Buch lesen: «Cherokee»

A Cherokee Knight.
A Dragon Slayer.

Sarah couldn’t keep her eyes off Adam. He stood before her, his thumbs hooked in his pockets—a stance that made the female in her take notice.

He took a step toward her. “We still haven’t talked about what happened earlier.”

“We’re just friends.” The statement sounded foolish, even to her own ears.

“I keep telling myself that. We’re just friends. There’s nothing happening between us.” He laughed, a rough-textured sound that faded as quickly as it came on. “That’s a lie, at least for me. I can’t help myself. I want you. And I can’t pretend that I don’t.” He moved closer, until they were only inches apart. “You’re my midnight seduction, sweet Sarah.”

Her heart thumped wildly. She wanted to kiss him, seduce him, feel him branding her skin. Mist and moonlight, she thought. Fairy tales and fantasies. She craved all of that and more.

But wanting Adam didn’t mean she had the courage to take him.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Silhouette Desire, where you can indulge yourself every month with romances that can only be described as passionate, powerful and provocative!

The ever-fabulous Ann Major offers a Cowboy Fantasy, July’s MAN OF THE MONTH. Will a fateful reunion between a Texas cowboy and his ex-flame rekindle their fiery passion? In Cherokee, Sheri WhiteFeather writes a compelling story about a Native American hero who, while searching for his Cherokee heritage, falls in love with a heroine who has turned away from hers.

The popular miniseries BACHELOR BATTALION by Maureen Child marches on with His Baby!—a marine hero returns from an assignment to discover he’s a father. The tantalizing Desire miniseries FORTUNES OF TEXAS: THE LOST HEIRS continues with The Pregnant Heiress by Eileen Wilks, whose pregnant heroine falls in love with the investigator protecting her from a stalker.

Alexandra Sellers has written an enchanting trilogy, SONS OF THE DESERT: THE SULTANS, launching this month with The Sultan’s Heir. A prince must watch over the secret child heir to the kingdom along with the child’s beautiful mother. And don’t miss Bronwyn Jameson’s Desire debut—an intriguing tale involving a self-made man who’s In Bed with the Boss’s Daughter.

Treat yourself to all six of these heart-melting tales of Desire—and see inside for details on how to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest.

Enjoy!

Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Cherokee
Sheri Whitefeather

SHERI WHITEFEATHER

lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, summer powwows and visiting art galleries and vintage clothing stores near the beach. Since her one true passion is writing, she is thrilled to be a part of the Silhouette Desire line. When she isn’t writing, she often reads until the wee hours of the morning.

Sheri also works as a leather artisan with her Muscogee Creek husband. They have one son and a menagerie of pets, including a pampered English bulldog and four equally spoiled Bengal cats. She would love to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 5130, Orange, California 92863-5130.

To the Cherokees who inspired this story— Annie Dear-Johnson for her strength and sensitivity; Lisa Kelly and her daughter Mandi for their beauty and heart; Kona Bruckner and her children, Amy, Bryon and Jeremiah for their triumph; Christine Tevis and her sons, Bobby, Bruce and Bryon (my favorite little artist) for following Windrunner’s path.

I would also like to acknowledge Barbara Carlton for teaching her son about his Cherokee heritage and Barbara Ann Tucker, my Texas friend, for the lovely letters and powwow pictures. And to another Barbara, my proud and supportive mother-in-law, many thanks for encouraging us to consider alternative medicine whenever one of us is ailing. Unfortunately we don’t always listen, but the characters in this book took your advice to heart.

And finally to the countless readers out there expressing an interest in the American Indian culture, this recipe is for you:

INDIAN FRY BREAD

(from various sources)

Cornmeal or flour for dusting board

2 cups flour

½ tsp salt

½ tsp baking powder

½ cup instant dry milk

¾ cup water

Oil or shortening for deep frying

Dust pastry board. In a mixing bowl, stir flour, baking powder, salt and powdered milk. Add water in small amounts, stirring until the mixture reaches the consistency of bread dough. Knead until smooth and elastic. Cover and let rest for ten minutes. Heat oil or shortening in a deep frying pan. Pull off a palm-size mound of dough, roll into a ball, then flatten into a 6-inch disc. Fry one at a time on both sides until golden. Serve hot, sprinkled with powdered sugar, drizzled with honey or covered with taco fixings. Makes about 4 servings.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

One

Sarah Cloud entered the break room, her productive day nearing its end. She didn’t own Ventura West, a successful skin care salon in the San Fernando Valley, but she took pride in working there. She enjoyed soothing her clients with a refreshing mask and a quiet shoulder massage. They relied on her to make them feel whole, to sweep them away from the hustle and bustle of their harried L.A. lives, if only for an hour each week.

