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

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.

Emily had needs, too. Needs that had remained dormant for much too long. She deserved to feel whole, to see desire on a man’s face, to know that he wanted her.

Especially now.

She didn’t want to think about her responsibilities, even though her mind drifted to her six-year-old brother Corey, to the little boy she’d left with an overnight baby-sitter.

She’d called Corey earlier, and he’d chattered gleefully on the phone. But he didn’t know that his sister was—

“Emily.” James said her name, and she looked up, relinquishing her thoughts, giving him her undivided attention.

He took her into his arms, and she clung to his shoulders. Such strong shoulders, she thought. So broad. So capable.

Emily and her partner swayed to the music, moving to a slow, rhythmic song. His heart pounded against hers, the sound melding into one dizzying chant.

“They’re watching us,” she said. Meg, the bartender, the other patrons in the bar. She knew they were observing every fluid motion, every satin-draped pulse.

He lowered his head to nuzzle, to brush her cheek with his. His beard stubble abraded her skin, marking her with his touch.

“Can you blame them?” he asked.

“No.” She couldn’t blame their audience. Nor could she blame herself. Heaven help her, but James Dalton was impossible to resist.

When he cupped her face to kiss her, she leaned into him. He didn’t invade her with his tongue. Covering her mouth, he sipped gently, offering a persuasive promise of what was yet to come.

He tasted of warmth, of beer, of secret liaisons, of a night she would never forget.

The kiss ended, and they stepped back to look at each other. His eyes were still haunted, still ghostly somehow, and she wondered how a tortured soul could be so beautiful.

He reached for her hair again, taking possession, confusing her even more.

Emily prided herself on being a good girl. She valued right from wrong, yet here she was, prepared to sleep with a stranger, hoping, praying that he would lead her astray.

They were an unholy combination, she thought. She reminded him of someone from his past, and he was like no one she’d ever met before.

No one at all.

James rubbed Emily’s cheek with his thumb, soothing the abrasion he’d left on her skin. She was so pretty, he thought. So soft. So dangerous.

When she wet her lips, he kissed her again, only this time he used his tongue, his teeth, his entire mouth to devour her.

Greedy, hungry, desperate for more, he dragged her against his body. Her breath rushed into his, warm and silky, like the wind on a summer night. He closed his eyes, absorbing her texture, her scent, the thickness of her hair wrapped around his hands.

He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t do this. That he wouldn’t stalk the local bars for sex. Yet he’d done it. He’d found a soft, sweet blonde on his first night in Idaho, the first night he was free. From prison. From the equally sequestered weeks that followed.

She made a throaty sound, and he realized he didn’t even know her last name. But somehow that didn’t matter. In his mind, she could be Beverly.

His lover. His friend. His wife.

James opened his eyes and broke the kiss. Emily stepped back and gulped some air. She looked ravished, and much too willing to be taken again.

“I’m not seducing you,” he said.

She smoothed her hair, calming the strands he’d tousled. “You’re not?”

“No. It’s you who’s seducing me. And you’re good at it.” Damn good. He would make love to her here, right now, in a dark corner of the bar if he thought he could get away with it.

“You’re teasing me, right?”

No, he wasn’t joking, not in the least. From the instant, the very moment he’d laid eyes on Emily, he’d thought about his wife. How much he’d loved her, how much he missed her.

“Are you still interested in buying me a drink?” he asked, giving her the opportunity to change her mind, to walk away from this twisted game.

She wasn’t Beverly. And he wasn’t James Dalton, even if that was the identity the government had given him. His real name was Reed Blackwood, and he was an ex-con, a former mobster, an accessory to murder and a thief.

But those were his secrets. The burden of his sins.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes?” he parroted.

“I’m still interested in buying you a drink.”

They proceeded to Emily’s table, where he ordered a beer. The waitress didn’t say anything about the sexy scene he’d caused, but she managed to slant him a Sister Mary Redhead look. Suddenly the brassy server was behaving like a nun.

James blew out a rough breath. Should he defend himself? Or would vouching for his own rotten character only earn him another spot in hell?

He turned to Emily. “She’s worried about you.”

“Who?”

“The waitress.”

She lifted her wine, took a small sip. The glass was still half-full. “But she encouraged me to meet you.”

“I know. But she’s having second thoughts.” He kept his hands still even if his pulse wasn’t quite steady. “I guess she hadn’t expected me to be so…aggressive.” To paw Emily in public, to jam his tongue down her throat and swallow her saliva. A sex-and-sugar flavor, he thought. A sweetness men craved.

Emily gazed at him with emerald-colored eyes. Beverly’s eyes had been green, too, as clear as the jewels he used to steal.

James shifted in his chair. Did she know how tempting she was?

