Chaning Cheyenne Page 15

  "I can see your nipples,” he accused.

  "You didn't let me have a bra..."

  "Such a mouth,” he growled playfully. “Back there, in an alcove, on your knees, you'll learn respect."

  "Yes, Sir,” she said meekly. “Sorry, Sir."

  He stroked her cheek with his knuckle. “You'll behave, won't you?” he said softly, sounding just like a pimp with all his mind tricks. “You'll be good?"

  Cheyenne wanted to touch him. She didn't care about the people or if they really thought she was a whore, despite the obvious expensiveness of her dress.

  "Not here,” he chided. “We'll fuck later."

  "I want you, though,” she said. “I'm horny."

  "Save it for the customers,” he scorned. “And don't let me hear you're not climaxing for them. I want an eager bitch, hear me?"

  Something flashed in her brain, playful.

  Did he say, bitch? As in a female dog, capable of running?

  "I do hear you, Sir,” she said with exaggerated meekness. Standing on tip toes she delivered a devastating kiss, deep, soulful, based on intimate knowledge of his biology.

  He offered no resistance as she rubbed his crotch. His mouth was entirely engaged, fencing with her tongue. As for his fingers, they were intertwined in hers. He had the upper hand, or so he thought.

  "See you later, Boss,” she crooned.

  He opened his closed eyes and she was gone.

  Taking off like a bat out of hell across the Piazza.

  She didn't look back though she was sure he was chasing her.

  Sure enough, he had her hand, yanking her to a halt after only a few yards.

  "Nice try,” he said, pulling her close, but it was already too late, she was laughing too hard and too far out of character.

  "Screw it,” he grumbled. “Let's go get some lunch."

  * * * *

  Reed lost track of time and place. They were at an outdoor café, enjoying wine and cheese and meats. The name was unimportant. It was enough to concentrate on what Cheyenne was saying as opposed to being mesmerized by those lips, red and striking, magnetic. They made him burn and dream. They made him want to play and conquer.

  It was worth the effort, though, getting to know her. They had things in common, which surprised him.

  They gelled in bed, he thought, because they were opposites, but in many ways she was right, they were birds of a feather.

  For one thing, she was one of those rare people, male or female who had stared down death and seen it for what it was. Frankie had died before her eyes. Bullets had flown through the air which she now knew were meant for her.

  She hadn't panicked but described a deep sense of calm, almost trance-like. “It was like I had more time to react than everyone else, you know?” she said. “For every second they were living, I had ten and mine were slow and deliberate and razor sharp. No emotion. They told me I would crack up later but I didn't."

  Reed nodded. “That's the theory of post traumatic stress. No offense to the head doctors, but they don't know everything. Some people never feel a thing, some people can't stop feeling. There's a spectrum. On one end are sociopaths on the other, who knows."

  "Schizophrenics?” she speculated.

  "Could be. Me, I have seen people die like flies. No reason I was left alive and not anyone else. Never stopped to think about it. By now I would keep over if I felt it all."

  "I've always been attracted to men who don't give a damn,” she said, sipping her wine, the breeze blowing through her dark hair.

  She had been a good sport playing the prostitute for him. It gave him a dark thrill to have the beautiful woman under his imaginary control to such a degree, her body his to sell to any comer, her place to obey, to submit. She played it perfectly, surrendering not out of fear but love.

  In truth he could never sell or give her to another.

  It was hard enough to imagine her sharing herself with another in romance. Which was going to be a problem because he had no real plan to stick with her.

  In his mind was a disconnect. There was the present, in which he felt inseparable from her and there was the past, where he never knew her at all. In the future he saw ... nothing.

  To envision himself alone was as impossible as seeing them as a couple.

  "The trick in life is knowing what to give a damn about,” he said.

  "What do you care about, Reed?"

  You, he wanted to see, but where would that lead?

  "Survival,” he told her.

  She didn't buy it. “That's a cop out."

  "Survival? A cop out?"

  "Animals survive, people live,” she said.

  "And how would you classify your existence?” he asked.

  "Me?” She smiled. “I'm an animal all the way."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I would rather ask a question."

  "Naturally."

  "You said you were in love once, what about relationships, marriage?"

  "Not my thing."

  "So you prefer kidnappings?"

  "Best way to meet new people, absolutely,” he quipped.

  "I'll admit, I'm a little embarrassed, getting turned on like I did."

  "I have that effect on women."

  She snorted. “I can see why you don't need a relationship. You have your ego."

  "Don't knock it. Egos are reliable, loyal, with you through thick and thin."

  "I'll have to get one, one day. My father knocked mine out of me."

  "You know,” said Reed, only half kidding. “I would seriously rearrange that man's face if I thought it would make a difference."

  "It wouldn't. Any adjustments would only improve his looks."

  "I meant a difference to you."

  "I know what you meant."

  Just then Cheyenne's cell phone rang. She tensed at the particular ring tone which tipped him off that something was up.

  "Hello?” She answered it, her face drained of humor and emotion. Her face grew blanker as she listened. Concern on Reed's part changed to genuine alarm.

