Never Look Back. Sheri WhiteFeather
“You’re a shaman.”
“No, I’m not.” She resisted the urge to step back, to move away from him. “I don’t conduct ceremonies. I don’t cure the sick.”
“Your paintings are your ceremonies. Not all Apache shamans heal. Some are bringers of rain. Some have medicine over snakes. Others can shoot guns without touching the trigger.”
“And I give men wings?” She pointed to him, then smiled a little. “You fascinate me. The man and the raven.”
He smiled, too. The transformation made him look even more handsome. “You do that to me, as well. The woman and her paintings.”
She told herself this was fate. Part of her destiny. Something that was meant to happen. He’d clarified her confusion about her power. He’d called her artwork ceremonies, associating it with shamanism.
Given her magic new meaning.
Dear Reader,
A paranormal mystery and killer sex. What else could a woman like Allie Whirlwind want? How about breaking an ancient curse? And choosing between two men?
Alas, many of you have written to me, anxious for Allie’s story. And here it is, with some supernatural twists and turns. Although Allie was featured as a secondary character in Always Look Twice, my January 2005 Bombshell book, and in Apache Nights, my September 2005 Desire novel, her story stands alone.
In this tale, she battles shape-shifters, ghosts and witches, but it’s all in good, creepy fun, with a touch of eroticism tossed in. A Bombshell that goes bump in the night. A book that was a challenge to write and a joy to pass on to you. I sincerely hope that you enjoy it.
Love,
Sheri WhiteFeather
Never Look Back
Sheri Whitefeather
MILLS & BOON
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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.