She chewed her lip, peeling away the pale pink color, the barely-there gloss. With her heart-shaped face, fair complexion and long, sweeping lashes, she looked innocent, much too delicate to be messing around with someone like him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he heard himself say.

She moved closer. “I won’t hurt you, either.”

“Really?” Touched by her tenderness, he almost smiled. “You mean you’re not a wacko? A female serial killer who preys on gullible guys in bars?”

She laughed, and the light, natural sound made him yearn for his wife. Unable to help himself, he grazed Emily’s cheek, wishing he could kiss her again.

The redhead brought his beer. Guilty, he dropped his hand and let Emily pay for his drink.

“The next round is on me,” he said.

The next round came an hour later, and by that time the lounge was empty. James and Emily were the only customers left.

Stumbling through a conversation, they talked about movies and music and things that hardly mattered. He’d been tempted to ask her to dance again, but decided that remaining at the table, pretending to get to know her, would make their upcoming union seem a bit more proper.

“Are you staying at the motel?” Emily asked.

“Yes. Are you?”

She nodded. “I have a room upstairs.”

He wondered whose bed they would make love in. Hers, he hoped. He didn’t want to alert the man in the room next to him that he’d picked up a woman in the bar. The WITSEC inspector had warned him, albeit jokingly, to stay out of trouble for at least one night.

Then, again, he wasn’t breaking any rules. The Witness Security Program didn’t stop their members from engaging in consensual sex.

James pulled on his beer. Emily would agree to sleep with him, wouldn’t she?

Of course she would. She wasn’t as innocent as she looked.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

He set the bottle down. “Tomorrow.”

“Me, too.” She finished her second glass of wine. “Are you going home from here?”

He tried not to frown. Home? He hadn’t had a home in ages. He’d spent a year and a half on the run from Beverly’s crime lord father, the following year in a secured unit of a federal prison, testifying against the mob and serving time for his involvement in a hit that still haunted him. From there he’d spent two weeks at a safe-site orientation center, being briefed about his new identity and his relocation to Idaho.

“James?” Emily pressed.

“What? Oh, yeah. I’m going home. First thing in the morning.” To a place he’d never been.

“So am I.”

He didn’t ask where she lived. He didn’t want to know. James Dalton wasn’t comfortable with small talk. And neither was Reed Blackwood. Both men had plenty to hide.

“Where are you from?” she asked before he could change the subject.

He offered up a lie, relying on the background WITSEC had created for him. “I was born in Oklahoma, but I moved a lot.” Refusing to let the conversation go any further, he indicated the redhead, who thumbed through her receipts, then the bartender, who appeared to be stocking his station. “Looks like they’re getting ready to close. We better head out.”

James left a tip and escorted Emily to the door. He could feel the waitress watching them. He wanted to tell her that he would be good to Emily, that she was his salvation, the companion he needed for one lost lonely night, but he couldn’t say something like that out loud. So he glanced over his shoulder and caught the redhead’s eye, letting her know he was aware of her concern.

Outside, the night air sent a cool breeze blowing. James slipped his arm around Emily. They walked in the direction of the motel, then stopped beneath a stairwell.

“Well?” he said.

“Well?” she repeated, gazing up at him, her hair tumbling around her face.

He pressed his mouth to her ear, anxious to get closer. “Are you going to invite me to your room?”

She nodded, then turned to kiss him.

James went hard. Instantly hard.

She sighed, and he imagined licking her like a lemon drop and watching her melt against his tongue. She tasted like desire, his and hers, swirling in warm, wet—

Cursing his stupidity, he stepped back. He didn’t have any condoms.

“I goofed,” he said.

“What?”

“I have to get protection.” He motioned to the convenience store across the street.

Her voice turned shy. “I think I’d prefer to wait in my room.”

“I’ll walk you.” Her room was located at the top of the second set of stairs. They leaned against the door and kissed, almost too aroused to separate.

She bumped his fly, and he had the notion to forget the damn condoms, to take a chance, to have unprotected sex.

But he knew better. He’d already fathered a child he couldn’t keep, a beautiful little boy he missed with all his heart. He wasn’t about to make a baby with a stranger, to leave her swollen with his seed.

He smoothed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be waiting.” She gave him a sweet smile and unlocked her door, using the key card.

He watched her disappear, then turned to leave, thinking this was a hell of a way for Reed Blackwood to start over, to begin his life in the guise of James Matthew Dalton.

Two

Emily waited in her room, trying not to pace. Suddenly she was nervous, scared out of her inexperienced wits.

Should she tell him?

Tell him what? That she was scheduled for surgery in two weeks?