  He had never seen look this way, overwhelmed, almost paralyzed. Nothing had affected her this way in his time with her, not kidnapping, not grief, not even her brush with death, his and hers.

  "What is it?” he asked when she disconnected.

  "It's my father."

  Reed clenched his fists. He might need to give more serious thought to getting physical with the man. “Cheyenne, I don't want to speak out of turn, but I can't sit by and watch him hurt you anymore. I will stop him."

  "You are speaking out of turn,” she said, sounding incredibly tired and drained. “He just had a heart attack. He may not make it."

  He reached for her hand. She pulled back. “No. Don't touch me."

  "Cheyenne, I only meant..."

  "Just let it go. I have to leave anyway."

  "I'm going with you."

  "I don't want you to."

  "I wasn't asking permission,” he said.

  "This isn't one of your little games,” she snapped. “This is real life. I don't take orders from anyone."

  The edge in her voice was sharp indeed. It was designed to cut him to the quick. Reed might as well have been listening to Rutherford. “I know this is stressful, you just have to believe I am on your side."

  She was on her feet. “Spare me, Reed, I was a convenient fuck buddy."

  "Traveling half way around the world for you was hardly convenient,” he retorted.

  He regretted his words at once.

  Her stare was cold as death. “Be sure and send the bill for your expenses. My family is good for the money."

  "Cheyenne, I'm sorry.” He was running after her like before in the Plaza but there was no stopping her this time. She would have screamed bloody murder.

  "Did you hear me?” he made one last attempt. “I'm sorry."

  "I heard you,” she called over her shoulder. “I just don't care. If you need forgiveness, find a priest, I have something to wor
ry about in life other than you."

  He told himself she didn't mean any of it. It was fear speaking and long suppressed anger, a sea of rage against her father that had stayed submerged so long as things were status quo. Everything was up for grabs now. It would be the fight of her life.

  And he was going to make it the fight of his, whether she liked it or not.

  Chapter Twelve

  A helicopter took Cheyenne from the airport to the hospital. Nearly an entire floor had been devoted to the care of Rutherford Miles Stanley. The hospital itself had a wing named after him, along with one of the main arteries leading up to it.

  The hospital administrator and three doctors greeted her on the hospital roof. One of them was the chief surgeon.

  "Miss Stanley, it was not a small heart attack,” he began to brief her. “We have done a bypass and theoretically that should hold, but there are risks."

  "What risks?” she asked, still numb from the air flight and before that her fight with Reed. If you could call it a fight.

  A total slap in the face was more what it was, delivered from her hand. He had done nothing other than offer his help the way any friend would. She hadn't known how to cope. Daddy never gave her a model for friendship or love, either.

  And now there was a chance, a statistical probability, the doctors were saying that he could die, leaving her with nothing.

  Just a pile of cash and stocks and property.

  "I can see him, though, right?"

  "For a few minutes,” the doctor said. “We must keep him calm."

  "Do I look like I'm going to upset him?” she said, irritated. “Do I seem like some kind of insensitive witch?"

  "No, not at all,” said the doctor, looking at the administrator for help.

  They spent the rest of the elevator ride soothing her.

  "I want to see him alone,” she said at last.

  "Absolutely,” they said in unison.

  Cheyenne was not prepared for what she saw in the room. The man in the bed, white sheets, white pillow case, white gown, looked a full ten years older than her father. Weaker, too, like some kind of copy had been made, an imperfect version.

  Instantly she was filled with contempt.

  Was that what Rutherford had taught her, to hate any sign of weakness?

  How ironic it should make her hate him most of all.

  "Daddy?” she whispered, letting the word roll false and sterile off her tongue.

  He opened his eyes. “Linda."

  "That's my mother, Daddy. I'm Cheyenne."

  He blinked. “Oh, yes. Cheyenne."

  He cleared his throat. Was he still suffering the effects of anastesia or had there been some brain damage?

  "How are you feeling?” she asked, feeling the seconds drag.

  She could not get out of here a moment too soon.

  "You know me,” he said.

  Indeed she did.

  "They treating you all right?” she asked.

  "They sure as hell better,” he grumbled. “I own them lock, stock and barrel."

  She cracked a smile. Occasionally he could be funny.

  "So, did he catch up with you, Cheyenne?” he wanted to know.

  "Did who catch up with me?"

  "Reed, of course. Who else?"

  She stiffened. “I ... ran into him, yes."

  "That young man is a singular pain in the ass,” said Rutherford. “Insolent, too. Didn't want a nickel for bringing you back to me. Finally talked him into taking something so he could look for you."

  "I really don't want to talk about him."

  "He's not a degenerate like the others,” Rutherford ignored her. “He's a stand up fellow. You could use a man like that to keep you in line."

  "We are here to talk about you,” she said, attempting to keep her temper.

  "What's to talk about? I'm going to die, that's that."

  "Don't talk that way, you have a lot of time left."

  "Bull shit, Linda. A man knows when he's dying. You would, too, if you would lay off the sauce."

  "Linda is my mother,” said Cheyenne for the second time.

  He squinted briefly. “Then go get her,” he said, annoyed.

  "I can't, Daddy, she's dead."

  For a brief second, pain flashed in his eyes. A new world was opened, into his sorrow, his guilt.

