Cherokee Marriage Dare. Sheri WhiteFeather

car door slammed.

      Luke shot up like an arrow. Then he cursed, clearly chastising himself for losing control.

      “You’re going to catch pneumonia,” he said, fumbling to rebutton her coat.

      Maggie didn’t think that was possible. She was as warm as sealing wax. And she wanted to melt all over him. But she knew the opportunity had passed.

      Luke was Luke again. Tough. Tense. Guarded.

      “Come on.” He reached for her hand and drew her to her feet. “You need a hot bath. And something to eat.”

      She needed to kiss him again, she thought, but she didn’t argue. She rather liked being protected by the big, tough detective. He actually swept her into his arms and carried her to the front door.

      Luke Starwind was dark and dangerous. Exciting. When she’d slid her hands over those sturdy muscles, she’d felt the holstered gun he kept clipped to the back of his belt. It seemed, somehow, like an extension of his body, like part of the man he was. The Cherokee warrior, she thought. The former Green Beret.

      He fumbled with his keys. Maggie put her head on his shoulder as he stepped over the threshold. Feeling delightfully feminine, she pressed her lips to his neck and smiled when he sucked in a tight breath.

      He deposited her in the master bathroom, where a sunken tub awaited—an enormous, dark-green enclosure surrounded by rugged antiques. She caught a glimpse of his four-poster bed and tried not to swoon. His house was growing on her.

      Feeling as boneless as a rag doll, she allowed him to remove her coat.

      “Will you start a fire?” she asked, wishing he would undress her completely.

      He didn’t, of course. Her coat was as far as he went.

      “Yeah. I’ll heat up a can of soup, too.”

      “Thank you.” She pressed a delicate kiss to his cheek and felt him shiver. “You’re cold, too,” she remarked.

      “I’ll dry off in the other bathroom.”

      He backed away and thrust a towel at her. Maggie accepted the offer, thinking how incredible using his soap was going to be.

      She eyed a bulk of terry cloth hanging behind the door. “Can I wear your robe, Luke?”

      “What?” He followed her gaze, a frown furrowing his brow. “No,” he responded, his voice strained. “I’ll get you a pair of sweats.”

      “All right.” She shrugged as if his robe held little consequence. When he was gone, she decided, she would slip it on. Just for a second. Just to feel it caress her bare skin.

      Luke washed his face, towel-dried his hair and slipped on a T-shirt and a pair of old, comfortable jeans. Next he built a fire and headed to the kitchen to heat some soup. He tried not to think about Maggie soaking in his tub, sleek and naked, her skin warm and flushed.

      He’d behaved like a kid, goofing around in the snow, letting Maggie pull him under her playful spell. But worse yet, he’d lost complete control, kissing her until his body ached with a hot, feverish lust.

      Dumping the soup into a pot, he added the required amount of water and reminded himself that Maggie was off-limits. Way off-limits. The last thing he needed was to get involved with a woman practically young enough to be his daughter. Luke rarely took a lover, and when he did, he made damn sure his partner was mature enough to handle a sex-only relationship.

      Then again, he doubted free-spirited, frolic-in-the-snow Maggie was looking for a lifelong commitment. He’d seen pictures of her in the society pages with her former beau—a twenty-something Italian race-car driver. A live-for-the-minute European playboy.

      Which made Luke wonder what Maggie saw in a crusty, pushing-forty P.I. like himself.

      “Luke?”

      Squaring his shoulders, he turned to acknowledge her. She stood in the doorway, her freshly washed hair combed away from her face, her blue-green eyes sparkling.

      Luke squinted through a frown. What spell was she about to cast? And how could a woman look downright breathtaking in a pair of standard-gray sweats?

      His sweats, he reminded himself.

      “That smells good,” she said.

      “It’s ready.” He reached for a cup. “Do you want crackers?”

      When she nodded, he pulled a box from the cupboard.

      Minutes later, they sat in front of the fire, sipping tomato soup. Flames danced in the stone hearth, warming the room with a flickering gold light. Maggie spooned up soggy crackers and watched him through her magical eyes.

      “Tell me what you said, Luke.”

      Confused, he shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

      “When we danced at Rafe’s wedding reception. You said something to me. Something in Cherokee.”

      He fought to steady his pulse. A qua da nv do. My heart. He would never forget those words or the moment he’d said them. “I don’t recall saying anything.”

      She scooted closer. They sat cross-legged on a wool rug, just a few feet apart. Her hair had begun to dry, and the fire bathed her in an amber glow. She looked young and soft, her skin scrubbed free of cosmetics.

      “But you have to remember. They sounded so pretty.” She struggled to repeat the phrase. “I can hear them in my head, but I can’t pronounce them.”

      He could hear them in his head, too. Could feel them pounding in his chest. “I’m sorry. I just don’t remember.”

      Maggie glanced down at her soup, and Luke frowned. He knew his lie had hurt her feelings.

      But how could he tell her that for an instant in time she had actually become part of his heart? He didn’t understand why he’d felt such a tender, almost haunting connection to her. And he never wanted to go through something like that again. She had no right to touch his heart, not even for an instant.

      “I bought a book about the Cherokee,” she said. “I curled up one night in bed and read about your ancestors. It’s a fascinating culture. So beautiful. So noble.”

      He placed his empty cup on the mantel. “I’m only half Cherokee.” And he was neither noble nor beautiful.

      Maggie watched him, and he felt self-conscious under her scrutiny. He knew she was studying his features—eyes lined with well-earned crow’s-feet, a nose that had been broken on the worst day of his life, a jaw as hard as granite.

      “It’s still part of your legacy, Luke.”

      “So you bought that book because of me?”

      “Yes.” She tilted her head, her hair falling to one side. “The chapters about the Trail of Tears made me cry. All those people being forced to leave their homeland, starving and freezing and dying on the way.”

      Something inside him nearly shattered. In some small way, she had cried for him. “I’m Eastern Band Cherokee. My ancestors hid in the Great Smoky Mountains in order to escape removal.” Men, women and children, he thought, whom the army had pledged to hunt down like wild dogs. But he supposed Maggie had read about that, too.

      “Where do your parents live?” she asked, her voice still filled with emotion.

      “My dad’s dead.”

      “Oh. I’m sorry.” She glanced at the fire. For a moment, they both fell silent.

      He knew she was going to ask him about his mom next. Somehow, that hurt even more. His mother’s sheltered, fragile lifestyle was a constant reminder of the pain his family had endured.

      “Is your mom close by?”

      “No. She lives in the country.” In the same house where he grew up. The same