She sat on the edge of the bed and wrung her hands together. The melanoma would send him packing, that much she was sure. What hot-blooded American male would want to discuss skin cancer before sex?

Surely he wouldn’t notice the mark on the back of her leg, the site where a mole had been removed. Of course not. Why would he notice a small, seemingly insignificant scar? It wouldn’t matter to him.

Okay, fine. Then what about her virginity? Should she broach that subject? Should she admit that she’d never been with anyone before?

Emily had talked to her girlfriends about their first times. They’d sipped sodas, munched on potato chips and discussed indecent details, the way women often did. But at the moment, that didn’t help.

She had expected her first lover to be her only lover, the man she married, the man who would father her children. But waiting for Mr. Right seemed foolish now.

The cancer had changed her perspective. Life was too unpredictable to plan, and James Dalton was too handsome, too stirring, too erotic to ignore.

Desperate to relax, she removed her boots, peeled off her socks and looked around.

The motel room was spotless, aside from the makeup bag she’d left on the vanity and a blue T-shirt peeking out of a toppled gray suitcase.

Would James stay the night? Would he shower in her tub? Would he—

A knock sounded, and Emily nearly flew off the bed. With a deep, shaky breath, she stood, smoothed her blouse and answered the summons.

James offered a smile, an expression that gentled his rawboned features and softened the dark, hollow haunting in his eyes.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” She stepped back and allowed him entrance into the room, her heart beating with a girlish flutter.

She locked the door, and he held up the brown paper bag in his hand. “I got ’em.”

Yes, of course, she thought. The protection. He was responsible enough to practice sex safe and experienced enough to sight the topic ahead of time. But the fact that he didn’t keep condoms in his wallet set her mind at ease.

Apparently James didn’t make a habit of one-nighters, of picking up women in bars.

“You still have your clothes on,” he said, his smile tilting one corner of his mouth.

Her pulse leaped like a lizard. “You expected me to be naked?”

He tossed the condoms on the nightstand. “A guy can hope.”

“I took off my boots,” she said, almost wincing at her own naiveté, her inability to say something provocative.

He glanced at her feet. “Then you’re one step ahead of me.” Without hesitation, he sat on the edge of the bed, yanked off his battered boots and placed his socks inside them. “Now we’re even.”

“You’re wearing a jacket,” she pointed out.

He shrugged out of the denim and tossed it aside. “Not anymore.”

Emily hadn’t expected him to initiate a game, to bait her into a striptease.

Nervous, she remained near the dresser, the unit that doubled as an entertainment center.

He pushed his hair off his forehead, where the thick, dark strands routinely fell. “Your turn, pretty lady.”

She didn’t feel pretty, not with the lights blaring, not with him watching every move she made. Would he think her breasts were too small? Her tummy too soft? “You go next.”

“That’s cheating.”

She moved a little closer, determined to relax, to let this happen on her terms. “My room. My rules.”

“You got me there.” He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, revealing his chest and the silver ring that pierced his left nipple.

Stunned, she stared at the shimmering ornament and noticed a black stone in the center.

“I did it a long time ago,” he said.

“You pierced it yourself?”

“It was sort of a spiritual thing.”

To Emily, it looked more sexual than spiritual, but she wasn’t about to say that. “Is it sensitive?”

He glanced up and grinned. “Want to come closer and find out?”

Yes, she thought. She did. She couldn’t believe how alluring he was. Or how incredibly dangerous he looked, half-naked on her bed, teasing her with a flirtatious smile.

He held out his hand, beckoning her. She stepped forward, and he pulled her onto the bed, kissing her hard and fast, pushing his tongue into her mouth.

Suddenly his hands were everywhere. She’d meant to turn out the bedside lamp, to ease into his arms, but he was too anxious, too hungry, too strong and muscular.

“Tell me what you like,” he whispered, licking the shell of her ear, opening the top of her blouse. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Heaven help her, but she didn’t know. She didn’t—

“I’ll do anything, Emily. Anything you want.”

She had to warn him to slow down, to give her a chance to catch up. She couldn’t give him directions, say the naughty things he expected to hear.

Scraping her nail across his chest, she paused at his left nipple, almost touching the captivating ring.

“I’m new at this,” she said.

He lifted his head. She was pinned beneath him, the weight of his body pressing her onto the bed.

“New at what?”

“Sex. Making love. This is my first time.”

His features went still, much too still. Then the scar across his eyebrow twitched. Emily held her breath. Her fingers brushed the piercing, grazing the magic stone in the center.

He pulled back, disconnecting her hand from his skin.

“We don’t have to stop, James.” She glanced at his zipper, saw that he was still aroused. “Do we?”

He frowned at her. Was he angry? Confused?

“How old are you?” he asked.

