CHEROKEE DAD Page 8

  The Latina woman, sporting a brightly colored dress and salt-and-pepper hair, gathered Heather and Justin in a sturdy hug. Heather nearly melted in her arms, grateful for the genuine welcome.

  Maria stepped back to view the baby, then clutched a hand to her heart. "So sweet. So perfect. He looks like Señor Michael, no?" Tilting her head, she tapped Justin's nose. "But he looks like you, too. Like both of you."

  Did Reed and Beverly's son resemble her and Michael? "Thank you." Heather smiled. "I missed you, Maria."

  "And now you're home. Now you'll stay, no?"

  Heather didn't get the chance to respond. Michael stepped forward, making more noise than necessary. "I'm going to haul this stuff to your office," he said to Heather, shifting the diaper bag and rattling the playpen.

  Maria watched him go. "He was lonely without you, señorita. So lonely. But angry sometimes, too."

  "I didn't mean to stay away."

  "I know. I heard." The receptionist squeezed her hand. "You go now. You work. And I'll have the chef send some breakfast. For the baby, too."

  Heather's office looked the same. A mahogany desk faced the window and two tall file cabinets dominated a blank wall. The other walls presented artwork she'd chosen, paintings that depicted wishing wells, stone castles and gazebos by the shore.

  "I left the files you'll need on your desk," Michael said. "But you'll have to call Lorraine if you need any help. I'll be tied up most of the day."

  "That's okay." She'd always enjoyed working with the chef's assistant. "I like Lorraine."

  "And you like being back."

  "Yes, I do."

  Her eyes sought his, and they stared at each other, their lovemaking attempt from this morning suddenly drifting between them.

  "I better go," he said.

  She placed Justin in the playpen, wondering if Michael would kiss her goodbye.

  He did. Gently, ever so gently.

  Then he ruffled the baby's hair and left quietly, closing the door on his way out.

  * * *

  Michael returned to Heather's office at three o'clock and found it empty. Silent. Almost ghostly.

  A blast of loneliness slammed into his gut. A physical reminder of the eighteen months he'd lived without her.

  Don't, he told himself. Don't start missing her all over again. Let her go this time, move on with your life once she and Justin are gone.

  Capping his emotions, Michael closed Heather's door, preparing to return to work, to delve into the spreadsheets stacked in his office. He didn't mind handling the books. He'd always been gifted with numbers. Of course, he preferred being outdoors, but he spent plenty of dude-ranch days hosting barn dances, hayrides and picnics.

  Activities Heather used to attend with him.

  As he neared the lobby, he slowed his pace. It wouldn't hurt to ask Maria what time Heather had left, why she'd cut out early, who'd driven her to the farmhouse.

  He had a right to know. Didn't he?

  He waited for Maria to complete a transaction with a guest before he moved forward.

  "Señor Michael." She greeted him in her heavy accent. She'd been manning the reception desk at Elk Ridge since its inception, treating him with respect, even when he was a whiskey-rousing teenager.

  "Hey." He gave her a charming smile, wondering if she simply considered him a whiskey-rousing adult. He'd curbed his boyhood ways, but over the past eighteen months, he'd partied, a bit severely at times, to forget the pain.

  "When did she leave?" he asked, hating himself for not being able to erase her from his mind.

  "Who?" Maria cocked her head. "Oh, you mean Señorita Heather? About an hour ago." Her brow creased in thought. "Justin was getting fussy. Not that he wasn't a good boy. But he's only a baby, no? Too much excitement for one day."

  "Who took them home?"

  "Señor Bobby."

  Michael merely nodded. Trust his uncle to be available when he wasn't. "I better get back to work." He tapped the top of the reception desk, signaling his departure.

  A moment later, his departure took him away from the lodge and into the crisp Hill Country air.

  He damned himself for wanting to see Heather and Justin, for wanting to hear about their day. But he ditched the mile-high spreadsheets and drove to the farmhouse anyway.

  The familiar path led him past towering trees and flowering landscape.

