Wed to the Witness (3 page)

He took in her fine-boned features, dark eyes, the seductive arch of her throat. She looked…elegant, he decided. A kind of inner elegance that wasn't the least diminished by the simple blouse and slacks she wore. Granted, he'd always preferred more flamboyant women, but this was the first time in his life he'd felt so intensely drawn to
one
woman. Right now, he didn't know why. He was only sure that he wanted her in his world where he could see and touch her. And find out just what those secrets were he saw in her eyes.

“I've thought about you a lot since my uncle's party,” he said quietly. “I'm not going to let you get away this time. I have to go into L.A. tomorrow. Will you have breakfast with me the day after?”

She regarded him steadily. He had the uncomfortable feeling she knew more was going on than what he'd said.

“I have an early archery lesson,” she said after a moment. “And a counseling session later that morning.”

“I'll come to Hopechest Ranch. We can squeeze in breakfast between the two.” He linked his fingers with
hers and thought of how good her hand felt against his. “Say yes, Cheyenne. I need to see you again. Say yes.”

“Yes, Jackson, I'll have breakfast with you.”

 

Never before had she fascinated a man.

The thought tightened Cheyenne's belly as she walked at Jackson's side along the neat sidewalk illuminated by streetlights that took on the hazy glow of tiny moons.

When they'd sat across from each other at the café's small table, it had not been a simple matter to ignore the heat that raced up her arm when he touched her. His hand wasn't soft, but hard and callused. That had been the first wayward thought that stumbled into her brain. Now, with that same hand pressed against the small of her back, she felt the pressure of each of his fingers, the strength. Power.

Jackson Colton might make his living as a smooth, sophisticated attorney but he knew how to work with his hands. And the feel of those hands made her knees go weak.

She rubbed an unsteady palm across her throat. She knew she was breathing too fast. Feeling more than the brief contact of a man's palm against her back warranted.

“Which car is yours?” he asked when they turned a corner and stepped into the parking lot on one side of the Cinema Prosperino.

She tried not to think about the fact that his arm was brushing hers.

“The white Mustang.”

As they neared the car, she dug in her purse for her keys. Very deliberately, she turned enough away from Jackson that he was forced to drop his hand.

Cool, common sense was the order of the day, she
reminded herself. He was in trouble—
that
was the reason her vision had brought her to him. She didn't yet know why, but she doubted fate had reunited her with Jackson Colton just so she could get a reminder of how a man's touch could stir her. She'd found that out years ago. That knowledge had left her with a bruised heart. She wasn't likely to ever forget that experience.

She shoved the key into the door's lock, then swung it open. Before she could slide behind the wheel, Jackson's hand settled on her shoulder.

“Cheyenne?”

She closed her eyes for an instant, then turned to find him standing only inches away. His face was bathed in a mix of moonlight and shadows; the woodsy scent of his cologne drifted to her on the cool, night air.

“Yes?”

“I'm glad we had the good luck to run into each other.” As he spoke, he ran a fingertip down her jawline.

The lightning response of her body to his touch sent a wariness through her that had her wanting to back away. Even if she chose to retreat, it wasn't an option, she realized. She was trapped with him in the small V formed by the side of the car and the open door.

Her breath shuddered. Her gift of sight, not luck, had brought them together tonight. Destiny would guide them from here. “I enjoyed talking with you, Jackson.”

“Talking was good.” His fingers closed over one of her hands. “At my uncle's party, I wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looks. Tonight I found out it does. Now I'm wondering if your skin tastes as rich as it feels.” Moonlight glittered in his gray eyes when he pressed his lips deep in the center of her palm. “It does,” he murmured.

Her heart shot straight up and lodged in her throat. “I
don't think…” Her voice trailed off when his lips brushed across hers, soft as a whisper.

“You don't think what?” he asked, touching his mouth to hers again with a lightness that had the blood pounding in her head.

She had ignored her physical needs for so long, she had forgotten what it was to want a man. One man. “I…don't know…what to think.”

