Loe raamatut: «Cherokee Dad»
“Who Does The Mob Think Justin’s Father Is?” Michael Asked.
“You,” Heather told him.
Yes, him. Who else could it be? He was Heather’s only lover, the only man she’d ever given herself to.
“You have no right to ask this of me. To expect me to raise your brother’s son,” Michael said.
“I’m not expecting you to do it forever. Just for a few months.”
“Why didn’t you think about me before you got tangled up in this mess?”
“Please understand. This is about Justin. An innocent child.”
What the hell was he supposed to do? Let the mob take the boy away from her?
“Please.” She went to the baby and picked him up.
Michael frowned, and Justin took that moment to smile.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
“All right,” he said as the boy’s grin tunneled an unwelcome path straight into his cautious, it’ll-be-over-in-two-months heart.
Dear Reader,
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Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Cherokee Dad
Sheri Whitefeather
MILLS & BOON
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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, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.
To my editor, Melissa “MJ” Jeglinski, for truly caring about my work and giving me the opportunity to spread my wings. And to Joan Marlow Golan and Tara Gavin for trusting me to revise the proposal after they bought it. This isn’t the only Mafia-driven book I’ve written. Silhouette planted the seed in their Lone Star Country Club series, allowing me to let it sprout in a few different directions. I spent some engaging years in L.A., and I couldn’t resist creating a Los Angeles-based mob.
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
Rain slashed against the windows, and lightning flashed in white-hot streaks. The intermittent bursts of thunder reminded twenty-five-year-old Michael Elk of the Cherokee thunder beings his uncle had told him about.
As a youth, Michael had scoffed at the existence of those revered beings, but on this weather-ravaged night, he wondered if they were out there, sanctioned by the Creator to perform special duties.
Thunderous duties.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Another pounding nearly jarred him out of his skin.
He placed the beer he’d been nursing on a side table and told himself to get a grip. Watching an old Hitchcock movie and listening to the storm was no reason to panic.
Then why did he sense that something was about to happen? Something, he decided, as he stared at the TV, that wasn’t in the script.
Another thunderous noise slammed through the living room, and Michael looked around, just to reassure himself that everything was all right.
He lived in a red-and-white farmhouse in the Texas Hill Country, the place where he’d been born. A place that gave him peace, at least most of the time.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Again, that sound. It seemed too close, too personal, too—
Too much like someone banging on the door?
Cursing his stupidity, he rose. Then wondered if thunder beings ever came to a man’s door.
Oh, sure. Right along with the Easter Bunny, Freddy Kruger and the Tooth Fairy.
Or maybe Santa Claus in a Halloween mask.
With an amused chuckle, he opened the door.
And flinched as if he’d been sucker punched.
Heather Richmond stood on the other side, dripping with rain and hugging a blanketed bundle to her chest.
Heather—his missing girlfriend, the woman who’d purposely disappeared a year and a half ago, the stunning blonde who’d sent his tortured heart to hell.
Their gazes locked, and his pulse jumped to his throat. Water glistened on her cheeks and dotted her lashes. Even in the dark, her eyes shined bright and blue.
“I tried the bell,” she said, her voice quiet amid the storm. “But it wasn’t working.”
He could only stare, could only struggle to get his emotions in check. The cumbersome bundle in her arms looked suspiciously like a baby.
Whose baby? His or someone else’s?
He had no idea what Heather had been up to. She’d gone to California on a business trip, then vanished into thin air. He’d filed a missing person’s report, frantic something horrible had happened to her, but a police investigation had turned up deceitful evidence.
“May I come in?” she asked.
He wanted to say no, to send her away. But the blanket moved and a little hand popped out from the damp folds of the fluffy material.
He couldn’t send the child away, not if it was his.
Without speaking, he stepped back, allowing her entrance into the home they’d once shared.
She walked into the living room, making damp marks on the hardwood floor. When she adjusted the sleeping baby, he noticed a cap of dark hair.
“Michael?”
His name on her lips pierced him like an arrow. And so did memories of the police report. The convention Heather had supposedly attended never existed, and she’d closed her savings account in Los Angeles, withdrawing the money she’d acquired from her deceased mother’s life insurance policy.
