartbeat pummel his.

  Heather. Sweet, sexy Heather.

  How had he survived all this time without her?

  Passion, fresh and powerful, slammed through his veins. She put her hands all over him, across his chest, down his abdomen, between his legs as he moved in and out of her body.

  She knew how to turn him on, how to bring him to that climatic peak.

  And he was close, so damn close.

  He closed his eyes, and she, whispered in his ear. Erotic words. Words that sent fire streaking through his blood.

  He thrust deeper. Into the obsession, the fantasy, the woman he'd tried so desperately to forget.

  And finally, as he battled for relief, for the vicious war to end, he spilled his seed and collapsed in her arms.

  She stroked his back, gliding feather-light fingertips over sweat-dampened skin.

  He stayed there for a moment, breathing in her scent, the blend of strawberries and sex, summer fruit and spring lust.

  Then he lifted his head and rolled onto his side, taking her with him. He wasn't ready to let her go. Not yet.

  Stretching and mewling, she gave him a satisfied smile, like a kitten that just had lapped its weight in cream.

  He drew a lazy circle around one of her nipples and watched it rise. Michael knew Heather liked the aftermath of an orgasm, the simple pleasure of being naked and spent.

  She'd taught him to like it, too. To cuddle, to talk, to make the intimacy last.

  And when it lasted beyond his limit, he simply took her again. Which, to him, was part of the mating ritual. The guy part, he supposed.

  Suddenly his brain kicked into another gear. "Did we just blow it?" Protection hadn't even occurred to him. But he didn't have a condom available anyway. Not one that wasn't expired.

  "I'm on the Pill."

  The breath he'd been holding rushed out. Then he tilted his head, curious. "You stayed on it all this time?"

  "No. I saw a doctor before I came here."

  "Because you figured this would happen?"

  She looked away for a second. "I wasn't sure. I didn't know what to expect."

  But she was prepared nonetheless. She'd used the Pill throughout most their relationship. Of course, she'd switched prescriptions a few times, struggling with some of the side effects, but she'd always experienced drug sensitivities. Aspirin burned her stomach, antibiotics made her queasy.

  "I was hoping," she said.

  "That we'd have sex?"

  "That you'd take me back."

  Which wasn't the same thing, he thought. "This isn't a reconciliation."

  "I know. You already told me. No promises."

  "And no regrets." Guilty, he skimmed her cheek. Did she have to look so soft, so angelic? So mortally wounded? "Let's take one day at a time." He tipped her chin, encouraged her to meet his gaze. "Okay?"

  She chewed her lip, put her head on his shoulder. "Okay."

  He smoothed a hand down her hair. "You can move into my room if you want to."

  "So we can keep having sex?"

  "That's always been good between us."

  She snuggled closer. "Just good?"

  "Great. Incredible." He sketched a finger down her spine, then cupped her bottom and drew her tight against him, grateful she wasn't going to dwell on being melancholy. "The best."

  She made a breathy sound. "That feels good."

  "Just good?"

  "Great. Incredible."

  She lifted her head to kiss him, and the heat started rising. In his loins, in his heart.

  Michael closed his eyes, then said her name, just once, before he made love to her all over again.

  * * *

  The alarm clocked shrieked in Heather's ear. She climbed over Michael to turn it off. He stirred, moaned and rolled over.

  Heather couldn't resist watching him sleep. A sheet draped his waist, pooling between his legs. His chest and stomach were exposed, and his hair covered half of his face.

  She'd missed the allure of waking up beside a rumpled male, inhaling his scent, locking on to the sexual pheromones emanating from his body.

  Beautiful Michael.

  He didn't like being called beautiful, but she couldn't help thinking of him that way.

  Snuggling into the morning, she kissed his shoulder, then traced the ebony ink on his arm, following the primitive shapes. He'd designed the tattoo during his teenage years, but it was more than an artistic rebellion. The tribal mark was his way of embracing his heritage, of taking pride in a culture he used to shun.

  He opened his eyes and squinted at her. "Is it time to get up already?"

  "Six a.m."

  "Damn." He snaked his arm out and grabbed her. She landed on top of him with a feminine squeal and a heart-skipping thud.

  He pinched her bottom, and they laughed and rolled over the bed, untangling the sheet and putting flesh-to-flesh.

  His arousal pressed her stomach, the silky hardness warm and inviting.

  "Happy to see me?" she asked, skimming the tip, making his body jump.

  "That happens every morning. Or did you forget?"

  No, she hadn't forgotten. She remembered everything about him. Every dark, dangerous detail.

  "In that case." She tried to roll away, but he held her good and tight.