  Once his house came into view, he steered down the long, graveled driveway and squinted at the figures on his porch. Heather and two suited men.

  The communications expert wasn't due until tomorrow, and he was supposed to be dressed like a telephone repairman. So who were the suits?

  He spotted their car, a white sedan, parked inconspicuously by the side of the house.

  Heather didn't appear the least bit comfortable. Her arms were crossed, her entire body language tense.

  Michael spun his tires, spitting gravel. Heather and the suits turned, and he saw a look of relief on her face.

  He jammed the vehicle into Park and squared his shoulders, ready to defend the woman he was sleeping with, to come to her rescue.

  He took the porch steps, and Heather said his name.

  "Michael." Her voice was soft, just above a whisper.

  He brushed her cheek with a lover's kiss and faced the suits, letting them know he was willing to do battle.

  For a moment no one spoke, then Michael addressed the older of the two men, a distinguished city slicker with graying temples and a dark jacket.

  "You mind telling me who you are?"

  The intruder flashed a badge and an ID. "Special Agent Sims."

  FBI?

  Well, hell. Michael paused, studied the shield, the government ID. "I happen to be Michael Elk. And this is my house. My ranch." Ending the introduction, he moved closer to Heather. "My woman."

  Sims inclined his head. "Yes, we've met Miss Richmond." He indicated his partner. "Myself and Special Agent Hoyt."

  Michael spared Hoyt a glance. Young thirties, reddish blond hair, cheap tie slightly askew.

  He turned back to Sims. "So what's this all about?"

  The older man kept a professional stance, a controlled demeanor. "We were hoping Miss Richmond could help us locate Reed Blackwood."

  Michael swore beneath his breath, felt Heather shift uncomfortably beside him.

  "We're aware that Mr. Blackwood is affiliated with the West Coast Family," Sims said.

  "Is Reed under investigation?" Michael asked.

  "We're interested in his association with Denny Halloway."

  Heather's blue eyes turned smoky. "I already told you, I don't know where Reed is."

  "Your brother is in trouble, Miss Richmond." Special Agent Hoyt put in his two cents, then straightened his tie, his sun-sensitive skin chaffed from the wind.

  "And you better hope we find him before Halloway does."

  Taking offense, Michael stepped forward. "Where the hell was the FBI when I filed a missing persons report? When Heather and her brother disappeared? Why didn't anyone tell me then that Reed was involved with the mob? That my lady was in the thick of it?"

  Hoyt, much to his credit, held his ground, even though Michael did his damnedest to back the shorter, slightly built agent against the porch rail.

  "We weren't aware that Mr. Blackwood was part of the West Coast Family then."

  "He ran off with the boss's daughter."

  "At the time, his personal association with Miss Halloway didn't place him as a member of her father's organization."

  But something did, Michael thought. An investigation they were currently working on.

  Sims took charge again. He handed Heather a business card, and when she refused to accept it, he offered it to Michael.

  "We believe we can help Mr. Blackwood."

  "How?" Michael snapped the card out of the agent's hand.

  "We would prefer to discuss that with Mr. Blackwood. So if you hear from him, if he should contact you, please refer him to us."

>   With that, Sims smiled briefly, thanking them for their time and bidding them a good day. Hoyt did neither. He followed his partner to their car, leaving Michael and Heather alone.

  The white sedan backed out of its sheltered spot and headed down the graveled driveway, disappearing into a white speck in the distance.

  Heather's knees went weak, her bones turning to slush. Michael remained beside her, strong and tall in a denim shirt and cowboy-cut jeans. Her rock. Her protector.

  She breathed the floral-scented air, desperate to get a grip on her fear, to keep her legs from buckling beneath her. "How can we be sure they're who they say they are?"

  He turned, a frown marring his brow. "You think they were a couple of Halloway's men posing as FBI?"

  "Anything is possible." Anything at all, she thought.

  Michael studied the card in his hand. "I'll check it out. I'll make sure they're who they claim to be."

  "I just wish this would end." But how could it? Her brother would be hunted for the rest of his life, and she would continue to look over her shoulder, to doubt everyone who came her way.

