LITMIR.BIZ

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      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 Hills, California 92817. Visit her Web site at www.SheriWhiteFeather.com.

      DEDICATION

      First of all, I would like to thank the Silhouette copy editors, who never fail to accommodate my lengthy dedications. This story involved extensive research on skin cancer and I greatly appreciate the doctors, nurses and hospital librarians who provided information. If I made any technical errors, I apologize. The stages and treatment of melanoma vary from patient to patient. I would also like to thank my mother, Lee Bundy, who helped me research this book. She is a remarkable lady and breast cancer survivor. Tara Gavin at Silhouette is receiving heartfelt thanks for her suggestions and input regarding this story. Another acknowledgment goes out to avid Silhouette reader Elizabeth Benway, for her stirring Web site tribute to her sister, Beth, a young mother and breast cancer survivor. To Lyndee Lightfoot, the project coordinator at the Lewiston Chamber of Commerce, for providing information about Lewiston, Idaho, and the surrounding areas. To the United States government for WITSEC, the Witness Security Program, which inspired the premise of this story. If I made any errors, please forgive me. I researched WITSEC to the best of my ability.

      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

      As the mellow tune echoed through the jukebox’s hollow speakers, the tall, dark stranger made another selection.

      Emily Chapman scooted to the edge of her seat. Everything about the stranger fascinated her, even his taste in music. So far, he’d chosen love songs, tragic ballads steeped in emotion, lyrics that defied his hard-edged stance.

      He turned away from the jukebox, and she watched him through curious eyes.

      Was he a ball-busting country boy or a street-smart city dweller? She couldn’t quite tell. Either way, he carried himself with a wary, don’t-mess-with-me gait.

      He wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket. His medium-length hair fell across his forehead in a rebellious black line, nearly shielding his eyes. His face, shadowed by the dim light, proved strong and angular.

      Ignoring the other patrons, the small scatter of people in the bar, he proceeded to his table, where he’d left a bottle of domestic beer. Next he slouched in his seat, kicked his booted feet onto the rail of an empty chair and lifted his drink, taking a long, hard swallow.

      “Here you go.” The waitress brought Emily’s wine, blocking her view, shutting out the intriguing stranger.

      Caught off guard, she shifted her attention to the other woman, a middle-aged, kiss-my-grits redhead whose nametag identified her as Meg. “Thank you.”

      “You’re welcome, hon.” Meg motioned to the door that led to the kitchen. “But your appetizer isn’t ready yet. It’ll be a few more minutes.”

      “That’s fine.” Emily wasn’t particularly hungry, but she’d ordered stuffed mushrooms, hoping to give herself something to do. She’d never been to a bar by herself, let alone a dusky little lounge connected to a midpriced motel.

      Of course, it certainly beat holing up in her room, worrying herself into the ground.

      As the waitress departed, Emily glanced at the stranger again. But when he turned in her direction, time stopped, the earth freezing on its axis.

      Their gazes met and held, like magnets to metal.

      Spellbound, neither blinked. Neither broke the bond. They simply stared at each other from across the room.

      Emily’s mouth went dry. Within an instant, within one heart-palpitating moment, he’d left her breathless.

      He wasn’t flirting, she thought. It was more than that. Much more. He watched her with masculine recognition, as if he knew what it was like to touch her, to hold her, to run his hands over every inch of her body.

      Dear God.

      Determined to regain her composure, to sever the nerve-jangling tie, she lifted her wine and took a small sip, but her fingers quaked around the glass.

      What would he think if he knew she had cancer? Would he still be looking at her with longing in his eyes?

      Don’t dwell on that, her subconscious warned. No self-pity.

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