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Cherokee Stranger
Sheri WhiteFeather
SPELLBOUNDThat was how Emily Chapman felt when her gaze locked with the sensual, black-eyed stranger across the smoky bar. As the jukebox wailed, she knew he was the man, and this was the night.SEDUCEDWhat James Dalton felt for Emily Chapman was so hot it should be outlawed. Nothing else mattered but this moment, in this incredibly arousing woman's arms. But he was a man with a lot to hide. And Emily had her own secrets, too. Come tomorrow, they would part as strangers. Unless a chance encounter could turn the past into a future worth fighting for….
When He Turned In Her Direction, Time Stopped, The Earth Freezing On Its Axis.
Their gazes met and held, like magnets to metal.
Neither blinked. Neither broke the bond. They stared at each other from across the room.
Emily’s mouth went dry. Within an instant, he’d left her breathless. He wasn’t flirting. It was more than that. Much more. He watched her with masculine recognition, as if he knew what it was like to touch her, to hold her, to run his hands over every inch of her body.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Silhouette Desire and another month of sensual tales. Our compelling continuity DYNASTIES: THE DANFORTHS continues with the story of a lovely Danforth daughter whose well-being is threatened and the hot U.S. Navy SEAL assigned to protect her. Maureen Child’s Man Beneath the Uniform gives new meaning to the term sleepover!
Other series this month include TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE STOLEN BABY with Cindy Gerard’s fabulous Breathless for the Bachelor. Seems this member of the Lone Star state’s most exclusive club has it bad for his best friend’s sister. Lucky lady! And Rochelle Alers launches a brand-new series, THE BLACKSTONES OF VIRGINIA, with The Long Hot Summer, which is set amid the fascinating world of horse-breeding.
Anne Marie Winston singes the pages with her steamy almost-marriage-of-convenience story, The Marriage Ultimatum. And in Cherokee Stranger by Sheri WhiteFeather, a man gets a second chance with a woman who wants him for her first time. Finally, welcome brand-new author Michelle Celmer with Playing by the Baby Rules, the story of a woman desperate for a baby and the hunky man who steps up to give her exactly what she wants.
Here’s hoping Silhouette Desire delivers exactly what you desire in a powerful, passionate and provocative read!
Best,
Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Cherokee Stranger
Sheri WhiteFeather
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SHERI WHITEFEATHER
lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be a part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.
Sheri’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats—domestic and wild. She loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 17146, Anaheim Hills, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.
DEDICATION
First of all, I would like to thank the Silhouette copy editors, who never fail to accommodate my lengthy dedications. This story involved extensive research on skin cancer and I greatly appreciate the doctors, nurses and hospital librarians who provided information. If I made any technical errors, I apologize. The stages and treatment of melanoma vary from patient to patient. I would also like to thank my mother, Lee Bundy, who helped me research this book. She is a remarkable lady and breast cancer survivor. Tara Gavin at Silhouette is receiving heartfelt thanks for her suggestions and input regarding this story. Another acknowledgment goes out to avid Silhouette reader Elizabeth Benway, for her stirring Web site tribute to her sister, Beth, a young mother and breast cancer survivor. To Lyndee Lightfoot, the project coordinator at the Lewiston Chamber of Commerce, for providing information about Lewiston, Idaho, and the surrounding areas. To the United States government for WITSEC, the Witness Security Program, which inspired the premise of this story. If I made any errors, please forgive me. I researched WITSEC to the best of my ability.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
One
As the mellow tune echoed through the jukebox’s hollow speakers, the tall, dark stranger made another selection.
Emily Chapman scooted to the edge of her seat. Everything about the stranger fascinated her, even his taste in music. So far, he’d chosen love songs, tragic ballads steeped in emotion, lyrics that defied his hard-edged stance.
He turned away from the jukebox, and she watched him through curious eyes.
Was he a ball-busting country boy or a street-smart city dweller? She couldn’t quite tell. Either way, he carried himself with a wary, don’t-mess-with-me gait.
He wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket. His medium-length hair fell across his forehead in a rebellious black line, nearly shielding his eyes. His face, shadowed by the dim light, proved strong and angular.
Ignoring the other patrons, the small scatter of people in the bar, he proceeded to his table, where he’d left a bottle of domestic beer. Next he slouched in his seat, kicked his booted feet onto the rail of an empty chair and lifted his drink, taking a long, hard swallow.
“Here you go.” The waitress brought Emily’s wine, blocking her view, shutting out the intriguing stranger.
Caught off guard, she shifted her attention to the other woman, a middle-aged, kiss-my-grits redhead whose nametag identified her as Meg. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, hon.” Meg motioned to the door that led to the kitchen. “But your appetizer isn’t ready yet. It’ll be a few more minutes.”
“That’s fine.” Emily wasn’t particularly hungry, but she’d ordered stuffed mushrooms, hoping to give herself something to do. She’d never been to a bar by herself, let alone a dusky little lounge connected to a midpriced motel.
Of course, it certainly beat holing up in her room, worrying herself into the ground.
As the waitress departed, Emily glanced at the stranger again. But when he turned in her direction, time stopped, the earth freezing on its axis.
Their gazes met and held, like magnets to metal.
Spellbound, neither blinked. Neither broke the bond. They simply stared at each other from across the room.