“Me, either.” One of his hands slid beneath her heavy braid to cup the base of her neck. His fingers felt cool and strong against her heated flesh. He lowered his lips to within a whisper of hers. “Why don't we forget about thinking and just let ourselves feel?”

Softly, slowly, his mouth roamed over hers, sending thick, liquefying pleasure seeping into her. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her hands went limp; in the recesses of her mind she heard the jingle of metal when her keys hit the pavement.

“You stir something in me, Cheyenne,” he murmured as his mouth took hers, warm and coaxing. His fingers stroked the back of her neck. She didn't need a vision to see the teasing image of what his hands could do to her body.

Her arms moved upward; her fingers locked tight on his shoulders. Beneath her hands she felt the bunch of muscles that veered toward a hard, dangerous strength. Passion came to life inside her like a fire that had been smoldering beneath cold ash. Her lips parted beneath his, opening, accepting, urging.

His arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer until she fit tightly against his hard, lean body. His mouth became more greedy, taking her deeper, demanding equal response. Her legs trembled, and blood swam so fast in her veins that she could hear the roar of it in her
head. A low moan sounded in her throat while reason slipped against the pull of need.

Desire gripped her as if it had claws. His mouth continued its assault on hers, seducing her senses, peeling away the layers of caution that guarded her secrets.

An alarm sounded somewhere in the recesses of her dazed mind.

The will to survive smothered the yearning for pleasure. She hadn't come here tonight to be kissed. She was here because the man whose mouth was currently ravishing hers was in trouble and fate had brought her to him.

“Stop.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Jackson, we need to stop.”

“Why?” His voice was a raw whisper as his mouth trailed down her jaw, nuzzled her throat.

“I… Because.” She flattened her palm against his chest, forced him back. Breathing jerky, she stared at him while every pulse point in her body hammered. “Just…because,” she managed in a hoarse whisper.

“Well.” He expelled a ragged breath. “I guess that's as good a reason as any.”

“I…” She waved a hand vaguely. “We don't even know each other.”

His smile was slow and potent. “Seems to me we're working on changing that.”

When he reached to touch her cheek, she jerked her head back. “I have to go. Now. Right now.”

“I didn't mean to come on so strong.”

He bent down, scooped up her keys, then stood with them in his hand while his concerned eyes skimmed over her face, lingering on each feature. “It's just that you've been in my thoughts for so long. I still can't quite believe
you're here tonight.” He handed her the keys, his fingers sliding against hers. “With me.”

She stared into his face, the shadowy lights of the far-off street lamps emphasized his ruthless good looks. She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip, bringing his taste back to flood her mouth…and a swell of fresh desire into her system that made her legs go weak all over again.

“Good night.” It didn't matter that her voice was unsteady. What mattered was that she get into her car before her wobbly legs gave out.

“Good night.” The eyes that had looked so rock-hard in her vision were now the color of smoke. “I'll see you the day after tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She was reasonably sure her system would have settled by then.

It wasn't until she pulled the Mustang out of the lot that she released the breath she'd been holding. Whatever trouble Jackson Colton was in, it had brought her to him. Until she knew why, she needed to keep a clear head. Then, when the knowledge came, she would be capable of putting two rational thoughts together. Unlike she had been while wrapped in Jackson's arms.

When she turned onto the winding coast road she flexed her fingers against the steering wheel, pleased that her hands no longer trembled. Her breathing had evened. Finally.

Before this night, only one man had ever rocked her senses and taken her so swiftly toward the edge of control. After she'd given herself to him and told him about her gift, he'd looked at her as if she were crazy. Even now, the memory of the names Paul called her had her blinking back tears.

Holding a part of yourself back wasn't deception, she
reminded herself. It was self-preservation—as she'd learned through hard experience.

With Jackson, she would let fate take her hands and lead her.

And she would hold her secrets close.

J
ackson knew the drive along the dark coastal highway should have calmed him, helped his thoughts steady. Instead, his mind was as restless as the sea that churned against the ragged cliffs edging the shoreline.

