“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,

Experience passion and power in six brand-new, provocative titles from Silhouette Desire this July!

Begin with Scenes of Passion (#1519) by New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Brockmann. In this scintillating love story, a pretend marriage turned all too real reveals the torrid emotions and secrets of a former bad-boy millionaire and his prim heiress.

DYNASTIES: THE BARONES continues in July with Cinderella’s Millionaire (#1520) by Katherine Garbera, in which a pretty pastry cook’s red-hot passion melts the defenses of a brooding Barone hero. In Bed with the Enemy, (#1521) by rising star Kathie DeNosky, is the second LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB title in Desire. In this installment, a lady agent and her lone-wolf counterpart bump more than heads during an investigation into a gun-smuggling ring.

What would you do if you were Expecting the Cowboy’s Baby (#1522)? Discover how a plain-Jane bookkeeper deals with this dilemma in this steamy love story, the second Silhouette Desire title by popular Harlequin Historicals author Charlene Sands. Then see how a brokenhearted rancher struggles to forgive the woman who betrayed him, in Cherokee Dad (#1523) by Sheri WhiteFeather. And in The Gentrys: Cal (#1524) by Linda Conrad, a wounded stock-car driver finds healing love in the arms of a sexy, mysterious nurse, and the Gentry siblings at last learn the truth about their parents’ disappearance.

Beat the summer heat with these six new love stories from Silhouette Desire.

Enjoy!

Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Cherokee Dad
Sheri Whitefeather

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.”

Two

“I was trapped,” Heather said, praying Michael would understand. “I couldn’t contact you. I couldn’t risk a phone call.”

“You mean to tell me that Reed couldn’t have scrambled your location, kept the mob from tracing the call?”

“Yes, but that wouldn’t have been enough. The conversation still could have been bugged, even if the eavesdropper couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from.”

“So?”

“So we had no idea what they’d do. The mob doesn’t normally take hostages or harm innocent people, but this was different.”

Unconvinced and much too macho, he squinted at her. “You were afraid they’d hurt me?”

“Or threaten someone close to you. Try to find out how much you knew.”

His eyes narrowed even more. “They could have done that anyway.”

“There’d be no need. Not unless they suspected you’d been in touch with me. That you were involved somehow. Maybe even helping Reed.”

“So you let me suffer? Wonder where you were? Why you’d left?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was the only thing I could do to ensure your safety.”

He didn’t respond, so she continued. “My brother was in severe danger. Not only was he trying to go straight, to end his affiliation with the mob, he’d fallen in love with the boss’s daughter. That’s a fatal combination.”

“Where is Reed?” Michael asked.

Heather stole a glance at the baby, who amused himself with a musical pony. “He’s still on the run.”

“But you’re here, with his son.”

“Yes.” She studied the pony. Reed had purchased it for Justin just weeks before he’d been born. It was the only toy the child owned that hadn’t come from a thrift store.

There was another lullaby pony, she thought. Buried near a cabin in Oklahoma.

“Tell me about Justin’s mother.”

She reached for the bitter coffee Michael had brewed and took a sip, hoping to calm her quaking hands. She still dreamed about the other pony. Still cried sometimes in her sleep.

“Beverly wasn’t doing well. She had a difficult pregnancy. I was concerned about the delivery, if there would be complications.”

“Were there?”

“No. It was fine. A long labor, but fine.”

Heather thought about the leather-wrapped bundle Reed had buried. The Cherokee prayers he’d chanted would remain forever in her mind, in her heart.

“But soon after Justin was born, Beverly became ill. She assumed it was stress. We were constantly on the move, and that took its toll on everyone.”

How many states had they passed through? How many nights had they slept in their vehicle? Washed up at gas stations and launderettes? Jumped from campsite to campsite, living on the fish Reed caught? “Beverly got a cough that wouldn’t go away. But no matter how fatigued she was, she refused to see a doctor.”

“Why? Because she was afraid of drawing attention to herself?”

