Cherokee Marriage Dare

Instead, their gazes locked.

Maggie took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into her lungs.

The man stood tall and powerfully built. Jet-black hair, combed away from his forehead, intensified the rawboned angles of his face. He possessed a commanding presence, his features strong and determined—high-cut cheekbones, a nose that might have suffered a long-healed break, an unrelenting jaw.

Luke was a jigsaw puzzle she’d yet to solve, each complicated piece of his personality as confusing as the next. Everything about him rattled her senses, and made her want to touch him. Not just his body, but also his heart.

His reclusive, shielded heart.

Did Luke know that he had a romantic side? A masculine warmth hidden beneath that stern, rugged exterior?

Maggie had asked him to dance at her brother’s wedding reception, and now she could feel every gliding motion, every smooth sultry sway. He’d rubbed his cheek against her temple and whispered a Cherokee phrase, something that had made him draw her closer to his beating heart. She’d never been so tenderly aroused.

“What are you doing here?”

Instantly, Maggie snapped to attention. After that sensual dance, he’d avoided her like the plague, returning to his hard-boiled self.

But why? she wondered. Because she’d made him feel too much?

Refusing to be intimidated, she shoved the groceries at him. “I came to fix you dinner, Starwind. So be a gentleman, will ya?”

Flustered, he took the bags, nearly dropping one in the process.

Maggie bit back a satisfied smile. She’d managed to catch Mr. Tough Guy off guard. That in itself rang like a small victory.

He moved away from the door, and she swept past him, curious to see his home.

The spacious, two-story town house showcased a stone fireplace and nineteenth-century furnishings, each piece sturdy and functional. A little battered, she supposed, but the rustic antiques made a personal statement. She assumed Luke had chosen them, as they suited him well.

She noticed the absence of knickknacks and lived-in clutter. Apparently Luke surrounded himself with the necessities of life, rather than objects that sparked sentiment. A person’s home reflected his emotions, Maggie thought. And although Luke’s town house was located in the heart of the city, it made her wonder if he’d been raised on a farm or a ranch. The oak floors were polished to a slick shine and padded with braided area rugs.

She zeroed in on the kitchen and headed toward it, knowing Luke followed. He set the groceries on a tiled counter, and she familiarized herself with his spotless appliances and practical cookware. The windowsill above the stainless-steel sink was bare, no potted plants, nothing to water or care for.

Something inside her stirred—a wave of sadness, an urge to brighten his rough-hewn world. To make Mr. Tough Guy smile.

He frowned. And for an instant she feared he’d just read her mind.

He leaned against a pantry-style cabinet, watching every move she made. Maggie unbuttoned her coat and told herself to relax. The man was a top-notch private investigator. It was his nature to study people and make analytical assessments. Plus, she thought, releasing the breath she’d been holding, he was attracted to her.

Their bodies had brushed seductively on the dance floor; their hearts had pounded to the same erotic rhythm. A qua da nv do. The Cherokee words swirled in her head. What did they mean? And why had he said them with such quiet longing?

Maggie hung her coat behind a straight-back chair in the connecting dining room. Luke’s gaze roamed from her cashmere sweater to the tips of her Italian boots, then back up again.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she responded a little too innocently. She wasn’t ready to drop the bomb. First she would ply him with pasta. And a bottle of her favorite wine.

Luke crossed his arms. He wore jeans and a dark-blue sweatshirt, attire much too casual for his unyielding posture. In his left ear, a tiny sterling hoop shone bright against dark skin. The earring defined the native in him, she thought. A man who remained close to his Cherokee roots.

She unloaded the groceries and realized he intended to stay right where he was, staring at her while she prepared their meal.

“I’m surprised you know how to cook,” he said.

She shot him a pointed look. “Very funny.” Maggie knew how Luke perceived her. No one took her endeavors seriously.

She was the youngest child in one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in the country. Her elegant mother hailed from royalty, and her steely-eyed father had made his fortune in business, transforming a small company into a global corporation.

But Maggie had yet to earn the respect often associated with the Connelly name. The paparazzi deemed her a spoiled, jet-setting heiress. The tabloid pictures that circulated made her seem like nothing but a party girl. It was an image she couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how hard she tried.

And while Maggie’s personal life was dissected in gossip columns, Luke kept a tight rein on his.

Why was he so detached? she wondered. So cautious? Why would a handsome, successful, thirty-nine-year-old choose to protect his heart?

She didn’t know much about Luke, but she’d done a little digging, asking for information from anyone who knew him. And although she hadn’t been able to unravel the mystery surrounding him, she’d learned a few unsettling facts. Luke had never been married or engaged. He didn’t participate in meaningful relationships, and most people, including women, described him as guarded.

Maggie held his watchful gaze, searching for a flicker of happiness, a spark of joy. But his eyes seemed distant. Haunted, she thought, by undisclosed pain.

Could she make him happy? Could she hold him close and ease the tension from his brow?

Deep down, she wanted the chance to try. But she doubted he would welcome her efforts. Especially when she told him that she intended to help him with her family’s investigation.

Lucas Starwind, she knew, wouldn’t appreciate the Connelly’s youngest daughter working by his side.

A little over an hour later Luke and Maggie sat across from each other at his dining-room table. The lady was up to something. He knew she’d been questioning people all over town about him. And now here she was, enticing him with a home-cooked meal. Young, beautiful, impulsive Maggie. The Connelly baby. The free-spirited jet-setter. Something didn’t add up.

But, then, Maggie was far from predictable. She carried herself like a muse, like the goddess of dance, flaunting a playful sensuality Luke wasn’t accustomed to. She wore her light-brown hair in a natural style, and her eyes were the color of a tropical sea. Long, lithe curves complemented all that unchained beauty.

She had a temper, too. Just enough to ignite his blood.

But Luke didn’t like the idea that they wanted each other. She was too young for him—much too young. Seventeen years spanned between them, a lifetime in his book.

He glanced at the food she’d prepared—antipasto salad, lasagna and a loaf of oven-warmed bread. It was a cozy, charming meal. The kind of dishes a sidewalk café would serve. Even the ambience seemed intimate. Maggie had provided a scented candle, and it burned between them like a melting jewel.

But this wasn’t a date, and in spite of the wine sparkling in his glass, Luke was in complete control of his senses.

Maybe not in complete control. But close. As close as his body would allow while in Maggie’s presence. As long as they weren’t touching, he would survive her proximity. No more dances, no more warm, gentle seductions. Luke couldn’t take another bewitching. Not after what he’d said. What he’d felt.

He glanced up and caught her watching him. Waiting, he supposed, to see if this cozy dinner had affected him, if it would make him easier to deal with. He knew she was plotting something. Those blue-green eyes shimmered with what he’d come to think of as muse magic—enchantment that could steal into a man’s soul.

Luke frowned, disturbed by his train of thought. Maggie Connelly was a woman, not a muse. And he was too practical to get caught up in mythical nonsense.

Then why had she inspired him to hold her close? To sway flawlessly to the music? To whisper words he hadn’t meant to say? Luke hadn’t spoken the Kituwah dialect since he was a boy.

He shook his head, intent on clearing his mind. Dwelling on that moment wouldn’t do him any good. He still had this other business with Maggie to contend with—whatever the hell it was.

“Level with me,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

She reached for her wine. The light from the chandelier cast an enchanting glow. Luke ignored the gilded streaks in her hair, the gold that gleamed like a treasure.