How many women had he kissed? Slept with? He neither knew nor cared. He'd indulged in nights of mutual pleasure, then walked away unscathed. Tonight he and Cheyenne had shared a few kisses, nothing more. They'd been exceptional kisses, but kisses all the same.

Why, then, while he held her in his arms, had he been hit with aching desire when he had expected to feel the usual careless, carefree passion? The memory of her hot, unrestrained mouth pressed against his crept into his mind like a seductive phantom. He wanted her taste again. Wanted to hold her. Wanted her. Just her.

“Dammit.”

Something was happening inside him. Because he
wasn't precisely certain what that something was, he felt a tug of worry. He'd always been sure of his ground when it came to the opposite sex, yet he could have sworn he'd felt the earth move beneath his feet when Cheyenne's mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in.

He just needed to get his balance back, he told himself as he steered the Porsche off Highway 1 onto Colton land. After all, his usual afternoon and evening didn't include having the cops accuse him of two attempted murders, then running into—and ravishing—the woman whose testimony could place him in almost the exact spot a wannabe killer had stood during one of those attempts.

No matter how perverse, right now dealing with the dilemma of how to keep his butt out of jail was preferable to trying to figure out what was going on inside him where Cheyenne James was concerned.

In Jackson's mind, the first order of business was to tell his uncle that the cops suspected
he
was the person who'd tried to put a slug into him. Twice.

“Can't wait,” he muttered.

Blowing out a breath, he swung the Porsche around a corner. In the distance, the barn, stable and bunkhouses huddled in shadowy outlines against the starry night sky. The neat white-railed fence that lined the two-lane road stood ghostlike beneath the moon's silver glow. Beyond the fence, shadowy trees dotted the hillside pastures. Jackson knew the security cameras his uncle had installed after the second attempt on his life were recording the Porsche's progress along the private road. Monitors had been installed in his uncle's study that displayed the views picked up by the cameras placed in strategic spots across Colton property.

Moments later, Jackson eased to a stop in the drive
way that curved in front of the sprawling two-story house painted in soft white with jutting balconies, a terra-cotta roof and high-columned porch. Colorful lakes of flowers and shrubs pooled nearby. Swinging open the car door, he breathed in the salty tang of the ocean that lay just past the steep face of rough rock bordering the house's manicured back lawn. The beat of his footsteps against the driveway mixed with the pounding of the surf.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement at the right of the porch. An armed security guard nodded to him, then melted back into the shadows.

Twin carriage lamps on either side of the towering front door cast overlapping puddles of light onto the porch. Twisting his key in the lock, Jackson pushed open the door, closed it behind him, then veered across the tiled foyer. He paused beneath the arched doorway that marked the entrance to his uncle's beamed study.

As always, Jackson was struck by the coziness of the room with its leather sofas and chairs, polished brasses and thick rugs that spread vibrant color across the wood floor. The walls were paneled in oak mellowed by time, housing row after row of shelves lined with leather-bound books. Across from the stone fireplace in which flames ate greedily at logs to ward off the cool night air was a mahogany desk almost as imposing as the man who sat behind it.

Joe Colton was over six feet of solid muscle with a linebacker's shoulders and a square-jawed face softened by kind blue eyes. The gray that had begun peppering his dark brown hair only a few months before his sixtieth birthday lent the Colton patriarch a distinguished air.

As a rule, his uncle worked alone in his study after dinner. Tonight was clearly an exception, Jackson noted.
On the far side of the room, his Aunt Meredith curled like a cat on the leather sofa, her beautiful face framed by the wavy, golden-blond hair that cascaded to her shoulders. As she thumbed idly through a magazine, the diamond broach on the lapel of her sleek black jumpsuit caught the flash of the flames in the fireplace.