“Yes.” She could still see Beverly, pale and tired, letting Heather care for her son on the days she couldn’t manage him. “Reed did everything he could to convince her to see a doctor. But she was determined to get well on her own. To try homeopathic remedies.”

Michael’s voice turned hard. “What in the hell was Reed planning on doing? Being on the road forever?”

“He and Beverly had originally intended to go to Mexico, but Reed’s contact in Mexico City said the mob was already searching for them there.” She glanced at her hands, at her nervously chewed nails. “We had no idea where else they were searching. So we just kept running.” Struggling to make the money last, she thought. Her brother taking day labor jobs when he could. Using fake IDs. Switching vehicles, registering them to an alias.

“So, who is Beverly’s father? What’s his name?”

“Denny Halloway. The FBI calls the West Coast Family the Hollywood mob. Halloway, Hollywood. It’s a play on words, and he has connections in the entertainment industry.”

Michael sighed. “I don’t know anything about the Mafia. Other than what I’ve seen on TV. The Italian guys in New York. Or New Jersey or wherever.”

“The West Coast Family isn’t an Italian outfit.” And Heather knew more about the Mafia than she’d ever dreamed possible. Reed had been a “made” man. He’d sacrificed his soul for organized crime. “My brother was working on a way to send me home. To fake his, Beverly’s and Justin’s deaths. To stage an accident where I was the only survivor. But Beverly got sick and everything changed.”

“He should have sent all of you home. He shouldn’t have kept two women and a baby on the run.”

“Beverly didn’t want to return to her family. She’d always detested what her father represented, the high-powered criminal lifestyle he led. Besides, she loved Reed and wanted to be with him. He was her husband. Her Cherokee husband,” Heather clarified. “Reed performed a blanket ceremony. It wasn’t legal, but it was binding.”

Michael shook his head. “You wanted me to do that with you when you were sixteen. It was crazy.”

Her chest constricted. “I was young and romantic. I wanted you to pledge yourself to me.” To make a commitment, to swear off other girls and be with her, even though she wasn’t of age. But he’d refused. He’d been an eighteen-year-old boy still sowing his sexual oats, still parading a slew of blondes through his bed.

They sat in silence for a while, caught in the past. Then Justin rose and held on to the edge of his crib, grinning at Heather, waving his pony with one hand, nearly losing his balance.

Refusing to cry, she smiled back at him. She had a child to raise, a son to consider. She had to stay strong.

“Did Beverly die?” Michael asked.

“No, but she probably won’t live much longer. When she got worse, Reed insisted on taking her to a clinic. After a series of tests, they discovered she had small cell carcinoma of the lung, a rapidly progressing cancer. Without treatment, the median survival rate from diagnosis is only two to four months.”

She continued to look at Justin. He was such a good baby, so easy to care for, so happy. Yet his mother was dying, and his father was running for his life.

“We made a decision. Beverly had to return to her family. She needed urgent medical care.”

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, sympathy lacing his voice.

Heather turned to study him, to absorb his sincerity. She knew his mother had died of cancer, that he’d watched her grow pale and weak. Just as she and Reed had watched Beverly deteriorate, without realizing the magnitude of her illness. “Beverly is only twenty-two. A nonsmoker. Lung cancer never occurred to us.”

He merely nodded, a frown marring his brow. “Why didn’t she take her son home with her?”

“She didn’t want her father to have any part in raising him.”

“And what about Reed?”

“He couldn’t care for Justin, not living on the run. Reed knew that Beverly’s father would never quit searching for him, that he’d always be a target. So they both decided to relinquish their child, to give him a chance for a clean, safe life.”

And she remembered how devastated they’d been, how they’d held Justin and cried. They were losing each other and their baby. “We fabricated a lie. It was the only thing we could do. The only answer.”

“What lie?” he asked, watching her through dark, penetrating eyes.

She glanced away, afraid those eyes could look into her soul and unmask her secrets. The other pony. The leather bundle. The Cherokee prayers.