  "Let's go inside." Michael opened the door, slipped the business card in his wallet. "Where's Justin?"

  "Taking a nap. But I think I should check on him." To watch him sleep, to pray that he remained hers to keep.

  Together, she and Michael entered the baby's room, and Heather inched closer to the crib. Justin's eyes were closed, his legs curled under him, his padded bottom in the air. The naptime bottle she'd given him was half-full, and his pony lay at his side, its gold-streaked mane sparkling in the afternoon light.

  She glanced at the dream catcher above the crib. Would it protect Justin? Trap the bad dreams in the webbing and send the good ones into the feathers? Save them to be dreamt again?

  "I wonder if he dreams about ponies," she said.

  Michael kept his voice hushed. "Has he ever seen a real horse?"

  "Not up close."

  "Then we'll take him to the barn soon. He'll like that, don't you think?"

  "Yes." Her heart turned spongy, and she soaked up the moment, the man, the wishing-well hope of being a family.

  "Come on." Michael edged his way to the door. "We better go before we wake him up."

  Leaving Justin to his dreams, they found themselves in the kitchen, brewing coffee and warming croissants.

  "I came home to see how your day went," Michael said, adding too many coffee grounds to the filter.

  "Aside from Sims and Hoyt, it went well."

  "Maria said Justin was fussy."

  "Just a little." Now the memory made her ache. He'd crawled on the floor in her office, tugged on phone cords, knocked over the trash and whined for her attention. Next time she would bounce him on her lap instead of losing patience and carting him home. "He'll settle into the routine. He'll get used to my office."

  Michael filled the carafe with water. He made a terrible pot of coffee, but at the moment, she didn't care. All that mattered was being near him.

  "Thank you," she said.

  He leaned against the counter. "For what?"

  For treating Reed's son with care, for standing up to those men, for calling her his woman. "For being my friend." She met his gaze, held it, treasured it. "And my lover."

  "Believe me, that's my pleasure."

  He moved closer, and suddenly they forgot about the coffee, about buttering the croissants, about everything except each other.

  They kissed all the way to the bedroom, then stumbled onto the four-poster bed, kicking off boots, peeling off clothes.

  As she attacked the snaps on his shirt, he managed the delicate buttons on her blouse and went after the front clasp on her bra, flicking it open. The zipper on her skirt proved easy enough, but the panty hose had him yanking and tugging.

  He cursed, and she laughed. "Let me help."

  Her panties came next. His jeans and boxers followed.

  In a moment of calm, they held each other, pressing close. Sunlight spilled over the bed, and he rubbed against her, creating more warmth.

  More copper-skinned heat.

  Heather roamed his body, fascinated by the cords of muscle. Losing herself in memories, she circled his nipples, flattened her palms on the center of his chest, traced a finger down his stomach. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, but she feared the words would trouble him so she let them drift, flutter like leaves falling to the ground.

  He slid his hands into her hair. "I want you."

  "Me first." She kissed his navel, and his breath rushed out, sending erotic shivers up and down her spine.

  "What are you doing to me?" he asked, even though they both knew.

  She moved lower, teasing him with her tongue. The gentle hands in her hair turned rough, cupping the back of her head, pulling her closer.

  Heather's blood swam, her heart pounded at her throat. She wanted this as badly as he did – the lash of pleasure, the searing brand of mouth to body.

  Sensation slid over skin, over smooth, hard flesh. She set the rhythm, the sweet, rocking motion.

  He watched her, his eyes much too intense.

  Empowered, she took him deeper. Deeper than she'd ever taken him before.

  He fisted the sheets and made a tortured sound, battling the need for relief.

  Teasing, playing, she kissed her way up his body. She'd dreamed about him like this, just like this, warm and fluid, hard and hungry, all dark and male.

  Michael. Beautiful, desperate Michael.

  Without warning, he gripped her waist, lifted her hips and thrust into her, sending shock waves rippling.

  "Do it," he rasped against her ear. "Make it happen."

