Читать книгу Nobody's Child - Ann Major, Ann Major - Страница 11

Two

Maybe it was the booze.

Whatever. Cutter Lord was unaccustomed to the sense of uncertainty that filled him the minute he saw her heading toward the bar where he’d been hiding for more than an hour.

Pale, creamy skin.

Black cashmere over softly swelling breasts and taut nipples.

So many years.

And he still felt the same.

Cheyenne’s eyes were warm and welcoming to everyone she saw and spoke to on her way toward him.

But that would change, the minute she saw him.

He swallowed what was left of his drink.

He should pounce on her now.

Instead he clung to the safety of the shadows and wondered what the hell to do next. The only other times in his life he had been at such a complete loss had been that moment just before dawn on the island when he’d known he’d fallen in love with her and then that single other time when he’d held his tiny son in his arms in the hospital and stared at her with such fury and longing that he’d made her cry.

Suddenly the happier memories of that long-ago night on the island swamped Cutter. He had awakened just before dawn to find her naked body curled trustingly in his arms. He had gotten up, feeling excited and surprised at the strange tenderness he felt toward her, at the regret to leave her in bed alone, even so briefly.

In confusion he had stared out at the ghostly glimmer of gray fog that shrouded the island. Then she had padded silently across the room and gently taken his hand.

At the touch of her slim fingers closing around his, his spirits had rocketed, and all his loneliness, as well as the certainty that she was the wrong woman for any Lord, especially him, had vanished.

Even as he had fought the power she had over him, he had wondered why he had ever thought she was unsuitable when she was the only woman who would do for him. He had kissed her forehead, her drowsy, thickly lashed eyes, her tousled red hair. He had wondered why he had ever thought money could matter between a man and a woman who had felt and shared what they had felt.

Then they had begun to talk as if they had known each other their entire lives. She had told him of growing up in a small Texas town, of having a father who would not claim her, of having a half sister who hated her and who had been determined to best her, of having a beautiful, wild mother the whole town sneered at, of learning to like books with happy endings because her own life had not been so happy.

And he had told her something of his life, too—of the great loneliness he had known ever since he’d been a boy. In fact, he had shared so much in those swift, fleeting moments, telling her everything about himself that had really mattered—except his real name.

They had scampered down to the kitchen as if they were children and made a hasty breakfast of cold biscuits and milk and orange juice. And that simple shared meal had been wonderfully exciting because she was there, feeding him with her fingers.

Then they had raced back to bed and made love again.

He had known then, that for better or for worse, he had fallen head over heels in love with her.

Then she had used her love to destroy him.

Now it was his turn.

Normally Cheyenne didn’t drink, but tonight she felt like it. She was ordering Scotch on the rocks, when Cutter’s silken baritone came from behind her.

“Make mine a double.”

Her smile vanished. Her green eyes turned to shards of ice.

“The wages of sin must be paid, Cheyenne. The devil always claims his due.”

But did he have to show up at the worst possible moment?

For an instant the world stopped spinning.

She whirled.

There—behind her in the shadowy dark stood the devil himself. He was twirling a twin red rose to the one she’d worn in her hair the last time she’d seen him.

Cutter’s obsidian black eyes locked with hers as he handed her the rose. In his gaze she saw the same bleak, unforgiving emotion she’d seen on her wedding day. The same bleak, loveless emotion she’d seen that last afternoon when she’d begged him to save Martin and he’d seized her rose and then leaned forward and unbuttoned her jacket.

“Sure. I’ll be glad to help,” he’d murmured in that same softly rough tone. “For a price. If you ask me sweetly.”

He’d twisted her second button loose, and she’d felt his warm fingers against the swell of her breasts. She’d gasped and grown instantly hot from his touch.

Some part of her had wanted him to strip her there and then. It had taken her a second or two to gather her wits. She had grabbed the gaping edges of her jacket, and tried to run. But he’d seized her, and pinned her between a wall and his long lean body, until she’d gone limp and breathless from his nearness. Only when her lips had parted, inviting his mouth to touch hers, had he laughed softly and let her go.

He seemed even more hatefully dangerous now.

Never in a million years could she ever forgive him.

Not that he cared.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he loomed over her.

A drop of blood bubbled from the tip of her finger where a thorn from his flower had pricked her. Angrily she threw the rose at him, but it just bounced off the lapels of his tuxedo.

Reality was back with a vengeance.

“My darling sister-in-law,” he purred. “You’re hurt.” Before she could resist, he had her injured finger in his grip and had lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

Dear God. The tenderness of his mouth stung her fingertip with pleasurable shock.

She blushed.

“You look even lovelier than you did the last time I saw you.” He brought the scarlet blossom to his nose and inhaled.