“I was to become Justin’s mother in every way,” she said, still dodging his gaze. “Beverly wouldn’t tell her family that she had a son. They didn’t know that she was pregnant, and there were no hospital records, nothing that proved she’d given birth to him. He was born in a cabin in Oklahoma, with only Reed and I in attendance.”

“And her father bought the lie? He never suspected that Justin was his grandson?”

“Why would he? Who would assume that a girl dying of cancer would have given birth to a healthy baby just ten months before?”

Michael wondered if it could be that simple, if a crime lord could be fooled that easily. “What about you? Does this mobster blame you for helping Beverly and Reed?”

She shook her head. “No. I took Beverly home, returning her to her family. They didn’t hold me accountable. But they made it clear that they’d never forgive my brother. He was part of their organization. He understood the consequences of his actions. He was warned to stay away from Beverly, and now that she’s sick, they blame him for not taking care of her. For all those months she didn’t receive medical treatment.”

Michael cursed beneath his breath. Trust Reed to get caught up in the mob, to fall for the boss’s daughter, to lure Heather into a web of deceit and danger.

“Who does the mob think Justin’s father is?” he asked, although he already knew. Heaven help him, he knew.

“You,” she said.

Yes, him. Who else could it be? He was Heather’s only lover, the only man she’d ever given herself to. And he was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, just like the baby.

He gazed at Heather, at her blond hair and fair complexion, at the sleek, simple clothes hugging her curves.

In the old days, she had been his best friend’s little sister, a sweet, skinny kid with big blue eyes, tagging along like a homeless filly.

Then she’d begun to mature. By the time she was sixteen, she’d blossomed into a lean, leggy beauty, an obsession eighteen-year-old Michael could barely control.

But as willing as she’d been, he hadn’t touched her. He’d promised Reed that he wouldn’t.

Michael could still recall the day Heather had confronted him, the sunny afternoon she’d challenged that promise.

They’d been at the edge of the lake, skimming stones across the water. She’d been wearing shorts and a halter top, her hair shimmering in glorious waves.

“Why haven’t you ever kissed me?” she’d asked.

He’d dropped the stone in his hand, plunking it in the water.

“You’re still a kid,” he told her.

“No, I’m not.” She came toward him, as fresh as the Hill Country air, as graceful as a palomino. “I’m all grown up.”

Blood rushed from his head to his feet. She was everything he wanted. And more. “You’re jailbait.”

She frowned, and he could see that he’d wounded her. He knew she had feelings for him, an attraction that had deepened over the years.

But she was dangerous. He spent too many nights thinking about her. Fantasizing. Driving himself crazy with what he longed to do to her. “You’re Reed’s sister. I promised him I’d stay away.”

“You and Reed hardly get along anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter. It was still a promise. I can’t go back on my word.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, doing his damnedest not to touch her, to hold her, to feel her heartbeat stumble against his. “Come see me when you’re eighteen.” When her brother couldn’t interfere. “Ask me to kiss you then.”

Instead she’d asked him to marry her, right then and there, in a secret Cherokee ceremony. Then they could be together, she’d said, no matter how old she was.

For an instant, one torturous instant, Michael had been tempted. Just to be with her, just to take what she was offering.

In the end, he’d told her it was a crazy idea. But so was trying to get her out of his system.

He’d spent the next two years, the next twenty-four months dating other girls, other blondes who never quite filled the ache—the desperate, sexual consumption.

Then finally, on Heather’s eighteenth birthday, she’d come to him. Without the slightest hesitation, he’d made love to her, taking her virginity, making her his.

Yet no matter how many times they joined, how many hot, torrid nights they climaxed in each other’s arms, he feared the obsession, the emotional power she wielded over him.

Michael didn’t want to fall in love. He’d seen how it had affected his mother, the destruction it caused. The only man she’d ever loved, Michael’s freewheeling father, had kicked her square in the heart.

The way Heather had eventually done to him.

He should have never asked her to live with him. He—

“Michael?”