Removing a small container of orange juice from the refrigerator, she looked up. Tina Carpenter, the sweet but air-brained receptionist, stood in the doorway.

“You’re never going to believe who’s here,” the young woman said, her eyes wide and bright. “It’s that doctor-type guy from the clinic next door.”

Sarah smiled, amused by Tina’s definition of the holistic practitioner. Of course it wasn’t his profession that mattered to the women in the salon. All were in agreement that their new neighbor was by far one of the most attractive men they had ever seen. Sarah had no idea what to think, since she had yet to catch even a quick glimpse of him. Not that she cared. Southern California overflowed with tall, tan, muscular men.

Tina flashed an excited grin. “Guess what? He wants to talk to you. And he even said it’s personal. I wonder if he’s going to ask you on a date or something.”

Baffled, Sarah capped her orange juice. A date? With a woman he’d never even met? Not likely. “Are you sure it’s me he wants to talk to?” This wouldn’t be the first time Tina had misconstrued a message. The receptionist was the owner’s niece—an inept but permanent employee.

“Of course I’m sure, silly.” Tina grabbed her arm. “Come on. He’s waiting.”

Sarah approached the reception area, then slowed her pace when she saw him. He stood near the front window, almost out of place amid the elegant ambiance of the salon. He wasn’t what she had expected. He wore dark indigo jeans and a blue button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. But it wasn’t his ranch-style attire that made her stop and stare. She knew immediately that the color of his skin hadn’t been enhanced by the sun, his golden complexion and strong, chiseled profile suddenly reminding her of home. An uncomfortable reminder.

When he turned, their eyes met. And then held. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. He was too unusual to be considered classically handsome. Each riveting feature battled for dominance—eyes too deep, a mouth too full, cheekbones so prominent they could have been sculpted from clay.

He was a mixed blood, she realized. But how mixed she couldn’t quite tell. He wore his hair long, but it was brown instead of black, secured at his nape in a thick ponytail.

Sarah took a deep breath, more uncomfortable than ever. She hated being reminded of home.

He came toward her, his height overwhelming. She had been wrong. California wasn’t overflowing with men like him. His masculine presence commanded attention, but his smile generated warmth. No wonder no woman within breathing distance could keep her eyes off him. Tina leaned over the reception desk, and Claire, the flamboyant makeup artist, craned her neck to get a good look at his backside.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Adam Paige. I work next door.”

Sarah extended her hand, sensing he waited for her to do so. Apparently he had been taught the same protocol. A man didn’t touch a woman without invitation, not even in a greeting.

The handshake sent an electrical charge straight up her arm. She drew back quickly, keeping her voice polite and professional. “I’m Sarah Cloud. How can I help you?”

He pushed at his shirtsleeve, shoving it further up his arm. “Vicki Lester suggested I stop by. She’s a patient of mine.”

Sarah nodded. Vicki was a client of hers, too. And a friend. Vicki lived in the same sprawling apartment complex. “She didn’t tell me to expect you,” Sarah said, hoping she didn’t sound too distrustful. How could her friend neglect to mention this man and all his rugged beauty?

“I saw Vicki this morning,” he explained. “After her appointment, we got into a serious conversation. When I told her about what’s going on in my life, she thought I should talk to you.”

His life? I’m an esthetician, Sarah thought, not a psychologist. If he had problems, the best she could do was ease him with a facial—lift the tension from his forehead, massage the stress from his shoulders.

She glanced up at those broad shoulders and swallowed. Then again, talking might be better. She actually found herself attracted to Adam Paige—a man whose golden complexion and Indian cheekbones reminded her of why she’d left home. “Would you like to sit down?”