  Rutherford shrugged. “Everyone dies. People make such an issue of things."

  "Some people care about the relationships and feelings they have along the way,” Cheyenne pointed out. “There isn't much point to life otherwise."

  He shook his head, dismissively. “We don't care about that stuff. We do fine."

  She laughed without humor. “Oh, I think that's debatable. We can't even carry on a conversation."

  "What do you call this?"

  "Talking at cross purposes, as usual."

  "All you do is blame me,” he said. “Was I some god damn child psychologist like Dr. Spock? I know how to make money not raise kids."

  It was the closest to an admission of personal responsibility she had ever heard. Was the change in him alone or in both of them?

  "I didn't want a textbook upbringing, just a little bit of kindness every now and again."

  "That would have been lying to you. You think the world is kind? Surely by now you know it isn't. I prepared you for that, yes, me, by kicking you in the teeth every now and again."

  "That would be called child abuse in some circles."

  "People live in a fantasy world, that's not my problem."

  "Daddy, I am in my third decade and I have never told a man I loved him, you included, isn't there something wrong with that?"

  "Men are sons of bitches,” he dismissed. “Not worth your time."

  She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This was as long as he had talked to her without yelling or sarcasm since ... ever. And here he was about to die. “I can't argue with you there."

  "That Reed, though, he's not all bad. And he thinks a lot of you."

  "I doubt that."

  "Oh, he does. Only insanity would make a man go out of his way for a second go with a woman like you. Either that or love. And Reed's not crazy, not by a long shot."

  "Doesn't matter.” She choked a little on the words. “I chased him off."

  "He won't take no for an answer. Not if it's for real."

  Cheyenne stared at her hands. She thought of them, touching Reed. They had never felt so soft, so alive. Since she had met him she felt both exceedingly vulnerable and unbelievably strong.

  It occurred to her now, not to leave anything unsaid. “There's things I should have thanked you for, Daddy."

  "Thank me? I thought I ruined your life."

  "Stop antagonizing for a minute and listen,” she scolded. “I would be dishonest and ungrateful not to admit you tried to save me at points. For one thing, you hired Reed."

  "So you could run him off."

  She shook her head. “You can't help yourself, can you?"

  "You love it and you know it."

  Her eyes misted over. “Why couldn't we ever talk like this before? It's like you are really showing me your heart."

  "Don't get a swelled head. My back's to the wall and I'm not taking chances on ending up in hell."

  She grabbed his hand. “I don't want you to die."

  "Not your call or mine either."

  Tears streamed. “You hurt me so bad ... with Ramsey ... and so many other times."

  "Ramsey was a spoiled little prick,” he said. “Not worthy."

  She laughed, relief bubbling over through the sadness. “You would have an answer for that."

  He squeezed her hand. “Look, Cheyenne, I am sure you would have picked out a much better life for yourself. Truth is, so would I. Know what made me the most angry every damn day? Looking out the window of my office at five, six am and seeing the garbage men drive by, whistling and laughing. I swore they were happier than me without two plug nickels."

  "You could have trad
ed places,” she pointed out.

  "I said I was angry, not stupid."

  She laughed again, much harder.

  This, in turn made her cry.

  He wiped away a tear from her cheek. “None of that. The truth is if I pull through you'll go back to hating me in a day or two. I'll go back to being the same son of a bitch, it's the only thing I know. What we have here is nature's grace. A little window. A chance to make you a good memory or two. Actually it's probably just the morphine, but whatever it is, it's working."

  She buried her head against his chest. Despite the tubes and wires, the gray pallor to his skin, his heart was still beating strong. She felt ten again, nine, eight, or younger. “You can't die, Daddy, you can't."

  He rested his hand on her head. “Sure I can, it's my life."

  "Stubborn old fool,” she said.

  "Beats being a stubborn young fool. Now it's time for you to go."

  "No, I want to stay. What if ... what if..."

  "If I die today it will be alone. My choice, non-negotiable."

  "You can't make me leave. No one can."

  "That's true,” said a voice from the doorway. “But you should, because it's the right thing to do."

  "Reed..."

  "Look what the cat dragged in,” said the ever so much mellower Rutherford Miles Stanley.

  "Mr. Stanley,” said Reed, looking more handsome than ever in a button down shirt and khakis.

  Cheyenne wanted to run and jump into his arms. She wanted to beg forgiveness, kiss him all over ... and take him somewhere private for a whole lot more.

  "I told you,” Rutherford said to Cheyenne. “You weren't going to be able to keep him away. It's for real, all right."

  "That remains to be seen.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I will see you soon, okay?"

  "Dinner is meatloaf through a straw,” he quipped. “Hopefully I'll have checked out to the big money market in the sky before then."

  She gazed at him, still largely in disbelief. “Are you really my father or some imposter?"

  "It's me. If I start apologizing for anything you'll know it's an imposter."

  "I'm still furious,” she grinned. “About all of it."

  "I would expect nothing less from a daughter of mine,” he said.

  Reed waited for her at the doorway. She didn't say a word until they were down the hall in the waiting room. “What gives you the right to follow me around the world? There are laws against stalking you know."