Cherokee Dad. Sheri WhiteFeather

      “Who Does The Mob Think Justin’s Father Is?” Michael Asked.

      “You,” Heather told him.

      Yes, him. Who else could it be? He was Heather’s only lover, the only man she’d ever given herself to.

      “You have no right to ask this of me. To expect me to raise your brother’s son,” Michael said.

      “I’m not expecting you to do it forever. Just for a few months.”

      “Why didn’t you think about me before you got tangled up in this mess?”

      “Please understand. This is about Justin. An innocent child.”

      What the hell was he supposed to do? Let the mob take the boy away from her?

      “Please.” She went to the baby and picked him up.

      Michael frowned, and Justin took that moment to smile.

      Damn. Damn. Damn.

      “All right,” he said as the boy’s grin tunneled an unwelcome path straight into his cautious, it’ll-be-over-in-two-months heart.

      Dear Reader,

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      Melissa Jeglinski

      Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

      Cherokee Dad

      Sheri Whitefeather

      SHERI WHITEFEATHER

      lives in Southern California and enjoys ethnic dining, attending 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’s husband, a member of the Muscogee Creek Nation, inspires many of her stories. They have a son, a daughter and a trio of cats—domestic and wild. She loves to hear from her readers. You may write to her at: P.O. Box 17146, Anaheim, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.

      To my editor, Melissa “MJ” Jeglinski, for truly caring about my work and giving me the opportunity to spread my wings. And to Joan Marlow Golan and Tara Gavin for trusting me to revise the proposal after they bought it. This isn’t the only Mafia-driven book I’ve written. Silhouette planted the seed in their Lone Star Country Club series, allowing me to let it sprout in a few different directions. I spent some engaging years in L.A., and I couldn’t resist creating a Los Angeles-based mob.

      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

      Epilogue

      One

      Rain slashed against the windows, and lightning flashed in white-hot streaks. The intermittent bursts of thunder reminded twenty-five-year-old Michael Elk of the Cherokee thunder beings his uncle had told him about.

      As a youth, Michael had scoffed at the existence of those revered beings, but on this weather-ravaged night, he wondered if they were out there, sanctioned by the Creator to perform special duties.

      Thunderous duties.

      Boom! Boom! Boom!

      Another pounding nearly jarred him out of his skin.

      He placed the beer he’d been nursing on a side table and told himself to get a grip. Watching an old Hitchcock movie and listening to the storm was no reason to panic.

      Then why did he sense that something was about to happen? Something, he decided, as he stared at the TV, that wasn’t in the script.

      Another thunderous noise slammed through the living room, and Michael looked around, just to reassure himself that everything was all right.

      He lived in a red-and-white farmhouse in the Texas Hill Country, the place where he’d been born. A place that gave him peace, at least most of the time.

      Boom! Boom! Boom!

      Again, that sound. It seemed too close, too personal, too—

      Too much like someone banging on the door?

      Cursing his stupidity, he rose. Then wondered if thunder beings ever came to a man’s door.

      Oh, sure. Right along with the Easter Bunny, Freddy Kruger and the Tooth Fairy.

      Or maybe Santa Claus in a Halloween mask.

      With an amused chuckle, he opened the door.

      And flinched as if he’d been sucker punched.

      Heather Richmond stood on the other side, dripping with rain and hugging a blanketed bundle to her chest.

      Heather—his missing girlfriend, the woman who’d purposely disappeared a year and a half ago, the stunning blonde who’d sent his tortured heart to hell.

      Their gazes locked, and his pulse jumped to his throat. Water glistened on her cheeks and dotted her lashes. Even in the dark, her eyes shined bright and blue.

      “I tried the bell,” she said, her voice quiet amid the storm. “But it wasn’t working.”

      He could only stare, could only struggle to get his emotions in check. The cumbersome bundle in her arms looked suspiciously like a baby.

      Whose baby? His or someone else’s?

      He had no idea what Heather had been up to. She’d gone to California on a business trip, then vanished into thin air. He’d filed a missing person’s report, frantic something horrible had happened to her, but a police investigation had turned up deceitful evidence.

      “May I come in?” she asked.

      He wanted