She bit her lip. She could still taste him, the hard, desperate tongue thrusts he’d given her. “Twenty-two.”

He gazed directly into her eyes, but his were troubled again, as haunted as a ghost-ridden night. “Why me? And why now?”

She didn’t know what to say, how to explain her decision, not without mentioning the cancer. And she wasn’t about to bring that up, to evoke pity, or God help her, revulsion from the man she wanted to make love with.

“I’m tired of waiting,” she said.

“So you pick up some guy in a bar? That makes a hell of a lot of sense.”

She wanted to argue, to fight for her right to be free, to feel whole, to lose her virginity to a tall, dark stranger. “Have you looked in the mirror lately, James? Do you have any idea how handsome you are?”

“And for that you’re willing to sleep with me?” He closed his eyes, made a disbelieving face. “That’s insane.”

“It’s only sex.”

He opened his eyes. “But it shouldn’t be. Not your first time. You need to keep waiting, Emily. To find the right guy.”

Humiliated, she clasped the front of her blouse. He was turning her down. Her fantasy lover was walking away.

He skimmed her cheek, gently, almost too gently for her to endure. She wanted to ask him to stay, to hold her, but she didn’t have the courage to bare her soul, to admit that she still needed him.

He dropped his hand. “I can’t do this.”

She lifted her chin, protecting her pride. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I have to go.” He pulled his shirt over his head and reached for his boots. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll…” The words drifted, fading into nothingness.

Emily remained where she was, watching him. Finally, he stood, looking like the troubled warrior he was, his T-shirt catching on the top of his belt buckle.

He grabbed his jacket, and in the next instant he was gone, closing the door and leaving her alone.

Much too alone.

At 6:00 a.m. James gazed at his reflection in the mirror. When he’d agreed to enter WITSEC, he’d assumed the government would alter his features, but plastic surgery hadn’t been part of the deal. His face was the same as it had always been, including the scar that cut across his eyebrow, the mark he’d acquired the first time he’d gone to prison.

Emily liked the way he looked. She’d been willing to sleep with him, to give up her virginity, because she thought he was handsome.

Disturbed by her reasoning, James studied his features. Would Emily still find him attractive if she knew he was an ex-con? An accessory to murder?

Spewing a vile curse, he turned away from the mirror. Why did she have to remind him of Beverly? He had been Beverly’s first lover, the man she’d given it up for, but the circumstances were different.

Beverly Halloway had been in love with him. Emily, the lady with no last name, didn’t know him from Adam.

Struggling to clear his mind, he made one last check of the room, grabbed his meager belongings and headed out the door, where the sun had already risen.

He squinted into the daylight and saw Zack Ryder, the field inspector assigned to his case, leaning against his car. James didn’t have a vehicle, but WITSEC had provided him with enough money to purchase a used pickup once he got settled.

Ryder drew on a dwindling cigarette and blew a stream of smoke into the air. “’Morning.”

James merely nodded. Ryder was a mixed-blood, part Indian like himself, tall and strongly built, but that was where the similarity ended. The inspector looked about forty, with graying temples and a sardonic sense of humor.

He belonged to an elite unit of the U.S. Marshal Service and was trained to protect more than witnesses. Foreign dignitaries and government officials had probably crossed his path, as well.

James, on the other hand, was only twenty-six and had spent most of his youth learning to be a criminal. Boasting a genius IQ, he was a self-taught electronics expert, capable of deactivating the most sophisticated security systems ever designed. In his spare time, he used to build countersurveillance equipment. Skills, naturally, the mob had admired. It hadn’t taken him long to become a “made” man, a soldier in the Los Angeles-based West Coast Family.

Ryder motioned to the restaurant affiliated with the motel. “Ready for some chow?”

James adjusted the bag over his shoulder. “That’s the last place I want to eat.”

“Why? Does it have roaches I don’t know about?”

“I just want to get on the road.” And avoid running into Emily. What if she decided to have breakfast here? He glanced down the row of cars and spotted the compact he suspected was hers.

“How about McDonald’s?” Ryder asked.

“As long as we’re driving through.” James didn’t want to linger in Lewiston. He wanted to forget this town, forget that he’d met Emily here. He’d tossed and turned half the night, thinking about her, wondering who she was, where she lived.

He wasn’t supposed to care, but he was worried about the next guy she met in a bar, worried the bastard would be all too willing to take what she offered.

Ryder unlocked his sedan, got behind the wheel and snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray. When he opened the trunk, James stowed his bag and climbed into the car.

While they drank coffee and ate Egg McMuffins, James leaned back in his seat. WITSEC had decided to relocate him to Silver Wolf, a small town in North Central Idaho, positioned about an hour and a half from Lewiston.