  "Okay. I give. I'm happy to see you." He dragged her mouth to his, and before she could draw breath, she was pinned beneath him.

  Cuffing her wrists with his hands, he held her arms above her head.

  Then the baby cried. A wailing scream that sent them scrambling like guilty lovers, like a couple who'd gotten caught in the throes of a forbidden affair.

  Was that what this was? she wondered. A forbidden affair? A secret rendezvous?

  "I'll get him." Sorting through the pile of clothes on the floor, Heather grabbed her blouse.

  A second later, Justin fell silent.

  Too silent.

  She pulled on her panties. "He never does that. He never stops crying until someone gets him up."

  "Do you think something's wrong?"

  "I don't know." She rushed out the door, Michael on her heels. She heard him stumbling into his jeans, attacking his zipper with clumsy hands.

  They found Justin standing in his portable crib, grinning his fool head off, smacking the top of Chester's furry head.

  Michael chuckled. "Looks like he has a new nursemaid."

  "So it seems." Heather's heart quit pounding. She'd forgotten that the dog had slept at the foot of Justin's bed last night.

  Michael reached for the baby. "You little hyena. You scared the shi—" he paused to reword his phrase "—stuffing out of us." Another sudden pause. "Damn. He's soaked. Here." He handed the responsibility to Heather. "I haven't got the diaper-thing down yet."

  "You haven't even tried."

  "So sue me. I'm not used to being a dad. And this is only temporary, remember?"

  How could she forget? No promises. No regrets.

  She changed Justin, and he kicked his feet and tried to work himself free, determined to pet Chester again.

  The dog sniffed the wet diaper, and Michael swatted him. "Come on. Have some manners." He reached for the baby again. "Hey, buddy. Want to see your new room?"

  With Chester in tow, they headed to the nursery. Justin gasped and flailed his arms, and the dog hopped onto the kid-size couch, deciding it was meant for him.

  "Pa…pa…pa!"

  "Yep. Your pony's here. Two ponies."

  Michael spun the child around, and Heather watched them. Her lover. Her son.

  God help her, but she wanted to keep both of them.

  Forever.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  Heather loved Elk Ridge Ranch. She thrived on the colorful pastures, the sparkling streams and the long, winding horse trails.

  The prestigious ranch accommodated a variety of guests, offering rustic cabins in the hills or luxurious rooms in the lodge. The lodge itself housed a gym, a m
asseuse, a hair salon, a gift shop, a new clothing boutique, a dining room and an indoor pool. On moonlit evenings, an outdoor pool invited a sea of stars, flutes of champagne and gourmet appetizers.

  "Are you nervous?" Michael asked.

  She sat next to him in his truck, with Justin babbling in the extended cab. "A little." What woman wouldn't be on her first day back at the job? "But I'm excited, too." Happy to return to the place that could only be described as home.

  She adjusted the sterling silver barrette in her hair. She'd chosen a tan dress and sleek brown boots, opting for western professional. "Do you think people are going to ask where I've been?"

  Michael parked the vehicle and swung open his door. "I don't know. Some might, but I'm pretty sure my uncle already spread the word."

  Her pulse raced. "What word?"

  "That Reed was hiding from some criminals, and you were with him." He watched her remove Justin from the car seat. "I didn't mention who those criminals were."

  She tried for a casual air. "The Mafia isn't as prevalent as it used to be."

  "But they're still out there."

  "Yes." Men like Denny Halloway still existed, tough, ambitious men restoring the roots of organized crime, living by their own set of rules.

  They climbed the wraparound porch, with Michael lugging the diaper bag and cumbersome playpen. Heather carried Justin, and the baby looked around, his eyes big and curious. He'd bawled like crazy when they'd taken him out of his new room, but he'd finally settled into another adventure.

  Going to work with Mommy and Daddy.

  His new mommy and daddy, she amended. Before this, she had been his aunt and Michael had been a stranger.

  She hugged the baby a little closer, pressing her cheek to his. In spite of Justin's inability to express himself through words, she knew he hadn't forgotten Beverly and Reed. But eventually he would, and that made her hurt for the boy's parents.

  Heather cleared her mind and entered the lodge, taking in the lobby. Immediately, warmth and beauty surrounded her. Oak walls, a stone fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows and hand-crafted furniture presented Texas comfort at its finest.

  The lodge was quiet, but within the hour Elk Ridge's guests would be filtering into the dining area for a country meal.

  "Oh, mi preciosa!"

  Heather looked up to see Maria Sandoval racing toward her. Maria, the receptionist at the lodge, had mothered Heather when no one else would.