Nobody's Child

“It’s none of your damn business.” As his voice echoed with cold finality, white petals began falling like rain.

“But you’re my husband.”

“Am I?” He came to her then, raised his hand and lifted her chin in a proprietary manner. “In what sense?” he sneered. “I never think of myself as your husband. I’m surprised you do.”

Somehow she managed not to flinch as his hand stroked her. “Why won’t you give me a divorce then?”

His gaze was level and hard. “Because you are my only asset that my brother covets. Besides, of course, our son—the genius.”

“Don’t call him that!”

“Have you forgotten our little bargain—darling?”

Words from the past, Martin’s proposal, came back to her.

We both hate him. There’s only one way to get even with the bastard—by marrying each other.

Martin had referred to their bargain, and she had replied, “Never...for a moment.”

But she hadn’t hated Cutter. She had merely felt lost and afraid. For the sake of her son, Jeremy, she, who had wanted to be loved and valued, had settled for so much less.

“Good.” His voice had softened when he saw that he had her under control once more. He had even smiled at her. Something he had rarely done when they were alone. “Relax, darling. Go outside and pick flowers. Work in your garden. Baby Jeremy. Or let him read to you. Damn it. Do what you do.” He touched her again, indifferently, his fingertips moving from her chin to her throat in a sinister caress. “This trouble is temporary. I’ll bring Kurt home to look after you and Jeremy. He’s been around. You’ll be safe with him.”

Even though Kurt was a top man in Martin’s business, she hadn’t liked him. Kurt had a brutish face with a smashed-in nose and cold eyes. His overlarge head seemed to melt into his powerful, barrel-like torso without benefit of a neck. Every time she thought of him, red roses blackened, mosquitoes grew to the size of bumblebees and kittens quit purring.

“I’m afraid of him.”

Martin’s caressing fingertips combed her hair dismissively. “He’s fine.”

“Martin, in the name of God, what’s going on?”

“Why should I tell you?” Martin withdrew his hand.

She felt numb and blank with regret as Martin grabbed his briefcase and newspaper and went past her out of the house. Not that such feelings were new. Every morning since she’d first discovered him with Chantal and had realized that he hated her, Cheyenne had awakened with the same blank feeling of hopelessness and the same dull ache of despair. Later, when the numbness became punctuated with fear, she had known that as long as Martin had refused her a divorce, there was nothing she could do about it.

They had never really been married. She had always been his prisoner, his hostage in the psychological war he waged against his brother.

If Martin had hated her for sleeping with Cutter and giving birth to Jeremy, he hated her a hundred times more for costing him control of his fortune. All Martin’s problems had stemmed from his borrowing money to prove to her and the world that he was as financially brilliant as Cutter.

When Martin had suddenly died, she had felt that her longed-for release had come—but at a terrible price. She had been shaken to the core by the savage nature of his murder and by how utterly alone she felt in her dangerous trap. Jeremy had been devastated. The little boy had loved Martin in spite of Martin’s mood swings from indulgence to sarcasm and neglect. Immediately after his funeral the phone calls had begun, and she had discovered that Martin’s death had put Jeremy in terrible jeopardy.

As she sat among the guests and listened to the auctioneer offer her cherished possessions for sale, she wondered if the person making the threatening calls was here, too—watching her. Watching...Jeremy. Waiting for the right moment?

Dear God.

She forced herself to hold her head high, even though her regal posture just made her feel more exposed.

She kept twisting her diamond rings. She kept patting Jeremy’s silky, black head, reassuring herself that as long as her precocious darling was beside her with his nose in an encyclopedia, he was safe.

But she couldn’t be with him all the time.

She kept remembering the caller’s scratchy voice. His terse warning that afternoon.

“You know what I want. If I don’t get it, Jeremy’s next.”

As always the voice had been emotionless and deadly.

“I don’t have five million!” she had screamed.

“I like passion in a beautiful woman,” he had murmured. “I look forward to meeting you in person.”

“Never.”

“Soon.” He had hung up, but his final threat had replayed itself in her mind dozens of times.

Dear God.

What had Martin gotten them into?

What was she going to do about it?

Run away? Start over? As she had when she’d left Westville all those years ago?

Dear God, how she wanted to.

But where?

How?

With the police interrogating her?

With Martin’s creditors hounding her?

With her own career in jeopardy because of the negative publicity? Not that she could concentrate enough to experiment with recipes, plan parties or write. Not that she could ever, if she worked the rest of her life, make enough to pay what Martin owed.

When she had cautioned Jeremy to beware of strangers, he hadn’t understood the danger. Laughing, he had said, “If one tries to get me, I’ll bash him with an encyclopedia or climb up the magnolia tree.”

If anybody other than Martin or herself was responsible for her terrible predicament, it was Cutter Lord. She would never have had to marry Martin, if it hadn’t been for Cutter who had used her as he had used so many women. She had been so hurt and afraid, she had made a terrible mistake. Martin would never have had to live so high, if he hadn’t been trying to prove himself to Cutter.

How she wished she could loathe Cutter. From the beginning, his behavior had been despicable. Incapable of love or honor, he had seduced her and abandoned her. Then when she’d found out she was pregnant and married Martin, Cutter had been apoplectic.

For Jeremy’s sake, Cutter could have helped Martin when he’d asked for help shortly before his death. Instead Cutter had stuck to the brutal terms of their father’s will and said he would keep control of Martin’s fortune until Martin was thirty-five. She had gone to Cutter and pleaded with him, too, pointing out that Cutter had taken everything from Martin.

Cutter had seized the gigantic rose she’d worn in her hair, and brought it to his nose. He inhaled deeply. “No, Cheyenne. Martin took everything from me. And you helped him do it.” He had paused, studying her face and then the rose. “But, hey, sure, I’ll be glad to help.” Another pause. “For a price. If you ask me sweetly.” Then Cutter had put his hands on her in a hateful, intimate way and propositioned her.

Dear God, she had wanted him to love her.

All he had ever wanted was to use her.