Ryder drove with one hand, his sandwich in the other. “You might want to check out Tandy Stables.”

“What for?”

“A job. The old lady who runs the place is looking for an assistant. The position comes with room and board, a mobile home on her property.”

“How do you know?”

The inspector inclined his head. “I made it my business to know. Did you think I’d dump you in a small town with no job prospects? Besides, I heard you’re good with horses.”

James shrugged. He’d grown up in the Texas Hill Country, riding and roping and playing cowboy. Or outlaw, he supposed. “I’ve spent as much time in the country as the city.”

“Then getting back to basics will do you some good. Speaking of which—” Ryder slanted him a wary-eyed glance “—you look like hell, Dalton.”

“I didn’t get much sleep.”

“Why not? Too busy jumping some pretty blonde in the bar?”

Son of a bitch. The deputy marshal knew exactly what had gone down. “I didn’t break any rules.”

“Yeah, well, the first time you do, I’ll come gunning for your ass. We’ll kick you out of this program faster than you picked up on that blonde.”

“Leave her out of this.” The last thing James wanted was to talk about Emily, to admit that she’d gotten under his skin.

The inspector shoved his sandwich wrapper into the empty food bag. “Just don’t screw up.” He flashed a peace-treaty smile, letting James know he was more friend than foe. “You’ll make me look bad.”

“I don’t plan on screwing up.” But ex-cons never did, he supposed. He couldn’t blame Ryder for being skeptical. But, then, the inspector didn’t know the whole story. No one, not even WITSEC or the FBI knew that James had fathered a child, a dark-haired, dark-eyed boy he’d asked another man to claim. In his heart, James was different. Being a parent, even a secret one, had changed him.

Ninety minutes later Ryder turned off the highway and onto a small country road. “This is it.”

James looked out the window, noting the tall timbers and quaint wooden buildings. WITSEC had showed him videos of Silver Wolf, familiarizing him with the area. They’d debated sending him to a Cherokee community, but were concerned the mob would expect him to seek sanctuary among his tribe. So they’d picked a place near the Nez Perce reservation, an Indian Nation he wasn’t connected to.

The inspector parked in front of the Silver Wolf Lodge. James gazed at the shrub-shrouded motel, knowing this was his temporary home. Once he landed a job, possibly the position Ryder mentioned, he would acquire a permanent place to live.

From there, WITSEC would expect him to establish roots, to blend in. Unless, of course, his security was breached and he had to be relocated again.

Three days had passed since that night in Lewiston, since Emily had lost her fantasy lover. Enough time to forget, to move on, yet she couldn’t seem to get her harried life in order.

Dashing into the back room of Dolly’s All-Night Diner, she punched her time card.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said to the graveyard-shift waitress waiting to leave. “I had a meeting at Corey’s school and it ran longer than I expected.”

“That’s all right. We’ve all got kids,” came the gracious reply.

Emily sighed. She didn’t have kids. She had a younger brother, a child she did her best to mother, in spite of his knack for diving headfirst into exhausting doses of mischief.

She greeted the cook and took her place on the floor, scanning the diner. The place was relatively quiet, leaving her little to do.

Of course, the locals were here, as regular as clockwork. Lorna, the beautician across the street, paid the cashier for her typical take-out order, and Harvey Osborn, a retired postal worker, occupied his usual stool.

Across from Harvey, at an end booth, she spotted the back of someone’s head, a man in a black cowboy hat. A newspaper was spread in front of him, taking up most of the table.

Emily turned the revolving wheel at the cook’s counter, checking out the orders she’d inherited, including Harvey’s cherry Danish and never-ending boost of coffee.

When she refilled his cup, he looked up and smiled. He was a bony little man, with narrow shoulders and baggy trousers. He wore striped suspenders every day, but she suspected he needed them to hold up his pants.

“How are you, missy?” he asked.

“Fine.” Harvey, of course, knew about her cancer. He made a point of knowing everyone’s business, of gossiping like a blue-haired matron.

Keeping his voice low, he cocked his head toward the man in the black hat. “I’ll bet he’s Lily Mae’s new assistant.”

“You think so?” Harvey loved to talk about Lily Mae Prescott, the scatterbrained proprietor of Tandy Stables.

He nudged her arm. “Why don’t you go find out?”

“I suppose I should say hello. Let him know his order is almost ready.” She turned, coffeepot in hand, and approached the black hat.

The man shifted, rattled the paper and looked up.

Emily nearly dropped the glass carafe. “James?”

There he was, as rough and rugged as the timeworn Stetson shielding his eyes, as dark and forbidden as her dreams, as the ache of not making love with him.

She feared she might faint.

“Emily?” Equally stunned, he stared at her.