Jackson remained in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He remembered other long-ago nights when his aunt and uncle sat in silence together in this room. Then, an unspoken contentment had existed between them. The sense of companionship they had once shared had vanished years ago. Even now, Jackson had a hard time accepting that the woman who'd lavished so much love on him and his sister was the same person he'd confronted weeks ago and warned he would go to the police if she didn't stop blackmailing his father.

As if sensing his presence, Meredith raised her bored gaze from her magazine and glanced toward the doorway. Annoyance flashed in her eyes like lightning, then was instantly replaced by concern.

“Jackson,” she said, laying her magazine aside. “Thank goodness.”

Joe Colton snapped his gaze from the panel of security monitors installed in the wall near his desk. “Glad you made it back, son,” he said, his voice booming across the study.

“Finally,” Meredith added as she uncurled off the couch. “We've been worried sick about you.”

“Why?”

“Why?”
Meredith repeated, arching a perfect blond brow. “It's not every day a Colton gets called to police headquarters for questioning.”

Jackson winced. “River wasn't supposed to tell you about that phone call.”

“River didn't.” When Joe leaned back in his leather chair, Jackson noted the shrewd assessment in his uncle's eyes. “Sophie overheard you tell River that the police called and asked you to come to the station. She blurted it out at dinner.”

“Good going, cousin,” Jackson muttered. When he stepped into the room the scent of leather and wood smoke settled around him.

Meredith flicked a wrist. “Never mind about Sophie, Jackson. We've been worried to death about you.”

“Sorry. If I'd known, I would have called.”

“You've been gone for hours,” she persisted, glancing at her husband. “Joe wouldn't let me phone the station to check on you. He kept saying you're a lawyer and if you needed us, you'd call.”

“That's right, I would have.”

She took another step toward him. “Have the police been questioning you all this time?”

“No. After I left the station, I went to a movie. Then I…”

With thoughts of Cheyenne crowding in on him, Jackson hesitated. It was impossible to pin down what he thought about her, what he already felt about her. Instinct told him she was capable of igniting a spark in him that he wasn't sure he wanted stirred to life.

“Then you what?” Meredith prodded.

“Stopped and had coffee.”

“You saw a movie,” Joe said, tilting his head. Jackson knew his uncle was aware of his penchant for losing himself in heavy thought while a movie played on the big screen. “Is everything okay?”

“I handled things.” Shrugging, Jackson walked to the desk, slid one hip onto the front edge. “Uncle Joe, there's no easy way to tell you this, so I'm just going
to say it. Thad Law thinks it's possible I'm the person who tried to kill you. Both times.”

In the silent seconds that followed, Jackson watched the initial shock in his uncle's eyes veer to anger.

“Has the man lost his mind?”

“I didn't get that impress—”

“I don't care if he is married to my foster brother's daughter, he's crazy,” Joe protested. “There's no way Law has reason to even look at you. I've got a good mind to call Peter McGrath and tell him his Heather has married a blockhead. Then I'll call Mayor Longstreet and let him know exactly what I think about his police force.”

“His police force is doing its job,” Jackson countered. “And Law isn't a blockhead. He has what he believes are solid reasons to suspect me.”

“What reasons?” Meredith scooted behind the desk to stand beside her husband. “You mean
evidence?
Thad Law claims he has some sort of evidence that proves you're the one who shot at Joe?”

“He doesn't just claim to have evidence,” Jackson stated, then told them about the insurance policy on his uncle's life and the years-old court case the detective alluded to.

As Jackson spoke, a log in the fireplace broke apart and fell with a shower of sparks. “At the birthday party,” he added, “I was a couple of feet from where the suspect stood only seconds before he or she fired the shot.”

“Can someone say they saw you there?” Joe asked. “In that spot?”

“Yes.” Jackson thought about the undercurrents that had pulled at him while his mouth ravaged Cheyenne's. Undercurrents, he reminded himself, had a habit of drag
ging in the unwary. He had spent his life avoiding just that.

“Who?” Meredith asked. “Who told the police they saw you in the same spot as the person who shot at Joe?”