The LAPD concluded that she’d disappeared purposely, and since she hadn’t been involved in a crime, they hadn’t pursued her whereabouts.
There had been one vital clue in the mystery, though. The authorities discovered that Reed Blackwood, her half brother, had been living in L.A. and had left town on the day Heather closed her savings account.
But Reed was no longer on probation, so the ex-con was free to go where he pleased. And so, they’d claimed, was Heather.
Michael had considered hiring a private investigator to track her down, but his pride had gotten in the way. Why search for a woman who’d lied to him? Who’d gone to L.A. on a farce? Who’d stomped on his heart?
“Michael?” she said his name again, drawing his attention back to her.
“Yes?”
“Is it all right if we stay here tonight?”
We. Her and the child.
“Yes,” he responded again.
After that, silence stretched between them. The air grew thick and tense, swirling like a poltergeist. Was she going to tell him about the baby? Offer him an explanation? Or would silence prevail, trapping him in this haunting lull?
Finally she spoke, her voice much too soft. “Will you bring in the baby’s crib? It’s a portable model. There’s a small suitcase I need, too. And a diaper bag.”
How old was the child? he wondered as he accepted Heather’s keys and ventured outside. He’d yet to get a closer look, to determine its age.
Had she been carrying his babe in her womb when she’d run off?
The storm blasted his face, and he squinted into the rain. He suspected Heather’s car was a rental since she’d left her other vehicle behind when she’d split.
He hauled in the requested items, and she thanked him quietly.
Silence again. Then, “Will you hold him while I make up his bed?”
Him. So the child was a boy.
Michael stepped forward, and she transferred the baby into his arms. He wasn’t unfamiliar with babies; his uncle had a six-week-old son. Of course, this child was bigger, much heavier than his tiny cousin.
The top of the blanket fell away, exposing golden skin, chubby cheeks and long sweeping lashes. He was a pretty baby, almost too pretty to be a boy.
“What’s his name?” Michael asked.
She fluffed the bedding. “Justin.”
He glanced at the child’s face. He could see that Justin had some Indian blood in him. “How old is he, Heather?”
“Ten months.” A little nervously, she reached for the baby and placed him in the crib, removing the blanket that swaddled him.
Justin stirred but didn’t waken.
A ten-month-old with Indian blood. It didn’t take a genius to do the math, to figure the ethnic equation. “Is he mine?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she fussed with the child’s pajamas and adjusted a loose sock, fitting it back onto his foot.
Michael moved closer, anxious, hopeful, afraid. “I asked you if he’s mine.”
She covered the baby, and the boy rolled onto his side. When she stood, her eyes, those incredible blue eyes, met Michael’s. She still wore an overcoat, and her waist-length hair was sprinkled with rain.
“Heather?” he persisted.
Rather than respond, she turned away. As she headed out the door, Michael followed her, wondering what the hell was up.
They stood on the porch, rain blowing toward them.
“We can’t talk inside. Not until I sweep the house for bugs.”
Bugs? Michael stared at her. He knew she meant electronic devices. “What’s going on? What kind of trouble are you in?”
“Reed’s in trouble.”
He shook his head. Her brother always was. “And what about the boy? Is he mine?”
“Justin is Reed’s son.”
Michael’s stomach dropped. The baby wasn’t his.
Damn Heather all to hell. She’d brought her brother’s child to his house. The man he’d forbade her to see. The ex-con he’d banned from their lives.
Of course Justin looked as if he had Indian blood, Reed was half-Cherokee, just like Michael.
“Who’s his mother?”
“Her name is Beverly.”
“So where in the hell is she? And Reed for that matter? What are you doing with their kid, Heather?”
Her breath hitched. “It’s a long story.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty of time.”
Heather couldn’t explain, not now. She gestured to the storm, to the blinding rain. “It’s pouring out. I’m cold and tired.”
And afraid.
Fearful of how to tell Michael her story without revealing the secret that would keep him from ever forgiving her.