He glanced around, caught Tina’s eye and returned her smile, indicating to Sarah that the bouncy blond receptionist appeared to be eavesdropping.

“Maybe we could go across the street to the juice bar instead,” he said.

“Sure, that’s fine.” Sarah had some time to spare, and a cold drink sounded good. She’d left her orange juice on the table, and now her mouth felt unusually dry.

He opened the door for her, and they stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the salon. Ventura Boulevard buzzed around them. Late-day traffic gathered at a red light while summer tourists explored what locals simply called the Valley.

Sarah looked over at Adam as they crossed the street, and he sent her a devastating smile. If she hadn’t been wearing sensible shoes, she would have tripped over her own feet.

Curious, she glanced down at Adam’s feet, wondering what sort of shoes he wore. Lace-up ropers, she saw, California style. No dust, no scuffed toes. In spite of his Western appeal, Adam Paige with the chiseled profile and heart-stopping smile had most likely been born and raised in the Valley.

Sarah lifted her gaze, realizing a case of nerves had set in. Suddenly she felt like the troubled Oklahoma girl she had been. The one who had come to L.A. with nothing more than a battered suitcase and a need to break free of her past.

After Sarah’s mother died, her father had found solace in the bottle, drinking his way into oblivion. And as much as she loved her dad, walking away from him had become her only option. She had learned firsthand how deceptive alcoholics could be, how irresponsible and hurtful.

She glanced toward the sky and recalled his last broken promise, the last devastating lie. She’d graduated from high school two weeks before, and had come home from a new full-time job to find her dad in the backyard. He was dressed in grubby clothes, the old jeans and T-shirt he wore when tending the rose bushes that bloomed every summer. The flowers Sarah loved, the only beauty left in their run-down yard.

Standing in the setting sun, she watched her father reach into a planter and dig below the dirt. And then her breath caught, the threat of tears stinging her eyes.

The bottle that glinted in his hand could have been a knife. When he dusted it off, twisted the cap and took a drink, a sharp pain sliced through her—the sickening stab of betrayal.

He turned and their eyes met. And at that painful moment, she knew. He wasn’t her father anymore, the man she had once admired, the Cherokee warrior who used to tuck her in at night. Too many scenes like this one had destroyed those warm, tender feelings. For Sarah, there was nothing left but emptiness.

Neither said a word. She didn’t accuse, and he didn’t apologize. They only stood, staring at each other. His graduation gift to her had been an impassioned promise, an ardent vow of sobriety, and that gift had just been shattered, along with Sarah’s eighteen-year-old heart.

“We’re here.”

Blinking, she turned to see Adam, not her father, watching her. “I’m sorry. What?”

“The juice bar.”

“Oh, of course.”

Once inside, they ordered their drinks and sat across from each other in a small booth. Sarah fidgeted with her cup. Adam studied her, his gaze scanning the length of her hair.

“Vicki told me that you’re originally from Tahlequah,” he said. “And that you’re registered with the Cherokee Nation.”

She stiffened at the mention of her hometown and her heritage, her memories still too close to the edge. “Yes, I am. Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

He nodded, his voice tinged with emotion. “I just found out that I was born in Tahlequah and that I’m part Cherokee, too. I know that sounds strange, but up until a little over a month ago, I had no idea that I was adopted.”

Sarah released a heavy breath. He was born in Tahlequah? This gorgeous Californian? No wonder he reminded her of home.

She didn’t want to discuss his newly discovered Cherokee roots, but after his personal admission, how could she just get up and walk away? The least she could do was give him a moment of her time, no matter how uncomfortable the subject made her.

“You were adopted by a white family?” she asked.

“Sort of,” he answered. “My father was English, but my mom was Spanish and Italian. I always figured my coloring had come from her. You know, all that Latin blood.” He glanced down at his drink, then back up. “My parents died when I was in college. They were killed in a plane crash.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Grief was something that still haunted her. She knew how it could destroy, claw its way into a person’s soul. And at this oddly quiet moment, Adam’s soul could have been her own. Their gazes were locked much too intimately.

Adam didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Everything around him had gone still. There was nothing. No one but the woman seated across from him. He wanted to touch her. Make the invisible connection between them more real.

