Cherokee Stranger. Sheri WhiteFeather

praying that he would lead her astray.

      They were an unholy combination, she thought. She reminded him of someone from his past, and he was like no one she’d ever met before.

      No one at all.

      James rubbed Emily’s cheek with his thumb, soothing the abrasion he’d left on her skin. She was so pretty, he thought. So soft. So dangerous.

      When she wet her lips, he kissed her again, only this time he used his tongue, his teeth, his entire mouth to devour her.

      Greedy, hungry, desperate for more, he dragged her against his body. Her breath rushed into his, warm and silky, like the wind on a summer night. He closed his eyes, absorbing her texture, her scent, the thickness of her hair wrapped around his hands.

      He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t do this. That he wouldn’t stalk the local bars for sex. Yet he’d done it. He’d found a soft, sweet blonde on his first night in Idaho, the first night he was free. From prison. From the equally sequestered weeks that followed.

      She made a throaty sound, and he realized he didn’t even know her last name. But somehow that didn’t matter. In his mind, she could be Beverly.

      His lover. His friend. His wife.

      James opened his eyes and broke the kiss. Emily stepped back and gulped some air. She looked ravished, and much too willing to be taken again.

      “I’m not seducing you,” he said.

      She smoothed her hair, calming the strands he’d tousled. “You’re not?”

      “No. It’s you who’s seducing me. And you’re good at it.” Damn good. He would make love to her here, right now, in a dark corner of the bar if he thought he could get away with it.

      “You’re teasing me, right?”

      No, he wasn’t joking, not in the least. From the instant, the very moment he’d laid eyes on Emily, he’d thought about his wife. How much he’d loved her, how much he missed her.

      “Are you still interested in buying me a drink?” he asked, giving her the opportunity to change her mind, to walk away from this twisted game.

      She wasn’t Beverly. And he wasn’t James Dalton, even if that was the identity the government had given him. His real name was Reed Blackwood, and he was an ex-con, a former mobster, an accessory to murder and a thief.

      But those were his secrets. The burden of his sins.

      “Yes,” she said.

      “Yes?” he parroted.

      “I’m still interested in buying you a drink.”

      They proceeded to Emily’s table, where he ordered a beer. The waitress didn’t say anything about the sexy scene he’d caused, but she managed to slant him a Sister Mary Redhead look. Suddenly the brassy server was behaving like a nun.

      James blew out a rough breath. Should he defend himself? Or would vouching for his own rotten character only earn him another spot in hell?

      He turned to Emily. “She’s worried about you.”

      “Who?”

      “The waitress.”

      She lifted her wine, took a small sip. The glass was still half-full. “But she encouraged me to meet you.”

      “I know. But she’s having second thoughts.” He kept his hands still even if his pulse wasn’t quite steady. “I guess she hadn’t expected me to be so…aggressive.” To paw Emily in public, to jam his tongue down her throat and swallow her saliva. A sex-and-sugar flavor, he thought. A sweetness men craved.

      Emily gazed at him with emerald-colored eyes. Beverly’s eyes had been green, too, as clear as the jewels he used to steal.

      James shifted in his chair. Did she know how tempting she was?

      She chewed her lip, peeling away the pale pink color, the barely-there gloss. With her heart-shaped face, fair complexion and long, sweeping lashes, she looked innocent, much too delicate to be messing around with someone like him.

      “I won’t hurt you,” he heard himself say.

      She moved closer. “I won’t hurt you, either.”

      “Really?” Touched by her tenderness, he almost smiled. “You mean you’re not a wacko? A female serial killer who preys on gullible guys in bars?”

      She laughed, and the light, natural sound made him yearn for his wife. Unable to help himself, he grazed Emily’s cheek, wishing he could kiss her again.

      The redhead brought his beer. Guilty, he dropped his hand and let Emily pay for his drink.

      “The next round is on me,” he said.

      The next round came an hour later, and by that time the lounge was empty. James and Emily were the only customers left.

      Stumbling through a conversation, they talked about movies and music and things that hardly mattered. He’d been tempted to ask her to dance again, but decided that remaining at the table, pretending to get to know her, would make their upcoming union seem a bit more proper.

      “Are you staying at the motel?” Emily asked.

      “Yes. Are you?”

      She nodded. “I have a room upstairs.”

      He wondered whose bed they would make love in. Hers, he hoped. He didn’t want to alert the man in the room next to him that he’d picked up a woman in the bar. The WITSEC inspector had warned him, albeit jokingly, to stay out of trouble for at least one night.

      Then, again, he wasn’t breaking any rules. The Witness Security Program didn’t stop their members from engaging in consensual sex.

      James pulled on his beer. Emily would agree to sleep with him, wouldn’t she?

      Of course she would. She wasn’t as innocent as she looked.

      “When are you leaving?” she asked.

      He set the bottle down. “Tomorrow.”

      “Me, too.” She finished her second glass of wine. “Are you going home from here?”

      He tried not to frown. Home? He hadn’t had a home in ages. He’d spent a year and a half on the run from Beverly’s crime lord father, the following year in a secured unit of a federal prison, testifying against the mob and serving time for his involvement in a hit that still haunted him. From there he’d spent two weeks at a safe-site orientation center, being briefed about his new identity and his relocation to Idaho.

      “James?” Emily pressed.

      “What? Oh, yeah. I’m going home. First thing in the morning.” To a place he’d never been.

      “So am I.”

      He didn’t ask where she lived. He didn’t want to know. James Dalton wasn’t comfortable with small talk. And neither was Reed Blackwood. Both men had plenty to hide.

      “Where are you from?” she asked before he could change the subject.

      He offered up a lie, relying on the background WITSEC had created for him. “I was born in Oklahoma, but I moved a lot.” Refusing to let the conversation go any further, he indicated the redhead, who thumbed through her receipts, then the bartender, who appeared to be stocking his station. “Looks like they’re getting ready to close. We better head out.”

      James left a tip and escorted Emily to the door. He could feel the waitress watching them. He wanted to tell her that he would be good to Emily, that she was his salvation, the companion he needed for one lost lonely night, but he couldn’t say something like that out loud. So he glanced over his shoulder and caught the redhead’s eye, letting her know he was aware of her concern.

      Outside, the night air sent a cool breeze blowing. James slipped his arm around