“Actually, I told Law I was near that spot.”

His aunt's eyes widened. “
You
told him? Why?”

“Because that's where I happened to be,” Jackson said, giving her a mild look. “I'd cut through the service hallway to get a drink refill. I was there when I heard the shot.”

Joe shook his head. “Did it occur to Law that hundreds of other people were milling around the house and courtyard that night?”

“I pointed that out. It didn't seem to make a difference.”

“The man ought to stop harassing innocent people and find some real evidence.” As he spoke, Joe stabbed holes in the air with an index finger. “Like the gun the bastard used to take those shots at me. Find that, and you've got some real proof.”

“I agree.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “Meanwhile, someone appears to want me as the scapegoat for the shootings. He or she has done one hell of a job of setting me up. I have a real problem with that.”

“You're not alone,” Joe huffed. “And we're not going to stand for it.”

“Of course we're not,” Meredith said with a flip of her slender, flame-tipped fingers. “Jackson, pour us all a brandy. Joe, we need to get Jackson the best criminal lawyer money can buy.”

Joe's gaze shot up to meet hers, his brow creased in annoyance. “If you're referring to our eldest son, I doubt Rand will send us a bill for services.”

“It was just an expression, darling.”

Jackson noted the way his aunt's shoulders had gone rigid beneath her black jumpsuit. It was as if he could almost see the wall of tension shoot up between husband and wife.

“I don't need a lawyer.” Rising off the front of the desk, Jackson walked to the wet bar built into a small alcove between bookcases. He poured two snifters of brandy, reached for a third glass, then changed his mind. The last time he'd tasted alcohol was two weeks ago at Liza's wedding reception. The one drink he'd had hit him like a ton of cement. He didn't want to chance that happening again, especially now when he needed to keep a clear head.

“At this point, I'm not charged with anything.” He crossed the room with the two snifters of brandy. “Yet,” he added as he offered a glass to his aunt.

“It might be a good idea for me to call your cousin and put him on notice,” Joe said, accepting the snifter Jackson handed him. “Just in case.”

“That's not necessary,” Jackson said. “Rand has his hands full in D.C. trying criminal cases. Besides, there's nothing for him to do, except tell Law his evidence isn't solid enough to make an arrest. I already delivered the message.”

Joe inclined his head Jackson's way. “If you don't feel like brandy, I can have Inez bring in coffee,” he said, referring to the longtime housekeeper.

“No thanks.”

“Bam! Bam!” The shouted words echoed off the high ceiling just outside the study. “You're gut-shot, slime-ball!”

Meredith rolled her eyes, then looked at Joe. “Those boys were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”

Joe's mouth curved. “Sounds like another war interrupted their sleep. Joe! Teddy!” he said in a booming voice. “Get in here now!”

Seconds later, two barefoot boys clad in camouflage pajamas and toting toy rifles skidded through the door side-by-side.

“Yes, sir?” they asked in unison.

Joe sent a stern look across the desk. “Your mother informs me you were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”

“Aw, Dad, we just needed to see who wins the war,” Joe, Jr. said, his sandy brown hair looking as if it had been combed by a hurricane.

Jackson held back a smile. Nearly ten years ago, Joe, Jr. had been abandoned on the Coltons' front porch. His uncle and aunt had taken in the infant and raised him as their own. As far as everyone was concerned, the kid was one hundred percent Colton.

“Yeah, and I'm about to win,” Teddy boasted.

Joe, Jr.'s gaze swung sideways, his green eyes flashing. “It's not over till it's over, as Mama always says,” he commented, then gave his mother a knowing grin.

“I'm glad someone around here listens to me,” Meredith murmured, then checked her slim gold-and-diamond watch. “All right, you two, pay attention. The war must be won in five minutes or this general is calling a draw.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Teddy replied, giving her a military-precise salute. Shifting his gaze, the boy flashed Jackson a grin. “Hi ya, cousin.”

“General Colton,” Jackson replied mildly. “It appears the war is going well for you.”