Already she could see pain and anger in his eyes. She’d never meant to hurt him. He was, and always would be, the man she loved. But she couldn’t turn her back on her brother, not even for Michael. So she’d gone to California.
Then her entire world had turned inside out.
Heather drew a shaky breath. What if Michael uncovered her secret on his own? Was that possible?
No, she told herself. That wouldn’t happen. The only person who could spill her secret was Dr. Mills and the kindly old physician wouldn’t betray Heather’s medical files.
Would he?
Michael spiked a hand through his shoulder-length hair, and Heather couldn’t help but study him. He wore a black T-shirt, threadbare jeans and scuffed boots. He’d always been tough. Dashing yet dangerous.
A renegade.
Just like Reed. At one time, her half-Cherokee brother and her half-Cherokee lover had been boyhood friends, running wild and cheating the law.
Two years their junior, she used to follow them around, worried about Reed and smitten by Michael. He’d always smiled at her, even when she was a bony, flat-chested little girl.
She lifted her gaze and slammed into his.
He wasn’t smiling now.
“Michael?”
“What?” he snapped.
“Don’t use the phone or tell anyone I’m here. No one, not even your uncle.”
“For how long?”
“Until I secure your house.”
“If your brother dragged me into something illegal, I’m going to kill him.”
Would he think protecting a child’s life was criminal?
He squinted through a gust of rain. “I should make you tell me. I should demand the whole damn story out of you. Right here. Right now. But I won’t. And do you know why?”
Nervous, she shook her head. He sounded so cold, so hard.
“Because another day won’t matter. What’s done is done. You made your choice when you lied to me. When you didn’t call. Didn’t come back.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, willing herself not to cry, not to break down in front of him.
Would he understand once she told him why she didn’t call? Why she didn’t come back before now?
Tough and terse, Michael shrugged away her apology, and she banked the tears flooding her eyes.
They went back inside and Heather removed her coat, fearful of what tomorrow would bring. Would Michael agree to help her and Justin? Or was her fate doomed?
As close as she and Michael had been, he’d never actually told her that he loved her, not even when he’d asked her to live with him.
But, then, no one except Heather’s wayward brother had ever said those words. Reed’s “Thanks for caring,” and “I love you, kiddo,” had been her lifeline, the hope that she was truly worthy of being loved.
Heather hadn’t been able to count on her parents, not her stern, critical father or her nervous, flighty mother.
She’d promised Reed that she would give his son more than what they’d had. More kindness. More affection. More love.
And Reed understood that well. Her father, who’d been her brother’s disapproving stepfather, had punished Reed at every turn, raising his fists until Reed grew tall enough to fight back.
She knelt to smooth the baby’s thick brown hair, then looked up at Michael.
He shifted his feet. He seemed so dark, so menacing. Yet she recalled how gentle he could be, how tender, how boyish and playful.
He used to tickle her, attack her ribs until she nearly died laughing. Then he’d kiss her until she sighed his name and melted onto the bed, his naked body covering hers.
“You can sleep in the guest room,” he offered, although his tone lacked hospitality.
“Thank you, but the couch is fine. Justin’s bed is already made up out here, and I’d like to be near him.”
Without speaking, he went to the linen closet, returned with a burgundy quilt and a mismatched pillow, stacking them hastily on the sofa.
His house was cluttered, but he’d never kept things tidy. Heather had picked up after him, but it was her nature to keep order, to organize everything but her love-starved heart.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said.
He glanced at the baby, then brought his gaze back to her. “There’s milk in the fridge if you need it.”
“Thank you.” She watched him snap off the TV and walk down the hall.
Copper-skinned, raven-haired Michael Elk. The man she loved. The man she wished she hadn’t betrayed.
Michael dragged himself into the shower. He’d tossed and turned most of the night. Eventually he’d succumbed to exhaustion, only to discover he’d over-slept.
After the water pummeled his body and he reached for a towel, he told himself to relax, to confront the day with as much patience as he could muster.
As he brushed his teeth, he noticed another toothbrush on the counter.
Heather’s.
The past had come back to taunt him, the bittersweet memories of living with her, of sharing the same space. Michael’s old farmhouse had three bedrooms and one cozy bath.
