Nobody's Child

by Ann Major

  Trust me? How could she when he had betrayed her before? When somehow she knew he was holding something back?

  She threw herself into his arms, and he held her till she quieted.

  But even as his touch was a comfort, she felt the coldness in him, the fierce desire to leave her and be on his way.

  “Trust me,” he whispered and was gone.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Jeremy shivered in his urine-soaked pajamas. He was bound and gagged, trussed up like a pig for slaughter. His mouth was dry, and it hurt when he swallowed. He stared out the window at a tall cypress tree and wished he was free so he could climb it. No bad guy could ever get him again.

  He would never go home again.

  Or climb trees.

  Or read books.

  Or win prizes at school for knowing more stuff than the other kids.

  Or see his mother.

  Across the room Baldy sat by the phone and stared at him with glimmering, murderous hatred as he mopped beads of sweat from his brow with a dirty gray towel.

  What was he waiting for?

  They had been in the sweltering shack two days.

  Suddenly the cellular phone on the table rang.

  The killer laughed when he recognized the caller.

  Then his jowls sagged.

  A minute later he slammed the phone onto the table and grabbed his knife. The uneven floorboards creaked as he walked heavily toward Jeremy.

  The horrible big blade gleamed. Baldy’s murderous eyes shone fiercely.

  Jeremy clenched his eyelids shut.

  He was going to die.

  He wanted his mommy.

  Mommy—

  A tear spilled down his cheek as he wondered if God let little boy angels climb trees up in Heaven.

  Six

  Cheyenne ran out of the house when she saw Cutter’s black limousine in the driveway beneath the shadows of the trees. She didn’t notice that the earth was moist or how green the leaves were or that there were more blossoms on her trees and hedges.

  She held her breath when the long black car stopped and a back door was flung open.

  Then Cutter got out with Jeremy hanging limply in his arms.

  “He’s going to be all right,” Cutter said, smiling grimly when she saw the bruises on her son’s throat and cheeks. His voice grew cold and fierce. “But call a doctor.”

  She touched Jeremy’s brow and felt its dangerous coolness. The boy didn’t stir. Not even when she kissed him and whispered his name.

  Then Cutter’s hand closed over hers, his strong fingers entwining with hers.

  She held on to him tightly, feeling again that inexplicable bond they shared as together they walked from beneath the dark trees shrouding their driveway toward the brightly lit mansion.

  Jeremy was in bed, his face pale, his body still, his arms wrapped tightly around the headless body of Molly Pooh. The doctor had given him a sedative.

  Cheyenne watched the rise and fall of Jeremy’s thin chest. Usually he was so full of life. So exuberant.

  He’d been through a lot.

  “He’s going to be all right,” the doctor assured her after Jeremy shut his eyes and she could no longer see the haunting fear there.

  Still, she had lain down beside her son in the narrow bed and wrapped her arms around his wiry body.

  “You’re safe. You’re safe,” she whispered.

  “Because of Uncle Cutter,” he had murmured over and over again like a refrain, including him as if he would belong to them forever, as if already he were a member of their immediate family.

  Because of Uncle Cutter.

  The refrain was oddly comforting to her, too.

  She had lain beside her son, holding him, wanting to be there when he woke up.

  She wanted to be there with him always.

  She didn’t know how she was ever going to let him out of her sight again.

  Jeremy awoke in the night and turned to her. Never before had she realized how much he looked like his father. “Can you sew Molly Pooh’s head back on?”

  “Of course, darling. Of course.” She petted his thick black hair.

  “Tomorrow?” he queried.

  “Now. I’ll do it now. While you sleep.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes, and neither could say the things they wanted to say as he handed her the bear’s body.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of now,” she whispered.

  He nodded, but she could tell by his wide eyes that he didn’t believe her.

  “Uncle Cutter said it was okay to be afraid. That I didn’t have to feel bad ’cause I was so scared.”

  “You don’t.”

  She wanted to know everything that had happened to him, but she couldn’t ask him. He wanted to tell her, even though he knew he never would because he couldn’t bear the memories.

  Jeremy’s black eyes brightened just a bit. “Is Uncle Cutter still here?”

  She nodded bleakly. “Yes, and he has lots of guards here to keep you safe.”

  “He showed me his gun. He said he’d shoot the bad man if he tried to come back. I want a gun, too. He said I could have one. That he’d teach me to shoot—That—”

  “Hush. Hush.”

  She frowned, not wanting to think of guns or the implication behind Cutter’s promises—that he’d be staying, perhaps indefinitely.

  Jeremy smiled drowsily and cuddled close to her and fell back asleep.

  She lay beside him, thinking of Cutter, knowing that she had to find a way to repay him.

  Hours later, Jeremy was still sleeping when Cheyenne arose and went to her room. She sewed Molly Pooh back together, then took a bath and washed her hair with her favorite shampoo that made it smell of honeysuckle and gardenias. She dried the silken masses and pinned them up on top of her head.

  The danger was past. Slowly, gently, they would deal with the leftover trauma.