As he had done before.

“Your face is as red as my rose,” he murmured with insolent mischief.

Her heart pumped wildly. She was too furious to speak, so she tried to run.

He held on to her hand. “Easy does it.” He smiled lazily. “Remember me. I’m all bark and no bite.”

If only he were so harmless.

He was tough as nails. In his whole life he had never loved another human being. He used women for sex. He stomped on any man who opposed him. Especially his own brother.

Cutter’s face looked harder and leaner than it had been seven years ago, but he was still sinfully handsome. The sheer, raw animal magnetism he projected in his black evening clothes left her breathless.

“How did you get in?” Pulling her hand free, she fell backward against the solid oak of the bar. “I gave very specific orders—”

“I’m sure you did.” He shot her that hot, beguiling pirate’s grin that had seduced so many women. “You forget. I prefer to give women orders, not serve them.”

“You...” The vile word didn’t come easily. “You...bastard.”

“No, honey—” His charming, piratical grin broadened, reminding her of her own questionable parentage.

While he ordered drinks, Cheyenne’s mind flashed backward.

“Mexican!” the kids had jeered on her first day of school, making her conscious of how dirty and ragged she was. Only they’d said something that sounded more like, “Mez-kin.”

“She’s the witch’s bastard,” Chantal had taunted.

Through her tears, Cheyenne had stared at the ground, which was dry and cracked and covered with a fine pink dust that dusted the scuffed toes of her brown boots. Thus, she hadn’t seen the tall, black-haired boy, pushing his way through the other children. Thus, her first awareness of Jack West, her first playmate and friend as well as first love, had been his rough, yet strangely pleasant voice.

“Leave her alone!”

“Stay out of this!” Chantal had cried.

Jack, whose blood was half Mexican, too, whose parentage was even more questionable than Cheyenne’s, Jack, who had had to fight for his own precarious social position in Westville even harder than Cheyenne, had yanked Chantal’s red braids hard. “Cállate, celosa. You’re just jealous ‘cause she’s your sister.”

“She’s not my sister! I hate her! I hate you, too. She’s just like you—a barrio brat!”

“No. She looks like your father. Just like you, too, gringa. That’s why you hate her.”

“No! No!” Chantal covered her ears with her hands.

The bartender set down their drinks.

The adult Cheyenne froze as Cutter placed a crystal glass of straight whiskey into her shaking hand.

“Cheers, Cheyenne. You’ve come a long way...since Westville. Since my island. Since your marriage to my brother. This may be your best party yet. I find I’m enjoying it way more than your wedding even though I haven’t yet had the pleasure of kissing you.”

Cutter’s gaze lingered on her lips, and she remembered her wedding day. Her heart had felt about to break when he’d angrily kissed her. She’d fainted with joy and hope only to be cast down into despair when she regained consciousness to find him gone and Martin there, demanding to know if she wanted to chase Cutter or stay with him.

What choice had she ever had?

Cutter had wanted her, but for sex, not for marriage.

“You look good in emeralds. Too good,” Cutter said. “Widowhood becomes you. Too bad you’re not yet desperate enough to sell me what I want.” He picked up his rose and twirled it. He brought it to his lips and then took a deep breath, drawing in its scent before setting it down again.

His heavy-lidded eyes slid lazily from the rose to her lush mouth, down her body, admiring her generous curves and slim waist.

Even the odd, tentative flicker of desire that went through her annoyed her. He was a sexist, arrogant bully! How could he have this sensual effect on her?

Please, God. Not sensual. Not tonight!

She balled her hands into fists. He read her flushed face like a book and laughed, his overabundant conceit and good humor restored. Without a word he threw his dark head back and easily tossed down his own drink.

“Cheers,” she muttered shakily as she tried to toss her drink down with equal aplomb. But the whiskey strangled her and made her cough.

With an excessive pretense of polite concern, he whipped out a monogrammed handkerchief, and then pounded her hard on the back, and yet not too hard.

When his warm hand stayed in the center of her back, her bare skin beneath the soft black cashmere began to itch and burn.

She sputtered, swallowed more of the awful whiskey and caught another drowning, scalding breath.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she rasped.

“I was worried about you. I came to offer my services.”

The innuendo in his low voice further infuriated her. Rudely she snatched his handkerchief and dabbed at her sweater.

“No. What’s more likely is that you couldn’t bear to miss my social execution. How did you get a ticket anyway?”

“Chantal.”

“I should have known. She’s always made my life miserable the same way you did Martin’s.”

Cutter frowned. “Is that what you think?”

“What do you really want?”

“Many things.” His eyes were hot.

He picked up the rose. This time he trailed the soft petals across her lips. “Your body is at the top of my wish list. So is your soul.”