He rinsed his mouth and stole a second glance at her toothbrush, struggling with the unwelcome intimacy it stirred.
Finally he threw on some jeans and a work shirt, then headed to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.
But she’d beat him to it. An aromatic brew was already perking. He poured himself a cup and stood quietly for a moment, trying to stabilize his heart. Then he entered the living room and stumbled straight into a network of electronic equipment.
The countersurveillance system on the coffee table appeared to be running in an automatic mode as Heather utilized another detector Reed had probably built.
Her brother was a young, cocky genius, as skilled as someone with a Ph.D. in electrical engineering, and he must have taught her what she needed to know.
The device seemed fairly simple to operate, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. Reed Blackwood didn’t build spy shop gadgets. He dealt in the real thing.
The baby made a noise, drawing Michael’s attention to the crib. Justin was asleep, but a telltale bottle of milk lay at his side. Apparently he’d drunk some nourishment and drifted off again.
Just then Heather turned to look at Michael, to meet his gaze.
Her long, white-blond hair fell in dazzling disarray, and she wore a simple, sky-blue blouse and slim-fitting jeans. She moistened her lips, and at that sexually charged instant, she reminded him of Eve—the temptress Adam couldn’t resist.
Well, I’m not Adam, he thought. He wasn’t about to bite the proverbial apple.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Yeah.” He flicked his head like a hot-blooded stallion, and then made a sardonic toast with his coffee. “’Morning.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, she adjusted the detector. She’d been in the process of sweeping an old rolltop desk and every item on it.
“When do you have to be to work?” she asked.
“When I feel like it.” She knew damn well that he kept his own hours. He and his uncle ran a prestigious guest ranch in the hills, but Michael didn’t punch a time clock.
And neither did she, for that matter. She used to be the events coordinator at the ranch, a position she’d more or less dumped on his lap.
As he drank coffee that failed to warm his belly, she continued the sweep.
She carted her equipment into his bedroom, and he realized it was the only room she hadn’t scanned. Apparently she’d been up since the crack of dawn, making her inspection.
Michael remained in the living room. The idea that his house needed debugging made him queasy. He didn’t want to envision strangers eavesdropping on his life, invading his privacy—the times he cursed to himself, mumbled at the TV, punched walls out of sheer frustration.
All because of Heather.
He watched the baby sleep and finished his coffee. It wasn’t strong enough, but the caffeine helped nonetheless.
By the time Heather returned, he’d brewed a second pot. He considered a cigarette, and then reconsidered. He supposed lighting up near the kid wouldn’t be right.
“I didn’t find anything.” She sat on the sofa and placed her coffee on the end table. “But I can’t be sure about your phones. I don’t have the skills to detect a sophisticated wiretap or bug.”
“Your brother didn’t teach you?” he asked, unable to curb the bite in his tone.
She sighed. “A wiretap can be installed several miles from the target location. And a radio transmitter can be hidden eighteen feet in the air.”
“So what do we do?”
“Don’t discuss sensitive issues on the phone.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “That’s it?”
“No. I have the number of an old friend of Reed’s. Someone he trusts. He’s a communications expert. He’ll check the lines. I’m not sure when, though.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Michael was tired of the cloak and dagger, the spy game Reed had put her up to. He wanted answers.
Now.
“Talk,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Her competent hands turned shaky. “The reason I left?”
He steeled his gaze. “And stayed away so long.”
“Of course, yes. You deserve to know the truth.”
Michael frowned. Had she whispered the word truth? Or was it his imagination? She had spoken quietly as it was.
“Anytime you’re ready,” he prodded.
She turned toward the window. The unexpected storm had passed, Michael noticed, but rain still drizzled. The sound mingled softly with the baby’s gentle breathing.
“Reed called me from California,” she said. “He’d been secretly dating a girl named Beverly, a college student from a wealthy family, and he wanted to marry her.”
Michael raised his eyebrows at that, but he kept his mouth shut, letting her continue.