She moved forward, battling for composure, pretending to do her job. “Do you want more coffee?”

“No. Yes. I guess so.”

He made no sense, but she understood his confusion. They’d never expected to see each other again.

She poured the hot brew, filling his cup, telling herself she would survive this incredibly awkward moment, the pounding of her heart, the ringing in her ears.

His jaw, she noticed, was clean shaven, scraped free of the dark stubble. But somehow, he still managed to look like a desperado, an Indian renegade.

“I thought you were going home,” she said, her voice as unsteady as her pulse.

“I am home. I just moved here.”

Oh, God. Dear God.

“That’s why I was in Lewiston.” He cleared his throat, attempted to explain. “I flew in that night. The motel was close to the airport. It was convenient.” He lifted his cup, set it back down. “Why were you there?”

“I—” She set the coffeepot on his table. “I had an appointment that afternoon, and I didn’t feel like driving home.”

“So you got a room?”

“Yes.” He seemed like a mirage, a figment of her tortured imagination, but he was real. Heaven help her. He was real.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Emily.”

“It’s okay. It’s fine.” She wiped her clammy hands on her uniform, on the pink dress she routinely wore. “You’ll like this town.”

“Geez, Louise,” Harvey said from behind her. “You two young folks know each other?”

Silent, James shifted his gaze to the old-timer. Harvey moseyed on over, shuffling his way to the booth.

Emily stood like a statue. She’d tried to forget James Dalton. She’d tried so hard, so desperately to erase him from her mind, from the memory imbedded in her soul.

Without waiting for an invitation, Harvey sat across from James. “Are you Lily Mae’s new assistant?”

“Yes. She just hired me this morning.”

“Hot diggity. I knew it.” He turned to Emily. “Didn’t I tell ya?” Then back to James. “So, how’d you meet our little Emmy? What’s this about Lewiston?”

Caught off guard, James folded the paper. Emily saw him struggle to answer, to find a suitable explanation. “I noticed her. I thought she was pretty.”

And he’d wanted to sleep with me, she thought. Until he’d discovered she’d never had sex before.

Harvey flashed his dentures. “I think she’s pretty, too. That’s why I loiter…I mean, eat here. But don’t tell the other waitresses I said that. They think I hang around for them.”

James’s mouth, that warm, firm mouth, tilted in a faint smile, and Emily recalled the lust-driven flavor of his last kiss, the very moment he’d pulled her onto the bed.

Then let her go.

After Harvey introduced himself to Silver Wolf’s newest resident, reciting his name and how long he’d lived in this county, he said, “So you’ll be working with Lily Mae. That woman’s crazy, you know.”

“Must be why she hired me.”

When James glanced her way, Emily thought about her upcoming surgery. Would he find out? Would Harvey tell him?

“I’ll check on your order,” she said to James, hoping to prod Harvey back to his stool.

But the gossip guru remained where he was, blabbing about Lily Mae Prescott.

Finally, when she brought James’s breakfast, Harvey excused himself, pleased that he’d spoken his piece about Lily Mae.

After the older man paid his bill and left the restaurant, James lifted the brim of his hat, exposing his eyes.

Those haunted eyes.

“They must have been lovers,” he said.

“What?” Emily realized she’d left the coffeepot on his table all this time. That her brain was completely addled.

“Harvey and Lily Mae.”

His words sunk in. “You think he and she—”

“A long time ago. When they were young.”

She blinked, stared at him, blinked again. “No one has ever assumed that before. Lily Mae drives Harvey nuts.”

“Because he can’t get her out of his system.” James tapped on his chest. “It happens sometimes. A woman gets inside you, and you can’t let her go. You—” He paused, as if suddenly aware of what he was saying, of what he was feeling.

Emily didn’t know how to react. She knew he was thinking about the other blonde, the woman she reminded him of. “I better go. Let you eat your meal.”

She attempted to turn away, but he stopped her.

“Wait. Emily, wait.”

Her pulse jumped. “Yes?”

“You didn’t…you haven’t—” he stalled, reached for the ketchup “—found someone else?”

Embarrassed, she shook her head. “It wasn’t that important.”

His hand slid down the base of the bottle, then back up. “Wasn’t it?”

“No. It was just a whim.” She released the air in her lungs. Was he caressing the glass? Molding it like a woman’s body?

His voice turned rough. “I just wanted to be sure that someone else didn’t…”

Didn’t what? Take her virginity? Make her feel good? She chewed her lip, tasting the gloss she’d applied earlier. “I have to get back to work.”

She grabbed the coffeepot and left him alone, staring at the ketchup bottle in his hand.

After a short while, she returned, asking if he wanted anything else. Avoiding eye contact, he shook his head, and she put his bill on the table.