Emily’s mouth went dry. Within an instant, within one heart-palpitating moment, he’d left her breathless.
He wasn’t flirting, she thought. It was more than that. Much more. He watched her with masculine recognition, as if he knew what it was like to touch her, to hold her, to run his hands over every inch of her body.
Dear God.
Determined to regain her composure, to sever the nerve-jangling tie, she lifted her wine and took a small sip, but her fingers quaked around the glass.
What would he think if he knew she had cancer? Would he still be looking at her with longing in his eyes?
Don’t dwell on that, her subconscious warned. No self-pity. No fear. She wasn’t dying. Sooner or later, the cancer would be gone.
And so would a portion of her skin.
The song on the jukebox ended and another began. This time, an early Elvis tune played havoc with her emotions. Another favored melody, she thought. Another connection to the mysterious stranger.
Did he live in this area? Or had he come to Lewiston to see family members? To meet up with an old friend?
Emily had come here for an appointment at a medical center located ninety minutes from home. She could have made the trip in one day, but she’d decided to stay the night, to reflect, to spend some time alone.
In exactly two weeks, she was scheduled for a wide excision, a surgery that would cut away the cancer. At this point, two weeks seemed like an eternity, but her condition, the melanoma, wouldn’t progress in fourteen days. It wasn’t an unreasonable amount of time, not between insurance authorizations and the surgeon’s availability.
Emily took a deep breath. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t panic about going under the knife, that she wouldn’t worry if the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes.
When the appetizer arrived, Meg hovered for a moment, her teased-and-sprayed hairdo bobbing as she moved her head.
“Gorgeous, isn’t he?” she said.
“Yes.” Emily knew the man continued to watch her. She could feel the heat of his gaze.
“Why don’t you buy him a drink?”
“What?” She stared at the brazen redhead.
The waitress cocked her hip. “A beer, darlin’. He’s about due for another.”
“This probably isn’t the best time for me to—” She paused, realizing what she was about to admit. How inadequate she felt, how disjointed.
“That’s okay. It was just a suggestion.” Meg gave her a friendly smile and retreated, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts.
Should she buy him a drink? Her? The small-town girl diagnosed with skin cancer?
As he finished the last of his beer, Emily lifted her fork, skewered a mushroom and sucked it into her mouth. He pushed his hair away from his forehead, exposing a widow’s peak and slashing black brows.
Her entire body went woozy and warm.
To hell with the cancer. She was going to meet this man. Say something to him.
With as much courage as she could muster, she rose, determined to approach his table. As she crossed the room, she spotted Meg leaning against a barstool. She gazed at the other woman, hoping for a boost of encouragement.
The waitress flashed a sly wink.
By the time Emily reached him, her pulse thudded in her ears. He came to his feet, and she realized how tall he actually was. He towered over her by nearly a foot.
She extended a clammy palm. “My name is Emily.”
He took her hand, much too easily.
“I’m James.” His gaze roamed her body, up and down, over the ruffled silk blouse she’d ordered from a fancy catalog to the simple, five-pocket jeans she’d acquired at a discount store. “Dalton,” he added, his voice tinged with an unrecognizable accent. “James Dalton.”
Doing her darnedest to breathe, to keep a steady flow of oxygen filtering in and out of her lungs, she motioned to her table. “Would you care to join me?”
He didn’t respond. Instead he reached behind her and undid the gold barrette that secured her ponytail.
Spellbound, Emily merely stood, her long, wavy hair spilling over her shoulders. She knew Meg was watching, equally bewitched by James’s bold behavior.
He hooked the ornament onto his jacket pocket as if he meant to keep it. “I like the color of your hair,” he said. “It reminds me of…”
Her heart leaped for her throat. “Of what?”
“Someone I used to know.”
His expression turned dark, and she realized he’d yet to smile. The eyes that had been studying her seemed haunted, and his golden brown skin wore a shadow of beard stubble.
But he was still beautiful, even more enchanting up close. A jagged scar interrupted the pattern of his right eyebrow, and a slight cleft indented his chin. His cheekbones, she noticed, slashed like twin blades, balancing an Anglo versus Indian heritage. Was he from the Nez Perce reservation? Was that the reason he was in Lewiston?
He moved closer, and a shiver streaked up her spine. How would it feel to immortalize him? she wondered. To create his image on canvas?
Emily made her living waiting tables at her home-town diner, filling coffee cups and chatting with people she’d known all her life, but she dabbled in art, selling her work at weekend craft fairs. She wasn’t aspiring to be more than she was. She simply enjoyed having a hobby, painting faces that fascinated her.
“Dance with me,” he said.
She blinked, felt his fingers slide through her hair. “There’s no dance floor.”
“But there’s music.”
Yes, she thought. Music he’d chosen. “Meg said I should buy you a drink.”
He combed through the strands, separating each wave. “Meg?”
“The waitress.” Did he know he was seducing her? He must be part wizard, part warrior, part wolf—the hero of a magic tale.
“Dance with me,” he said again.
She should have told him no. She should have walked away. Because somewhere deep down, she knew where this was leading. When the evening ended, James Dalton would ask for more than a dance. He no doubt wanted a warm, willing blonde to share his bed, a one-night stand, a moonlit affair to satisfy his needs.
But even so, she allowed him to take her hand, to guide her to a cozy little spot near the jukebox.