Was it Sarah’s eyes that captivated him? Those dark, exotic-shaped eyes? Or was it her hair—the lush black curtain? Her skin was beautiful, too. Clear and smooth and the color of temptation.

Before Adam’s imagination took him further, he blinked away his last thought, breaking their stare. Sarah picked up her juice, and he sensed her uneasiness. Was the connection between them loneliness? Was she as alone as he felt? Within the span of a month, everything familiar in Adam’s world had changed. He’d moved, switched jobs and stumbled upon his adoption.

“I’ve been storing some things that belonged to my parents,” he said finally. “Mostly personal items, but there were two tall file cabinets from my dad’s office. They were filled with old business records, but I kept them anyway.” He glanced at Sarah’s slender hands, recalling the shock tied to his discovery, the way his own hands had shaken. “I moved recently. Not a major move, just to a place that’s closer to work. But since I was reorganizing and packing, it seemed like a good time to clean out those files.”

“You found something, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” He swallowed back the pain, the lump that had formed in his throat. “There was a document from an adoption agency. It was in a manila envelope with some old tax records. I guess that’s why I didn’t see it before.” He swallowed again, then released a heavy breath. “I discovered that I was born in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, to a Cherokee woman named Cynthia Youngwolf.” Leaning against the table, he searched Sarah’s eyes, hoping for a miracle. “Do you know anyone by that name?”

She shook her head. “Tahlequah is the Cherokee capital. There’s a large Indian population there. It would be impossible to know everyone.”

Adam’s heart sank. “I’ve been trying to find her, but nothing has panned out. First I checked with the Oklahoma phone directory, and then I placed some personal ads in newspapers. After that, I listed my name with one of those adoption search agencies.” He hoped his biological mother was looking for him, too. Looking for the son who had lost his adoptive parents.

Surely Cynthia Youngwolf wondered about him. What woman wouldn’t think about the child she had given up?

“This whole thing has been pretty overwhelming.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help,” Sarah said.

Adam studied her face, features that were strong yet delicate. Vulnerable yet proud. Were other Cherokee women as compelling?

What did his mother look like? And who was his father? Were they secret lovers? Too young to raise a child? He had questions, and no one but Cynthia Youngwolf could answer them.

And what about his parents? The ones who had raised him? Why hadn’t they told him that he was adopted?

He couldn’t control the turmoil, the jumbled emotions that left him feeling hurt and confused. Why had they lied to him, pretending he was their biological son? They’d had so many opportunities to tell him, especially during all that family counseling.

And what about the critical events leading up to the therapy? Were there subtle hints? Quiet innuendoes? Something, anything that marked the truth?

Yes, he thought, his heart striking his chest. There was.

Adam had been seventeen at the time, a tall, rangy boy with fire in his blood. And two weeks earlier, he’d gotten caught stealing a pint of whiskey from the local market, the place where his mother bought groceries.

Adam had lied, of course, insisting he’d swiped the liquor on a dare. Yet that hadn’t stopped his parents from cornering him, from trapping him with one of their mandatory talks. But why? He knew they hadn’t found the other bottle, the one he kept hidden in the trunk of his car.

“We picked up some literature,” his father said.

Slumped on the couch, Adam glanced up at his dad. His mother sat in nearby chair, twisting the tassel on one of the pillows she’d embroidered. His dad was tense, and his mom was jittery and fretful. Things didn’t look good.

“Literature?”

Ronald Paige nodded, a quick, hard jerk of his head. “About alcoholism.”

Irritated, he righted his posture. “And what’s that got to do with me?”

“You drink, Adam. You drink a lot.”

“That’s bull.” He dragged a hand through his hair and ground a booted heel into the carpet. “I party on the weekends once in a while. That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“It’s more than that, and you know it. You’re addicted. All the signs are there.”

All the signs are where? he wondered. In some stupid brochure his parents had latched onto? “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.” When he stood, he topped his father by several inches. “You guys are freaking out. Making something out of nothing.”

“And you’re out of control. You don’t even seem like our son anymore.”

“Really? Well maybe I wished I wasn’t. All you ever do is hassle me.” Turning to leave, he caught sight of the look that passed between his parents. A look that said something secretive, something he couldn’t quite name.