He lingered at the booth, a lone figure in dark clothes, scattered light from a shaded window sending shadows across his face.

Other customers filtered into the diner, and Emily went about her job, taking orders, chatting with people she knew.

Later, as she balanced two breakfast specials, she scanned the room to see him, to look at him one more time. But he was gone, his bill paid, his food barely eaten.

She cleared his table and reached for the shiny gold ornament that held her tip.

It wasn’t a money clip. It was her hair barrette, the one he’d hooked to his jacket on the night they should have made love.

The night he’d left her wanting more.

Three

Emily lived seven miles from town on a paved country road. Her yellow-and-white house, James noticed, looked like a cottage, something out of a gingerbread fairy tale.

He parked his newly acquired truck and sat behind the wheel, hoping the purpose of his visit wouldn’t put her off. He hadn’t seen her for several days, since he’d left the diner without saying goodbye. But he’d run into Harvey Osborn this afternoon at the hardware store, and the old guy had given James an earful.

So here he was, parked on her street, preparing to confront her.

A woman he barely knew.

A woman who had cancer.

He studied the decorative lamppost in front of her house, wondering if the Creator had put Emily in his path for a reason. If meeting her was part of some sort of divine plan.

Yeah, right.

Did he honestly believe the Creator gave a damn about him? That he was even worthy of a plan?

James wasn’t exactly the disciple of a deity. He was an ex-con, an accessory to murder, a man who had no business associating with someone like Emily.

He cursed beneath his breath and exited his vehicle, knowing he should head back to work instead, forget about Emily, keep his distance. But he couldn’t. He simply couldn’t. He needed to talk to her.

Taking the shrub-lined walkway to her stoop, he adjusted his hat, shielding his eyes, guarding his emotions.

Her dome-shaped door displayed a four-paned window, but he couldn’t see through the smoked glass nor could he predict what awaited him on the other side.

What was he supposed to say to her? How was he supposed to start this conversation?

James knocked, rapping softly. Within a heartbeat, within one anxious, chest-pounding thump, Emily answered the summons, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

Her hair, that honey-blond mane, waved in a loose natural style, springing softly around her face. And her eyes, as green as a sunlit meadow, caught his, trapping him beneath the battered brim of his hat.

She could have been Beverly, he thought. The lady he’d loved.

“James?”

She blinked her sweeping lashes, and he told himself she wasn’t his wife. Her resemblance to Beverly wasn’t that specific.

What about her illness? The disease that chilled his bones?

That, he decided, was specific enough to bring him to her door, to leave him standing here, tongue-tied and terminally tortured.

“James?” she said again.

He found his voice, raw as it was. “Harvey told me where you lived.”

“I wasn’t expecting company,” she responded, a bit too cautiously. “I just got off work a little while ago. But I suppose Harvey mentioned that, too.”

James frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me you had cancer?”

Her breath rushed out, and he wondered if she’d gone woozy. She gripped the doorknob, her cheeks turning pale. “When was I supposed to tell you?”

“How about the night we met?” The hot, hungry night he’d almost made love to her.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It would have been awkward.”

No more awkward than this, he thought.

She released the doorknob, but her hands didn’t remain idle for long. She fidgeted with the T-shirt she wore, tugging uncomfortably at the fabric.

“It’s no big deal,” she said.

No big deal? He had the notion to shake her. To hold her, to drag her next to his body and never let go.

James’s wife had died of lung cancer. Beverly had been as young and beautiful as Emily. As delicate. As stubborn. He knew the disease didn’t discriminate. Those who weren’t supposed to be at risk sometimes ended up on a grassy slope, marked by an elegant headstone, by a slab of marble etched with a lonesome epitaph.

A grave James couldn’t visit. A resting place that gave him no peace.

“I want answers, Emily. I want to know about your condition.”

“I thought Harvey told you.”

“He didn’t have all the details.”

“What did he say?”

“That you have skin cancer. And you’re having surgery.”

She lifted her chin, gave him a tough-girl look. “That’s plenty of information. More than you need to know.”

“Like hell.”

Her expression didn’t falter. “I’m under no obligation to explain myself to you.”

He moved closer, crowding her. “Five days ago you were willing to let me pop your cherry. And not because you were tired of waiting.” Battling his temper, he cursed his own comment. But what did he care about being proper? About protecting the honor of a woman he barely knew? “You were freaked out about the cancer. Admit it. That’s why you picked up a stranger in a bar.”

“So what’s your excuse?” she shot back.

My dead wife, he wanted to say. The mother of his lost child. “Men don’t need excuses. Men—” He froze, realizing how harsh he sounded, how ungentlemanly he was behaving.