  Jeremy was home. That was the main thing. Soon he would be climbing trees. Her garden was cool and opulent and lush once more. The magnolia tree was sprouting new white blossoms by the minute.

  Those were signs that it was over. All over.

  But it wasn’t.

  She owed him.

  Cutter was in the house somewhere. He was waiting for her. She owed him an apology. More than an apology. She hadn’t so much as said thank you.

  She hadn’t asked him how he had done it.

  But the details didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered except that Jeremy was safe.

  Without Jeremy the mansion had felt like a lifeless tomb.

  Now, maybe for the first time ever, it felt like home.

  She knew that she had to go to Cutter.

  Cheyenne felt strange and shy, as scared as a girl. As she knocked on Cutter’s bedroom door, she wondered if Cutter would still need her now that he’d found Jeremy.

  “Come in.”

  She fought to contain her thrill at the eagerness she heard in his voice as she opened his door.

  For seven years, her anger had shielded and protected her from whatever her true feelings for him were. She remembered how close she had come to making love to him before he had even found Jeremy. Tonight she was even more open, and vulnerable. Therefore, he was more dangerous to her.

  She smiled when she saw that he was reading one of her books. He shut it quickly and tucked it beneath his pillow so she wouldn’t see.

  She wore only a green velvet robe tied with a golden cord.

  He had shaved and his heavy uncombed black hair glistened from the shower as he lay shirtless in the bed.

  He lifted a glossy white magnolia blossom from the bedside table. “That tree of yours...is really something.” He took a deep breath as he studied her. “You’re really something.”

  His smile lit the room.

  Lit her.

  “You were reading one of my books.”

  “Because I thought you’d never come. I wanted to read something predictable.”


  “You mean ... you wanted something satisfying that has a happy ending.”

  His eyes were deep and dark and uncustomarily warm as he stared at her. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

  “I—I didn’t mean it to sound so...so Freudian.”

  Instantly she found herself flushing and staring at his bronzed chest in fascination, wondering if he had anything on under the sheet. She moistened her lips with her tongue, thinking probably he wore no more than she had on under her robe.

  She was thinking about Jeremy and how empty and desolate her house and life would have been without him. Cutter had saved her son’s life.

  I owe him everything. Everything.

  He had said he wanted everything.

  Maybe if she gave him what he wanted, he would go.

  And she would be free again.

  What kind of woman was she, to make such an unsavory bargain?

  She remembered what had nearly happened between them.

  Who was she kidding?

  As she stepped inside and shut the door, she felt a tiny pain near her heart at the thought of Cutter ever leaving her. Of his not wanting her in the same deep and eternal way she wanted him. Of his not loving her. Ignoring those long-suppressed feelings, she let her gaze run the length of his body beneath the sheets.

  Wrapped in silence, Cutter sat up, watching her as he closed the drawer by the bedside table. Somehow she knew without knowing how that his gun was in that drawer. But she didn’t want to think about that or the terrible time of danger they had shared.

  It was over.

  The danger was past.

  The interlaced muscles across his chest and shoulders and down his arms were strong and hard—taut—as if he, too, found it hard to relax.

  “I—I’m sorry for what I said earlier in the library,” she managed at last.

  “It’s okay.” His husky voice caressed her, forgave her.

  Some new awareness and new awkwardness had come between them. Suddenly there was a new tension in him.

  As if he were unsure.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “There’s no need. Jeremy’s my son, too.”

  Tonight she wanted Cutter to think of her. Only of her. “Cheyenne, I have a lot of regrets about us.”

  “You do?”

  “All my life I’ve been so competitive. I had to be first. Maybe I didn’t leave room for Martin—Maybe that’s why he—”

  “Don’t.”

  The last person she wanted to discuss was Martin.

  She had to keep this simple. She owed Cutter.

  She had promised him.

  It was dangerous to allow herself to feel more.

  “There are no words to thank you,” she began.

  “I don’t want words.”

  “Do you need anything?” she asked. “A pillow maybe—Or a blanket? I’m sorry I forgot to ask last night. They’re in the hall just across—I’ll—”

  “No. I have everything I need right here.”

  She turned to go.

  “Stay,” he whispered. “I picked this flower for your hair. You know what I want.”

  She froze as he brought the blossom to his nostrils and inhaled. He looked at her. “Come here.”

  When she hesitated, he said, “Please—”

  The single word hung in the darkness. No multitude of words could have been more eloquent than his silence.

  Suddenly she was that eager girl again on that windswept island where golden grasses had blown in a winter wind. She was the girl he’d shared his soul with.

  His gaze burned her, compelling her nearer. She felt the same fierce need as she had then when he’d lifted the driftwood and she’d willed him to break the glass and make wild, violent love to her.

  She remembered how the dune flowers had bloomed. How winter had changed to summer. How she had nearly made love to him just the night before.