  A pulse pounded between her legs. Heat slammed through every inch of her body. The room spun in a sea of color, a blur of skyrocketing emotion.

  She rode him, fast and hard, furious to climax with him. To make it happen.

  He moved with her, baiting her, arousing her, covering her mouth and devouring it.

  Demanding, persuasive, he took her to dangerous heights, and she knew she would never stop needing him, wanting him, craving him.

  He was in her blood, in her heart, in her soul.

  When he flung back his head and lost the battle, she let herself go, tumbling over the edge and falling into his arms.

  In the silence that followed, he held her, steeped in the aftermath of a mind-reeling climax. Slick with sweat, with the sheen of completion, she cuddled closer.

  "I can't do this," he said.

  She smoothed a hand down his back. Her limbs had turned to liquid and her fingers melted like wax. "Do what?"

  "Stay. Snuggle. Get turned on again." He slid his hands through her hair and made an approving sound, lingering over the long, loose strands.

  She knew the platinum color fascinated him, just as the inky blackness that streamed to his shoulders mesmerized her. "Why can't you stay?"

  "Because I have to go back to work."

  "What about later?"

  "We'll snuggle. Kiss. Get turned on again." She brushed his neck with her lips, tasted the saltiness of his skin. "After I feed you?"

  "Feed me?"

  "Dinner."

  "That's sounds perfect." He shifted to ease her out of his arms. "I'll bring my appetite. For you. And your cooking."

  She smiled and touched his cheek, and he gave her a tender kiss and left her alone.

  Anxious for him to return.

  * * *

  Michael came home from work, expecting to find Heather bustling around the stove, preparing a mouth-watering meal.

  A pot roast, he decided, as he opened the front door. Or maybe a vat of spaghetti.

  He entered the kitchen, and his hungry stomach sank.

  Nothing, not the slightest aroma laced the air. No sizzling meats, no spices, no tangy sauces.

  He searched for Heather and discovered her in Justin's room, leaning against the dresser.

  She seemed distracted, edgy. Glancing up to meet
his gaze, she wrung her hands, locking her fingers, then pulling them apart.

  Justin sat on the floor, amid a batch of toys, while Chester chewed a piece of rawhide. Spotting Michael, the dog thumped his bushy tail.

  Michael moved farther into the room. Was Heather angry with him? Had he done something to displease her?

  "What's going on?" he asked.

  She caught her breath but didn't answer.

  The sound of Michael's voice triggered Justin's attention, and the little one crawled toward him, babbling baby nonsense.

  "Hey, buddy." He lifted the child into his arms, still waiting for Heather's response.

  Justin latched onto Michael's shirt and tugged on the collar. The boy smelled clean and powdery, freshly bathed and shampooed.

  "Say something, Heather." Anything, he thought, as he pressed his cheek to Justin's hair, allowing the softness to tickle his skin.

  "Denny Halloway called."

  His heartbeat slammed his chest. "When?"

  "Not long after you left."

  "What did he want?"

  "For me to come to California."

  Afraid of losing her, of her going to L.A. and never coming back, he shook his head. "No. You can't." It was too dangerous, too risky, too everything.

  "Beverly's dying, Michael. She probably won't last the week."

  "Is that what he told you? Was that his ploy to lure you back there?" He held the baby a little closer, a little tighter. "What if it's a ruse? What if he found out about Justin? What if—"

  "He said Beverly wants to see me. That she's been asking for me."

  "And you believe him?"

  She wrung her hands again. "I don't know, but it's a chance I have to take. If Beverly is on her deathbed, then she has a right to see me. To see her son one last time."

  "And tip off her father?" Overly possessive, he clutched the child he'd agreed to claim. "I won't let you go. You're both staying here."

  She lifted her chin, gave him a stubborn stare. "I'm flying out as soon as I can. And I'm taking Justin with me."

  He wanted to curse, to scream, to accuse her of being selfish. Yet he knew she was doing this for Beverly, for a young woman riddled with cancer.

  "I'll go with you." No way would he let her disappear on her own, take the baby and run, put herself in harm's way. "But we're waiting a day."