He cleared his mind. Or tried to. The past still seemed like the present—the frustration, the emotional turmoil, the fear. “What?”

“I need your help.”

He squinted. “With what?”

“With the baby.”

He glanced at Justin. The kid tested the perimeters of his confinement, holding on to the sides and rattling the cage. “How so?”

“I need you to commit to being his father.”

Michael’s pulse shot up his arm. “You said the West Coast family already thinks I am.”

“I know, but everyone else has to think that, too. If we don’t keep up the pretense they might find out the truth.”

“You have no right to ask this of me. To expect me to raise your brother’s son.”

“I’m not expecting you to do it forever. Just for a few months.”

He almost glanced at Justin again, then decided not to. What if the boy flashed one of those big, goofy grins? Smiled at him the way he’d smiled at Heather?

She set her coffee aside, and he suspected it had gone cold. As cold as the blood flowing through his veins. He didn’t want to play papa to Reed Blackwood’s baby, not even for a short time.

“I’ve worked out the details,” she told him. “I’ll stay in Texas for a few months, and we can feign a reunion. But our attempt to renew our relationship will fail, and I’ll leave town to start a new life. For appearance’s sake, we’ll keep in touch about the baby. You’ll be the concerned father without having to get too involved.”

He gave her an incredulous look. Did she think that feigning a relationship wasn’t getting involved? Or publicly claiming a child who wasn’t his?

“What makes you think I don’t have a new woman in my life, that I’m not dating someone?” he asked, reminding her of how long she’d been gone.

Her voice quavered. “Do you? Are you?”

“No.” But he was glad to see the suggestion had rattled her, that he’d planted a seed to make her wonder. The way he’d wondered for eighteen grueling months if she’d run off with another man, if that had been the reason she’d disappeared.

“You should have risked a phone call, Heather. You should have called me. Just once.”

“I wanted to. So many times, I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

She glanced at the mist-fogged window, at the overcast light shadowing the room. “I thought about you every day.”

He’d thought about her, too. She was always there, the beautiful ghost from his past, the girl who’d disappeared.

She twisted her hands on her lap, and he noticed her nails were bitten to the quick. He considered apologizing for the barb about another woman, but decided he would sound like a wuss, like he was still obsessed with her.

He held his ground. “Why didn’t you think about me before you took off to California? Before you got tangled up in this mess?”

“You wouldn’t allow me to see my own brother. What was I supposed to do?”

Michael turned cynical. “Everything is always about Reed.”

“This is about Justin. An innocent child.” Her eyes turned watery. “Please understand. This is important. More important than you can imagine. Beverly’s dad will probably keep an eye on us, just to see if we hear from Reed. He’ll probably try to lure information from people we know. So I need to make sure everyone we socialize with believes Justin is our baby. If a rumor leaks that he could be Reed’s son—”

He cursed before she could finish her sentence. What in the hell was he supposed to do? Ignore her plea? Let the mob take the boy away from her?

“Two months,” he said. “And I’m explaining the entire farce to my uncle.”

“No!” She nearly flew off the sofa. “You can’t tell anyone. Not another living soul. This has to be our secret. The lie we take to our graves.”

“It isn’t right.” He hadn’t lied to his uncle since he was a kid, a smart-mouthed youth who hadn’t given a damn about anyone but himself.

“Please.” She went to the baby and picked him up. “Please.”

Michael frowned, and Justin took that moment to smile, to blow bubbles at him.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

“All right,” he said as the boy’s slobbery grin tunneled an unwelcome path straight to his cautious, it’ll-be-over-in-two-months heart.

The day passed quickly, but as evening rolled around, Heather grew more and more anxious.

Michael had gone to work that morning and that was the last she’d seen of him.

She’d kept busy, baby-proofing the house the best she could, moving Justin’s crib, unloading her rental car, preparing the guest room for Justin and herself.

She’d cleaned everything. She’d even dusted the third bedroom, the one filled with junk Michael had been storing for years.

