Cherokee Stranger

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

Especially now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you blame them?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one at all.

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

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

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

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

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

His lover. His friend. His wife.

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

“I’m not seducing you,” he said.

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

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

“You’re teasing me, right?”

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes?” he parroted.

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

“The waitress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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