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 writing for Silhouette Books. 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.0. Box 17146, Anaheim, California 92817. Visit her Web site at: www.SheriWhiteFeather.com

      To the readers who asked about Allie Whirlwind and are anxious to devour her story. Allie’s book was conceived from historical facts and paranormal fiction. It was written with the utmost respect to the American Indian and First Nations it represents. If I made any errors or depicted inaccuracies about those tribes, I apologize. Unfortunately, some of the research I uncovered contained conflicting information.

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 1

      The wind rushed through the window, sending a gust of air spinning through the loft where Allie Whirlwind lived.

      Lost in a painting, she ignored it. She was putting the final touches on her current watercolor—a depiction of an angel.

      But he wasn’t your ordinary, garden-variety angel. She’d given him a long, muscular body with enormous black wings. His hair, as dark and shiny as his wings, flowed long and free, the thick, rebellious strands heightened by a lavender-hued dusk. Piercing brown eyes, a sharp, straight nose and prominent cheekbones lent his face a fierce quality.

      For his clothes, she’d chosen practical fabrics in pale colors. The tan shirt, faded from the sun and unbuttoned to his waist, bore the brunt of his labor, with ragged edges and frayed seams. The garment was torn along his shoulder blades, making room for his wings. On his feet, he wore work boots.

      She’d dressed him like a turn-of-the-century farmer.

      Puzzled, Allie tilted her head. Did her angel grow crops? Did he let the soil drift through his fingers?

      Yes, she thought, gazing at his callused, dirt-smudged hands, he did. Was that strange for a celestial warrior? Allie didn’t know. She hadn’t figured out what tribe he was from.

      She’d painted his image from instinct, from somewhere deep inside. Her artwork, the fantasy creatures she created, always came from her soul.

      But this one…

      She paused to add more light, more shadow. This one was supposed to protect her. She scanned the length of his body, his slightly scarred chest, his deeply bronzed stomach, the ripple of hard-earned, sweat-glistening muscle. He was supposed to boff her brains out, too.

      With a girlish grin, she chewed on the end of her brush. It was a joke, of course. A lark between herself and her sister. Allie didn’t really expect him to come alive. If she wanted a lover, she would have to look elsewhere.

      Then again, for the last year, she’d been steeped in magic. Good magic. Bad magic. She’d seen it all. She knew anything was possible. In the past, her paintings had possessed paranormal powers. She’d done a portrait of her dead father that had attracted his ghost.

      The wind swept through the studio once more, and Samantha hissed. Samantha was Allie’s cat, a finicky feline she’d found on the streets of Los Angeles.

      The City of Angels.

      She went back to her watercolor, shushing Samantha with a flick of her wrist, dropping a spot of paint on the already mottled floor.

      The cat hissed again, only louder this time. She sighed, turning to face her pet. “Come on, Sam. It’s a nice spring breeze. A little air won’t hurt you.”

      Perched on a cluttered art-supply shelf, the suspicious animal tensed, her sleek black body arching, her fur spiking on end.

      Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a nice breeze. Maybe it was strong and aggressive. But it fit Allie’s angel. She could imagine him soaring into the sky, his arms raised to the heavens, his threadbare clothes blowing, his hair whipping like a midnight tornado.

      Lord, he was gorgeous. Rough and primitive.

      “If only you would come alive,” she said.

      And that was when it happened, when her wish took a twisted turn. Without warning, the wind howled, pushing against the window screen, popping the device from its hinges. It landed at Allie’s feet, where the hem of her dress billowed, mimicking Marilyn Monroe’s fanning garment in The Seven Year Itch.

      Talk about feeling sexy.

      Samantha went into a tizzy, growling like a demon, her ears pinned to her pretty little head. But Allie didn’t scold her. Foolish as it was, she was too busy waiting for

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