And like Suzy-homemaker, she’d organized the kitchen cupboards, too.

Then she’d gotten the brilliant idea to fix dinner, believing quite foolishly that Michael would come home in time to eat.

The table was set and the food had gone cold. It wasn’t a fancy meal, considering the simple contents in Michael’s fridge, but she made a pretty good meat loaf. And he liked mashed potatoes, with pools of melting butter instead of gravy.

She sat at the table and fidgeted with a bowl of wilting green beans. She’d lost her appetite hours ago. Deciding to clean up, she headed to the kitchen for aluminum foil and plastic containers.

What was she doing? Trying to resume where they left off? If he hadn’t loved her then, what made her think he would fall in love with her now? That the next two months would change her life?

She needed Michael to help her set the stage, to establish Justin’s paternity, but beyond that, she had no right to expect anything more.

Want it, crave it, but not expect it.

She wrapped the meat loaf and scooped the potatoes into a plastic bowl, closing the vacuum-sealed lid. Then the front door rattled, and her heartbeat tripled.

Michael was home.

Should she greet him? Or continue clearing the table? Cursing her quaking hands, she chose the table. How could a man she’d known for over half her life make her so nervous?

Because she’d loved him for over half her life, and he’d always given her butterflies.

She heard him moving around in the living room. Removing his hat, most likely, brushing the moisture from his clothes.

She pictured him, as he was, tall and dark, amid the homespun furnishings. Michael had inherited the old farmhouse from his mother, a hardworking waitress who’d acquired it from her ancestors—German immigrants who’d settled in the Texas Hill Country.

The house bore hardwood floors, paned windows and hand-stenciled trim that dressed up door frames and plain walls. A live oak in the front yard stood guard throughout the year, and bluebonnets blanketed the ground every spring.

As Heather made a face at the green beans, wondering if she should toss them out, Michael entered the dining room.

“You made dinner?”

She looked up. His hair was long and loose and slightly damp. “Yes.” She wished she’d thought to remove the two place settings, the scented candle still burning. The romantic ambience, she thought. “Are you hungry? It’s cold, but I can reheat it.”

“I grabbed a bite in town.”

“Oh.” She fidgeted with a fan-shaped napkin, suddenly embarrassed that she’d folded it that way. “So you went out?”

“Yeah. Did you think I was working all this time?”

She shrugged as if his whereabouts didn’t matter. Then she couldn’t stop herself from asking. “Where’d you go?”

He shifted his stance. “To have a few beers.”

“At the Corral?”

“Yes.”

So he’d gone to the local honky-tonk. “What’d you do there?”

“I just told you. I had a few beers.”

He didn’t play pool? Or dance? Or flirt with the country barflies? The bimbos with their big hairdos and tight jeans? “So that’s all you did?”

He peered in the foil-wrapped package, checking out the meat loaf. “Yep. That’s all.”

“I cleaned the house,” she said, changing the subject, hating herself for feeling like a suspicious lover.

“You didn’t have to. I don’t expect you to pick up after me. I never did.”

“I needed to baby-proof the place.”

“Oh.” He broke off a corner of the meat loaf, ate it, then caught himself. “I guess I worked up another appetite.”

Doing what? she wondered. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

“This is fine.” He took a few slices and devoured them cold. Next he uncapped the mashed potatoes and ate a large portion directly from the bowl.

Hardly the intimate meal she’d planned. “Did you tell anyone about me and Justin?”

He tasted the soggy green beans. “No.”

“Not even Bobby?”

“My uncle was busy today.”

“Too busy to talk to you?”

Now it was Michael’s turn to shrug. “I didn’t feel like going into all of it.”

An ache, as solid as the hills, slammed into her heart. He hadn’t felt like talking about her, the woman he’d lived with, the woman who still loved him. “Seems to me that a man whose girlfriend just returned to him with his baby would’ve explained the situation to his family instead of going out for a few beers.”

He raised his brows, two wicked slashes of black over exotic-shaped eyes. “Justin isn’t my son.”