“Beverly’s father threatened Reed. He warned him to stay away from his daughter. So Reed and Beverly were planning to skip town, to elope and disappear for good.” Heather shifted, facing him again. “I assumed her father was a politician or a powerful law enforcement official, someone who could find a way to frame Reed for a crime he didn’t commit. To send him back to prison.”
Yeah, right. As if Reed needed an excuse to get locked up again, to thumb his nose at society. Michael used to run around with Heather’s brother, creating small-town havoc like the cigarette-stealing, whiskey-rousing, gambling-behind-the-barn delinquents they’d been. Only Reed had eventually taken his crimes to adult levels. He’d celebrated his high school graduation by robbing the principal’s house. He’d done it as a lark, as a kiss-my-ass rush, but he’d carved out his future just the same.
Reed’s next crime had involved a little more danger. And the one after that had landed him a short but memorable prison term.
The baby awakened with a fierce cry, interrupting Michael’s thoughts.
Heather dashed up and rushed to the boy’s aid. Lifting him in her arms, she cradled him, soothing him with maternal whispers.
Justin quieted immediately. He put his head on her shoulder and made a contented sound.
Michael did his damnedest to ignore the tenderness between woman and child. He was already emotional over Heather, and getting sappy over Reed’s kid would only make matters worse.
“I need to change him and give him his lunch,” she said.
Michael waved his hand, feigning indifference. “Go ahead.”
She dressed Justin in a blue T-shirt, a fresh diaper, snap-up jeans and a bib. He wiggled and squirmed and made excited noises.
She kept him on her lap as she fed him, but Michael could see that it wasn’t an easy task. He knew there was a high chair in her trunk, but he suspected she didn’t want to burden him to bring it in.
Justin said “um” after every bite. Did that mean yum? Michael couldn’t imagine that the kid actually thought mushy veggies and jarred meat were yummy.
As Heather wiped his messy face, he scrunched his nose in disapproval, then squealed after he was clean. Next he drank from a bottle, tipping it himself.
When Justin looked curiously at Michael, Heather followed the boy’s gaze. Michael shifted in his chair, wishing the scrutinizing would end.
Finally, it did.
She placed Justin back in the portable crib, which apparently doubled as a playpen. A handful of toys followed him into the little cage.
It wasn’t a very fancy cage, Michael noticed. Although clean, it appeared old, possibly purchased from a secondhand store.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” he said, suddenly feeling bad for the kid. He remembered surviving on hand-me-downs, at least until his wealthy uncle had showed up.
Heather drew a breath. “I wanted to say goodbye to Reed in person. To see him before he vanished. He told me that once he and Beverly took off, he wouldn’t be able to contact me again.”
So she’d arranged a bogus trip to L.A., Michael thought. Allowing him to believe she was attending a conference. “You weren’t supposed to keep in touch with Reed to begin with. You promised me that you’d cut him out your life, that you’d stay away from him.”
“I know, but I couldn’t. Not this time.”
Not anytime, he realized. She’d been secretly conversing with Reed all along.
“When I arrived in L.A., all hell broke lose. I went straight to my brother’s downtown loft and found Beverly there, crying over Reed. He was on the floor, unconscious. He’d been severely beaten. A warning from Beverly’s father to stay away from her.”
Justin made a humming sound as he stacked colorful blocks. When they fell, he laughed and clapped, unaware of the distress in Heather’s voice.
“I tried to dial 911,” she went on to say. “But Beverly begged me not to, even though Reed was a bruised and bloodied mess. I didn’t know what to do.” She paused, as if recalling her terror. “Then Beverly asked me to help her get him out of town. To tend to his injuries.”
“And that’s what you did?”
“Yes, but the ordeal didn’t stop there.”
“What ordeal?”
“We ended up on the run.”
“From who? Beverly’s father?”
“Yes.” She looked up and met his gaze, her voice haunted. “Her father isn’t an ordinary man. He’s—”
Frustrated, Michael moved to the edge of his seat. “He’s what?”
“An L.A. crime boss. We were on the run from the West Coast Family.”
As her words registered, Michael’s heartbeat blasted his chest. “You mean the mob?” The guys who ran racketeering and extortion rings? Smuggled drugs? Pumped their enemies full of bullets?
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “The mob.”
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