Shrugging it off, he slammed the front door and headed for his car, grateful the whiskey was still there.

A horn honked and Adam jolted, realizing where he was. He sat in the juice bar, staring blindly out a window. Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. He had come a long way since his bout with the bottle, and, up until their untimely death, his parents had remained by his side. The loving, supportive family that had kept his adoption a secret. None of it made sense.

He turned to face Sarah, hoping she could help him unscramble this puzzle. “Do you still have family in Tahlequah? Will you ask them if they’ve ever heard of Cynthia Youngwolf?”

Her eyes shifted focus. Instead of meeting his gaze, she studied her drink, her tone distant. “My family…my father doesn’t live in Tahlequah anymore. He’s in another part of Oklahoma now.”

“I see,” Adam responded, although he didn’t. All she would have to do was ask her father about a name, yet she appeared reluctant to do so. Why? he wondered. Why wouldn’t she make one simple phone call? And why had her shoulders tensed throughout portions of their conversation?

One minute he saw attraction in her eyes, the next detachment. Warm. Aloof. Gentle. Afraid. She appeared to be all of those things. And that made him want to touch her even more, reach for her hand and hold it. This woman, he thought, this dark-eyed mystery, was connected to his birthplace, a heritage he knew nothing about.

The Cherokee books he’d purchased helped, but they weren’t enough. Reading didn’t combat the loneliness. He needed more than just words on a page.

He needed human contact.

He needed Sarah.

Adam started. He needed a woman he’d just met? Was he losing his mind? The last of his sanity?

No, he thought. He wasn’t crazy. A woman born in Tahlequah, a stunning Cherokee with dark eyes and long, flowing hair. He couldn’t have dreamed her if he’d tried. Sarah was the answer he had been waiting for.

She glanced at her watch. “It was nice meeting you, Adam. But I should get back to work.”

“I’ll walk you,” he offered.

They stood on the street corner, and as she brushed his arm, a ray of hope shot through him—an awakening from one of his ancestor’s arrows. No, he wasn’t about to give up on Sarah Cloud. Somehow, some way, he would break through her defenses, unlock the mystery surrounding her. And in the process, he intended to find his biological mother. The woman who had given him life.

The next week Sarah paced one of the facial rooms, checking and rechecking her supplies. Adam Paige was her next appointment. A facial. The man had booked a facial. Not that she didn’t have other male clients. She encouraged men to take better care of their skin, yet the thought of touching Adam made her palms tingle and her pulse race.

She sanitized her hands for the tenth time, a nervous habit, she supposed. And one she’d just acquired. Checking her watch, she exhaled a shaky breath. Maybe he would fall asleep during the facial the way some of her other clients did. It would be easier touching him if he slept.

Sarah let out an anxious laugh. Mrs. Whipple snored during her procedure, but then Vivian Whipple was nearly eighty years old. Young, virile Adam Paige wouldn’t snore. And he probably wouldn’t fall asleep, either.

Quit stressing and go, she told herself. Adam was probably early, waiting in the reception area for her to greet him.

Sure enough, he was there. As Sarah approached, he stood. Today he wore tan trousers and a matching shirt. Although he looked more stylish than he had the week before, he still exhibited the same rugged appeal. Both the makeup artist and her client checked him out from their vantage point. And, of course, Tina watched with a dreamy smile, probably thinking Sarah was the luckiest girl in L.A.

Yeah, right. More like the most nervous.

“Hi, Adam,” Sarah said, reminding herself it was just a facial—a procedure she had done a thousand times before. “Are you ready?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

She showed him where her treatment room was, then took him to an empty dressing room. “Just remove your shirt and put this on.” She handed him a kimono-style robe that belted in front, her friendly, professional voice intact. “And when you’re ready, come to the facial room.” Pointing to a rack of hangers, she added, “We encourage clients to keep their belongings with them, so be sure to bring your shirt along.”

“Okay.” He flashed that devastating smile, and she proceeded down the hall, taking a deep, I’ll-get-through-this breath. Men might be low on her list of priorities, but this one made her tingly and weak-kneed, sensations she would prefer to do without.

Sarah waited by the treatment chair, resisting the urge to cleanse her hands again. She couldn’t wash away her nervousness no matter how hard she tried. Touching Adam was inevitable, and dousing herself with an instant sanitizer wasn’t going to help.