“He’s supposed to be, Michael.”

“But he isn’t.”

She wanted to cry, to sink to the floor and weep. The way she’d cried over the other pony. “You can’t act this way, not if we’re going to tell people that Justin is our baby.”

“Then give me a day or so to get used to it. To cope with the idea.”

“Fine.” She carried the dishes into the kitchen, going back and forth, putting away the leftovers.

“Where is the kid?”

“Asleep. It’s after ten. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“You’re not my girlfriend anymore, Heather. I don’t have to stay home at night.”

Her chest hurt again, with pain and fury, heartbreak and devastation. “Yes, you do. We’re supposed to be reconciling.”

His eyes blazed. “Does that mean I get to sleep with you? Get my hot-and-nasty fill before I kick you out?”

Heather froze. Was that the way he thought of her, of the nights they’d spent in each other’s arms?

She wanted to throw a plate at him, but she’d already cleared the table. “Not on your life, buster. And when the time comes, I’ll be leaving on my own.”

“Of course you will. You already left once. How hard can it be to walk out a second time?”

She banked her fury. She was the one who’d taken off, who’d lied about why she’d gone to California. “I never meant to stay away.”

“But you did. And now you’re back with Reed’s son.”

“Our son, Michael. You have to start thinking of him as our son.”

The edge in his voice softened, but his stance remained defensive. “Was Reed okay about you bringing Justin to me? About me pretending to be his father?”

“Yes. He thinks you’ll make a good dad. That you’ll treat Justin right.” But Reed also thought that Michael loved her, that he’d loved her for years. Of course she doubted that Michael would believe that Reed had interceded for him, giving their relationship his blessing. “He doesn’t hate you the way you hate him.”

“Yes, he does. He’s just telling you what you want to hear. He’s always done that.”

Telling her what she wanted to hear—like Michael loving her. “He’s my brother. It’s his job to protect me.”

“The way he protected you from getting caught up in the mob?”

Weary, Heather closed her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Reed.” To think about him running for the rest of his life, mourning his wife and son.

When she opened her eyes, Michael was staring, watching her eyelids flutter. Self-conscious, she took a deep breath. He used to watch her sleep, and then wake her with a stirring kiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a rough time.”

“Yes.” And losing him was making everything that much harder.

He reached out as if to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face, but drew back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I should get to bed.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Me, too.”

A few seconds later, their gazes locked, making the moment even more awkward.

She broke eye contact first, blowing out the candle, sending the flame dancing before it disappeared.

Then she and Michael separated, and like the wounded ex-lovers they’d become, they drifted into different bedrooms.

And closed their doors without making a sound.

Three

Michael heard the shower running and the baby crying.

Great. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. Another anxiety-ridden morning.

Should he let Justin cry? Ignore the baby’s angry wails and let Heather deal with him after she finished her shower?

Yeah, he thought. That was exactly what he should do. Yet as he reached for his boots, the kid’s bawling made him guilty.

What if the little guy was sick? Or afraid? Or—

Oh, hell.

Michael shoved on his boots. Heather could be in the shower forever. Washing that hair of hers was a major task. He knew. He’d shampooed it for her plenty of times. And like the idiot he was, he still had fantasies about her hair—the way it streamed down her back, slid through his fingers when he kissed her.

Which, he warned himself, was something he shouldn’t be thinking about.

Justin let out another wail, and Michael gave up and went into the kid’s room.

The baby stood in his portable crib, screaming like a pint-sized banshee. When he spotted Michael, he gulped, and then cried some more.

“What’s the matter?” Michael asked.

The boy gulped again. Tears streamed down his face, and his hair, tousled from sleep, stuck out at odd angles. He had thick, dark hair. A lot like Reed’s. Or mine, Michael thought.

Justin made a distressed face. “Pa…pa…pa.”

Papa? Daddy? Was he crying for Reed?

“I can’t help you, buddy. I have no idea where your papa is.”

