Nobody's Child. Ann Major

could loathe Cutter. From the beginning, his behavior had been despicable. Incapable of love or honor, he had seduced her and abandoned her. Then when she’d found out she was pregnant and married Martin, Cutter had been apoplectic.

      For Jeremy’s sake, Cutter could have helped Martin when he’d asked for help shortly before his death. Instead Cutter had stuck to the brutal terms of their father’s will and said he would keep control of Martin’s fortune until Martin was thirty-five. She had gone to Cutter and pleaded with him, too, pointing out that Cutter had taken everything from Martin.

      Cutter had seized the gigantic rose she’d worn in her hair, and brought it to his nose. He inhaled deeply. “No, Cheyenne. Martin took everything from me. And you helped him do it.” He had paused, studying her face and then the rose. “But, hey, sure, I’ll be glad to help.” Another pause. “For a price. If you ask me sweetly.” Then Cutter had put his hands on her in a hateful, intimate way and propositioned her.

      Dear God, she had wanted him to love her.

      All he had ever wanted was to use her.

      The auctioneer’s cry never ceased. An hour later Jeremy’s book lay closed on the floor. He began to droop sleepily against her arm. When he tugged at her sleeve and pleaded in a whining tone that he wanted to go home to bed, she kissed his brow and reluctantly ordered Kurt, whom she had never had the courage to fire, to drive him.

      As always Kurt’s cold stare before he took Jeremy by the hand unnerved her. She felt as if it were winter, and every blade of grass, every leaf, and even the root systems, had withered and died in her garden.

      But she stayed.

      For she had been told that her presence at the auction added substantially to the money her belongings would bring.

      Hour after dreadful hour she sat ramrod straight in her hard-backed, gilt chair.

      When the intermission came, she was too exhausted to make small talk. Jeb and Megan Jackson escorted her to a shadowy corner of the bar. Then mercifully they left her to talk to Amy and Nick Browning, and she found herself alone.

      But not for long.

      For suddenly Cutter Lord was there.

      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