When footsteps sounded, she looked up. Adam entered the room, shirt in hand. She took it from him and hung it on a nearby hook. He wore the aqua robe she had given him, and although it was a simple garment, the pale color emphasized every striking feature. She decided his biological parents must have been beautiful, their genes creating a mixed-blood masterpiece.

“Have you ever had a facial before?” she asked.

He smiled again, his teeth white and straight. “No, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Have a seat, and I’ll explain the procedure,” she said, struggling to focus on her job. She hadn’t been this anxious since her state board exam. This jittery inside. How much physical perfection could one man inherit?

He sat on the facial bed, his presence filling the small room. Sarah closed the door, knowing she had to. A relaxed setting enhanced the treatment.

Once she briefed him, he reclined and she draped him with a coverlet. He had chosen to keep the room quiet rather than listen to a CD from Sarah’s collection. She had a variety of soft music as well as sounds from nature. She would have preferred to have a CD playing. The silence only made her more aware of her nervousness.

“I’m going to cover your hair,” she told him, slipping her hands behind his neck. His hair, banded into a ponytail, felt smooth and thick. Healthy, she thought. Everything about Adam boasted strength.

After analyzing and cleansing his skin, she began the massage. She knew all the clinical benefits of a facial massage, yet when her fingers connected with his skin, she forgot each and every one.

She could have been a woman stroking her lover. A woman exploring his face, the chiseled angles and rawboned sensuality.

Each manipulation felt erotic. Rolling movements, circular friction. She touched his forehead, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. She allowed her fingers to roam his face, the pressure light but firm, slow yet rhythmic.

Heat against heat, Sarah thought. Flesh against flesh. Adam kept his eyes closed, but he didn’t sleep. Instead he moaned his pleasure—a low, masculine sound.

When she accidentally brushed his lips, he wet them afterward. She swallowed and moved down his chin, his neck.

Mesmerized, she became aware of every breath he took, every muscle that twitched, the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids.

He made another low sound and shifted his weight, causing the coverlet to slip. The V on his robe gaped. Sarah was tempted to slide her hands inside, massage his chest, his nipples.

Catching her breath, she chastised herself. She had to end this now. What kind of esthetician fantasized about her client? A stranger?

A beautiful stranger.

Easing back as naturally as possible, she broke contact, lifting her hands to fill a basin with warm water.

Adam opened his eyes, blinking as though awakening from a dream. He tilted his head back and looked at Sarah.

“That was nice,” he said, his voice a husky whisper.

She managed a shaky smile, uncertain of how to respond. Her fingertips still tingled, and the gaping robe still exposed his chest—gorgeous, golden-brown flesh. She even caught sight of a taut, muscular belly.

Sarah adjusted the coverlet, knowing it was her professional place to do so. Adam didn’t seem to notice that his robe had slipped open, but then why would he? Most men bared their chests without modesty.

“I’m going to remove the moisturizer, then prepare a mask,” she told him, an image of his navel imbedded in her mind.

She continued the procedure, shielding his eyes with moist cotton pads. They didn’t talk while she applied the mask, and within an hour the treatment was complete, his skin firm and clean.

He stood and smoothed his hair, his robe still loose, the belt barely tied. “Thank you, Sarah,” he said, coming forward to press some folded bills into her hand.

“You’re welcome.” She accepted the tip, realizing they were only inches apart. He wasn’t wearing cologne, she thought, her heart fluttering in her breast. He smelled natural, like fresh-milled soap.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

The invitation caught her by surprise. And so did her response. Without the slightest hesitation, Sarah agreed to share a meal with him—this tall, beautiful stranger. A man she knew she should avoid.

Adam stood in the main square of Chinatown, waiting for his date. This was insane, he thought. No matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to convince Sarah to allow him to pick her up at her apartment. She had insisted on meeting him.

He checked his watch. 7:20 p.m. She was late. Was he about to be stood up? It would serve him right, he supposed. Plenty of women chased him, and he’d gotten used to the attention. But then, that attention was based on his looks, not on the man he was inside. And he wanted more than a superficial relationship. He wanted…