Nobody's Child. Ann Major

antique crystal vase on the block. As she spoke, guests suddenly saw or thought they saw dozens upon dozens of tall yellow roses blooming and growing ever taller in the vase that now looked both magical and wonderful.

      When she handed the microphone back to the auctioneer, the bidding leapfrogged as it always did after such a poignant anecdote and strange occurrence.

      Cheyenne’s green eyes glassed over again as she sank into her chair once more and folded her perfectly manicured hands together with a pretense of calm.

      She was used to pretending. She had grown so very, very good at it during the seven years of her miserable marriage, which had been one of public glitter and private humiliation.

      But ever since Martin’s murder—no, even six months before that, when the telephone death threats had begun—it had grown harder to pretend.

      It was on that day that the magnolia tree had first started to shed its blossoms. It became totally bare the day Martin had been found.

      A single magnolia petal had fluttered downward outside the window as Martin had answered that first call in their dining room with its soaring columns and its Steuben chandeliers and the table that was encircled by eighteen antique gilt chairs. She had watched the magnolia petal until it disappeared. Then she focused on Martin’s eyes, which had dilated with fear. Immediately after the brief call Martin had been gray and silent.

      “Martin. Please, Martin. Tell me what is going on,” she had pleaded as another white petal slid lazily to the ground.

      “It’s none of your damn business.” As his voice echoed with cold finality, white petals began falling like rain.

      “But you’re my husband.”

      “Am I?” He came to her then, raised his hand and lifted her chin in a proprietary manner. “In what sense?” he sneered. “I never think of myself as your husband. I’m surprised you do.”

      Somehow she managed not to flinch as his hand stroked her. “Why won’t you give me a divorce then?”

      His gaze was level and hard. “Because you are my only asset that my brother covets. Besides, of course, our son—the genius.”

      “Don’t call him that!”

      “Have you forgotten our little bargain—darling?”

      Words from the past, Martin’s proposal, came back to her.

      We both hate him. There’s only one way to get even with the bastard—by marrying each other.

      Martin had referred to their bargain, and she had replied, “Never...for a moment.”

      But she hadn’t hated Cutter. She had merely felt lost and afraid. For the sake of her son, Jeremy, she, who had wanted to be loved and valued, had settled for so much less.

      “Good.” His voice had softened when he saw that he had her under control once more. He had even smiled at her. Something he had rarely done when they were alone. “Relax, darling. Go outside and pick flowers. Work in your garden. Baby Jeremy. Or let him read to you. Damn it. Do what you do.” He touched her again, indifferently, his fingertips moving from her chin to her throat in a sinister caress. “This trouble is temporary. I’ll bring Kurt home to look after you and Jeremy. He’s been around. You’ll be safe with him.”

      Even though Kurt was a top man in Martin’s business, she hadn’t liked him. Kurt had a brutish face with a smashed-in nose and cold eyes. His overlarge head seemed to melt into his powerful, barrel-like torso without benefit of a neck. Every time she thought of him, red roses blackened, mosquitoes grew to the size of bumblebees and kittens quit purring.

      “I’m afraid of him.”

      Martin’s caressing fingertips combed her hair dismissively. “He’s fine.”

      “Martin, in the name of God, what’s going on?”

      “Why should I tell you?” Martin withdrew his hand.

      She felt numb and blank with regret as Martin grabbed his briefcase and newspaper and went past her out of the house. Not that such feelings were new. Every morning since she’d first discovered him with Chantal and had realized that he hated her, Cheyenne had awakened with the same blank feeling of hopelessness and the same dull ache of despair. Later, when the numbness became punctuated with fear, she had known that as long as Martin had refused her a divorce, there was nothing she could do about it.

      They had never really been married. She had always been his prisoner, his hostage in the psychological war he waged against his brother.

      If Martin had hated her for sleeping with Cutter and giving birth to Jeremy, he hated her a hundred times more for costing him control of his fortune. All Martin’s problems had stemmed from his borrowing money to prove to her and the world that he was as financially brilliant as Cutter.

      When Martin had suddenly died, she had felt that her longed-for release had come—but at a terrible price. She had been shaken to the core by the savage nature of his murder and by how utterly alone she felt in her dangerous trap. Jeremy had been devastated. The little boy had loved Martin in spite of Martin’s mood swings from indulgence to sarcasm and neglect. Immediately after his funeral the phone calls had begun, and she had discovered that Martin’s death had put Jeremy in terrible jeopardy.

      As she sat among the guests and listened to the auctioneer offer her cherished possessions for sale, she wondered if the person making the threatening calls was here, too—watching her. Watching...Jeremy. Waiting for the right moment?

      Dear God.

      She forced herself to hold her head high, even though her regal posture just made her feel more exposed.

      She kept twisting her diamond rings. She kept patting Jeremy’s silky, black head, reassuring herself that as long as her precocious darling was beside her with his nose in an encyclopedia, he was safe.

      But she couldn’t be with him all the time.

      She kept remembering the caller’s scratchy voice. His terse warning that afternoon.

      “You know what I want. If I don’t get it, Jeremy’s next.”

      As always the voice had been emotionless and deadly.

      “I don’t have five million!” she had screamed.

      “I like passion in a beautiful woman,” he had murmured. “I look forward to meeting you in person.”

      “Never.”

      “Soon.” He had hung up, but his final threat had replayed itself in her mind dozens of times.

      Dear God.

      What had Martin gotten them into?

      What was she going to do about it?

      Run away? Start over? As she had when she’d left Westville all those years ago?

      Dear God, how she wanted to.

      But where?

      How?

      With the police interrogating her?

      With Martin’s creditors hounding her?

      With her own career in jeopardy because of the negative publicity? Not that she could concentrate enough to experiment with recipes, plan parties or write. Not that she could ever, if she worked the rest of her life, make enough to pay what Martin owed.

      When she had cautioned Jeremy to beware of strangers, he hadn’t understood the danger. Laughing, he had said, “If one tries to get me, I’ll bash him with an encyclopedia or climb up the magnolia tree.”

      If anybody other than Martin or herself was responsible for her terrible predicament, it was Cutter Lord. She would never have had to marry Martin, if it hadn’t been for Cutter who had used her as he had used so many women. She had been so hurt and afraid, she had made a terrible mistake. Martin would never have had to live so high, if he hadn’t been