The boy glanced at the floor. “Pa.”

Michael looked down, then saw the stuffed animal at his feet. “Is this what all the commotion is about?” He reached for the toy, a yellow horse with threads of gold in its mane. “Here.” He handed it over, and the kid snatched it like candy.

Justin hiccupped and hugged the horse, and Michael ruffled the boy’s messy hair. “Let’s see if I can find something to dry your eyes.”

He looked around the room and noticed a bunch of baby junk on the dresser. Diapers, pop-up wipes, lotion. He studied the wipes. Would it be all right to clean the kid’s face with disposable cloths designed to wipe his bottom? Like the packets of wet-napkins barbecue joints handed out? Or the fancy ones the chef at the ranch provided?

Unsure of what else to do, Michael untucked his shirt and used the end of it, dabbing the child’s face. He wasn’t sure if butt wipes had the same ingredients as face wipes, and he wasn’t about to make a stupid mistake and irritate the boy’s eyes.

“There. That’s better.”

Justin rewarded him with a goofy grin.

“I guess you think so, too.”

“Pa.” The kid held out his horse.

Michael took the toy, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with it. Then he spotted the key on the side. “Does it talk?” He wound the key and a lullaby played. “Oh, I see. It’s a musical horse. Can’t say I’m familiar with the tune, though.”

He handed the stuffed animal back to Justin, and the boy shot him another one of those goofy grins. Well, what do you know? He had dimples, kind of like Shirley Temple. Or Baby Face Nelson. After all, this was Reed’s kid.

Justin blew bubbles, and Michael wondered what Heather intended to tell the boy when he was older. The truth, of course. She couldn’t let Justin grow up not knowing his true parentage.

Could she?

“I’m only going to be your dad for a few months. So don’t get used to this.”

The kid handed over the horse again.

“All right, fine. We’ll play the song one more time.”

Just as Michael turned the key, the door opened.

Damn. There stood Heather in a bathrobe, her damp hair teasing the terry cloth.

“Justin was throwing a fit,” he said. “He dropped his horse.”

She tilted her head. He wasn’t close enough to inhale her fragrance, but he knew she favored fruit-scented soaps and shampoos.

“Pony.”

The robe gapped, just a bit. She wasn’t wearing a bra. That much he could tell. But whether she’d donned a pair of panties was anybody’s guess. “What?”

“It’s a pony.”

“Pa,” Justin parroted.

Michael glanced at the toy in his hand. Pa meant pony?

“Oh. Okay.” Feeling foolish, he gave Justin his furry companion. The dang thing plunked out a song while Heather’s robe played a distracting game of peekaboo.

Why would she be wearing panties? She’d just climbed out of the shower.

“I’ll show you how to change a diaper,” she said.

He took a step back. Making the transition from her half-naked body to diapering a baby didn’t register, not in his befuddled mind. “What for?”

“Because you’re supposed to be learning to be a dad.”

There she went, trying to get him into the Daddy mode, to embellish his short-lived role. “You can show me, but I’m not going to do it, especially if he’s stinky.”

“He’s wet.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because he’s wet every morning.”

She placed Justin on the bed and unsnapped his pajamas. Once he was exposed, she covered him, much too quickly, then reached for the wipes.

Michael rolled his eyes. Was she worried about the baby’s modesty? “I’ve seen one of those before, Heather. In fact, I think I have one.” He glanced at his fly. “Yep, sure enough, I do.”

She rolled her eyes right back at him. “Little boys tend to spray.”

“Really?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Has he ever got you?”

“No, but he got Reed.”

“Oh, yeah?” He poked the baby’s belly. “So you peed on your dad, huh? I’ll bet that put Mr. Hardened Criminal in his place.”

Justin laughed, and Michael grinned. “My sentiments exactly.”

Heather shook her head. “That’s not funny.”

“Then why are you cracking a smile?”

“I’m not.” But she was, and they both knew it. She’d always had a silly sense of humor, even where her hard-ass brother was concerned.

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