God help him, he knew better. In spite of his crude upbringing, of the crimes he’d committed, he knew how to treat a lady, how to respect her.

“Men what?” she asked, shoving at his shoulder, trying in vain to push him away, to keep the monster he was at bay.

“Nothing,” he said, taking a step back, giving her the space she needed, hating himself for the discomfort he saw in her eyes.

She released a shaky sigh, and he resisted the urge to spill his lowlife guts, to admit why her cancer made him crazy.

“I’m sorry, Emily.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” He held up his hands, like an outlaw trying to stop the bullet he deserved. “I’m just worried about you.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, a nervous habit he’d seen her do before. Was she contemplating his sincerity?

“I’ll tell you what you want to know,” she finally said.

Silent, he waited for her to make the next move. Which she did, by gesturing to the shallow ridge on her front stoop, offering him a place to sit.

What did he expect after the way he’d acted? For her to invite him into her home? Into her fairy-tale cottage with its lace curtains and artfully painted trim—a place someone like him would never belong.

Emily sat beside James in the shady spot she’d chosen, unsure of where to begin. Her shoulder brushed his, and the contact made her foolishly weak. She would never forget the way he’d kissed her that night, the erotic, openmouthed pressure of his lips, the wetness from his tongue.

And now he wanted to hear about her cancer.

She turned to look at him. Their faces were close. Too close. She shouldn’t have suggested such tight quarters, such a confined place to have this conversation.

His eyes were nearly hidden by the brim of his hat. She couldn’t see into the window of his soul, couldn’t uncover his secrets. Even though he’d managed to uncover all of hers.

“Do you know anything about skin cancer?” she asked.

He shook his head. “A little. But not enough to understand what’s happening to you.”

“I have melanoma.” The most dangerous form of skin cancer, she thought. “It begins in a type of cell called a melanocyte. Melanocyctes produce melanin.”

“The pigment in our skin,” he said.

“Yes.” She gazed at him, at his deep, rich coloring. “People with fair skin and red or blond hair are at risk because their skin cells have less melanin.”

“Like you.”

She nodded. In spite of her fair skin, of her tendency to burn, she’d spent years trying to perfect a tan, to look good in a bathing suit. She thrived on summer days, on splashing in a nearby river, on strolling along sun-dappled trails.

Until now.

“How did you find out you had melanoma?” he asked.

“I went to my HMO doctor on another matter. I twisted my ankle and decided to have it x-rayed.” Avoiding his gaze, she glanced at the yard. A freshly fallen leaf stirred in the breeze, fluttering to the ground. The May weather was mild, but Emily’s emotions ran rampant. She dreaded the onset of summer, of challenging the sun, of being overly cautious every time she stepped outside. “My ankle was fine, but the doctor noticed a suspicious-looking mole on my leg.”

“Suspicious-looking?”

“The shape was irregular and the color was uneven. I never paid much attention to it. To me, it was just a mole. It had been there for years.” Emily steadied her voice, determined to make this sound more clinical. Less personal. She wanted to overcome her anxiety, to feel like herself again. “My doctor referred me to a skin care clinic in Lewiston. They removed the mole and got a pathology report.”

He waited for her to continue, but she paused to pull air into her lungs. She didn’t like discussing this with a stranger, a man she’d almost slept with.

He shifted his weight, making her much too aware of his body next to hers. Anxious to get this conversation over with, she went on. “There are different types of melanoma and the disease is diagnosed in stages, which is determined by the thickness of the cancer and how deeply it’s invaded the skin. Mine is considered stage one.”

“When is your surgery scheduled?”

Rather than gesture to the afflicted area, to the part of her that would soon be scarred, she kept her hands still. “Next Friday.”

James studied her, much too intensely. “What about recovery time?”

“It depends on the extent of your surgery and what kind of work you do. I’m taking a month off.” She wondered why he seemed determined to grill her, to acquire every last detail. “My boss offered me a few weeks sick pay, and I was going to take a vacation this summer anyway.” To spend some lazy days at the river, she thought. To bask in the sun. Something she could no longer do. “That will be more than enough time.”

“Is your family going to look after you?”

“My parents passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his shadowed eyes meeting hers.

“Thank you.” Facing this without her mom and dad made her feel vulnerable, especially with James watching her so closely.

He cleared his throat and prompted her with another question. “Who’s taking you to the hospital?”

“A girlfriend. She’s going to keep an eye on me afterward, too.”

“I can help,” he said. “I can stop by when your friend isn’t available.”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He reached out to skim her cheek, to trace the contours of her face.

“Yes.” Emily refused to admit how nervous she was, how being diagnosed with cancer had changed her. “I won’t be bedridden.”

He ran his fingers along her jaw. “If you need me, all you have to do is call.”

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