  A pulse beat in her throat as slowly she undid the golden cord at her waist and pulled it through the loops. Her face was flushed and her eyes flamed as if an inward fire lighted them. She undid her hair and threw back her head, sending spirals of perfumed red curls showering down her shoulders. Her robe fell away, pooling around her bare feet. She dropped the golden cord so that it fell down her thighs, passing between her legs.

  In absolute silence his gaze devoured the voluptuous, tawny curves of her body.

  For two days and two nights they had lived together under the most terrible tension. During that time his every thought, his every action had been to protect her and their child. He had been infinitely kind to her, infinitely patient. He had made her know that he needed her.

  She had promises to keep.

  “Come here,” he whispered again, his voice rougher now and less sure.

  She went to his bed, and the mattress dipped slightly when she sat on its edge.

  They were both still and quiet, the only two people in that world of absolute silence. Then he handed her the flower, which she tucked hesitantly into her damp hair.

  For a long time they did not speak until finally she lowered her hand to his face. Very gently she touched his lips with the back of a finger. Then with fingertips that had begun to tremble she brushed her hand down the length of his nose.

  Just to touch him made her feel the magical bond that had always been there between them.

  She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Like a blind person, her fingertips fluttered over his every dear feature.

  She stroked his rough cheek, his silky hair. How she had missed him. For seven long years she had missed him.

  “You found Jeremy. You brought my son home to me.” Cutter sighed. “Our son.”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  “Our son.”

  He smiled. “Was that so hard?”

  “Because of you, we’re safe.”

  She felt him tense.

  “We did it together,” he said.

  His skin was smooth and warm, his black hair silken beneath her fingertips. Soon she found that she could not stop touching him.

  “Enough,” he breathed, tensing again as he caught her wrist. Then he lifted the covers and pulled her beneath them, and she was not in the least surprised to discover that he was naked.

  Still, she felt a shock as his long body pressed itself against hers all the way to her toes. Then he wrapped her with his legs and arms and held her close against his powerful, muscular body, in a fiercely intimate embrace while their hunger built.

  She had never had another lover, and she had, indeed, been jealous of his. Not that she would ever admit that to him.

  “So—you offer yourself like a sacrificial lamb? You believe I’m the worst kind of creep to demand sex in payment for services rendered.”

  Her long-lashed gaze fell as she clung stubbornly to silence.

  “You would not come to me otherwise?” he persisted.

  She chewed her lip and looked away.

  He grinned as he brushed a hand down her satin-skinned throat and watched her quiver. “So, this isn’t good for you?” He trailed his fingers between her breasts, smiling again when she shivered. “So, you haven’t missed my touch? Craved it? As much as I have craved yours?”

  “You are too conceited for words!”

  “I know what I know.”

  To shut him up, she began to kiss him, but that action merely fueled his argument.

  “There. You see,” he whispered. “You do want it. Admit it.”

  Haughtily she withdrew.

  When his hands glided over her breasts, she felt consumed by warm, sweet bliss and arched her body against his.

  He slid his hand between her legs and deftly stroked her. “Then why is every flower in your yard and garden in full bloom?”

  “I am a talented gardener.” She whimpered with pleasure from his touch.

  She would never, never admit she had never stopped loving him even though she had wanted to. He was too dark and lethally
dangerous. Not the kind of man with whom a smart woman shared her dreams or her soul.

  His mouth closed over hers, and a molten flame seared them both. She returned his kisses. Her head moved lower until her lips found his abdomen and that place where a pulse pumped soundlessly.

  As her mouth licked against the butterfly movements that betrayed his keen excitement, his callused hands moved in her hair, pushing her head even lower, and he begged, “Kiss me there.”

  A single current of desire pulsed through them both as she licked a path to the intended destination. He groaned aloud as if her slow-flicking tongue against his hot, bare skin consumed him.

  He was hard and warm and satin slick.

  And when she took him into her mouth, he exploded. “Oh, God, Cheyenne.” He pulled her to him and held her tightly.

  Afterward her whole being felt suffused in sunlight, in fluid, radiant color, and in the salty odor and taste of him.

  “All those years—when you were married to Martin—I was in hell, Cheyenne.”

  She put her arms around him, wondering but fearing to ask what he meant. She had thought he hadn’t cared, at least not in the way she had. “So was I.” She paused guiltily, feeling again that misplaced closeness and that inexplicable bond to him she’d never felt for anyone else. “There’s more. I was jealous...of those other women....”

  He laughed and drew her closer.

  “Cutter, I never slept with Martin. Not once. I never wanted to.”

  Cutter lay on his back with his eyes closed. She could not tell if what she’d said affected him.

  Then he said, “God, I thought of you ... with him like that...so many times.” Dark anguish flickered and made his features grow harsh.

  After a long time Cutter moved and dug his fingers into her hair and inhaled her scent. When he exhaled, his warm breath tickled her neck and made her gasp. Then she moved her hands over his body, and he hardened instantly.

  “Damn,” he whispered as he moved on top of her and then came inside her, making love to her again, almost immediately. And this time everything he did was solely for her pleasure.