Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  Her mistake had been making love to him. Ever since that one afternoon when they’d crossed the invisible line of true lovers, a barrier they’d sworn not to step over, their relationship had changed.

  They’d been alone, canoeing, and had stopped at a small cove on the north shore of the lake. Harley had brought along a bottle of wine he’d swiped from his father’s cellar. Together, with the summer sun warming their skin, they’d drunk, toasted each other, swam, splashed, laughed and kissed, delirious in their love.

  Claire had never felt so light-headed, never so much as tasted any alcohol before, but there was something magical about that late afternoon, and she’d thrown caution to the soft wind that had brushed against her cheeks and ruffled Harley’s black hair.

  Harley was bolder, more intense than he had been, and Claire’s thinking was a little muddled. His kisses had deepened, become demanding, and she’d willingly opened her mouth to him, let him skim her slick body with his hands. His fingers slid brazenly beneath the top of her swimsuit, and he’d discarded the scrap of fabric in a quick, deft move, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Holding her close, treading water, he kissed her breasts above and beneath the surface. She tingled and a warm ache spread deep inside her.

  “Put your legs around my waist,” he’d ordered gently against her skin, his eyelashes studded with droplets of lake water. When she’d complied, wrapping her thighs around his muscular torso and lying on her back, her breasts bare to the warm summer sun, he’d whispered, “That’s a girl,” and kissed her abdomen. She was floating, drifting on a cloud of sensation as he carried her to the shore and began nuzzling her breasts in earnest, touching, sucking, creating a hot whirlpool deep in her center. He guided her hand to his crotch, groaned, and swore his undying love. He kicked off his trunks and she saw him naked for the first time. His erection was stiff and ready and scared her a little, but he was already peeling off the bottom of her suit.

  Then they were naked, blissfully kissing, rubbing against each other, aching and wanting. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t object when he rolled her onto her back, parted her legs with his knees, and, in one quick thrust, stole the virginity she’d so valiantly guarded for seventeen years.

  There had been pain, yes, and a few tears, but he’d kissed them away after three quick thrusts and his release. He’d fallen against her and, gasping in ecstasy, sworn he would love her until his dying day.

  They hadn’t planned on going all the way, she thought now, as she ran a hand along the weathered railing and a skinny black cat darted into the shadows. They had discussed the possibility, of course, as they’d experimented with making out and petting, but had agreed to wait until they were married for the ultimate act of consummation.

  But that afternoon with the hot sun urging them on and the wine clouding their judgment, they’d made love.

  Her fingers curled over the rail, and when she closed her eyes, she still remembered him, sweating hard, his muscles straining, his face set in a look of triumph as he’d entered her. She’d been blind with desire, hot with a yearning she was certain only he could fill. She’d been blissfully, foolishly in love.

  They’d sworn then to always be together, to marry, to have children, to heal the scars that existed between their families, but lately Harley had changed. He didn’t smile as easily and he wanted to have sex all the time. Whenever they were together, which wasn’t often in the past few weeks, he expected her to make love to him. It seemed that since that day at the lake all he wanted from her was her body.

  Which was crazy. He loved her. Or did he?

  She heard his car and her heart leapt because a part of her had wondered if he’d stand her up again. Footsteps clattered on the dock and she smiled when she saw him running toward her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he swept her into his arms and buried his face in the bend of her neck. “God, I’ve missed you!” His hands tangled in her hair, and he sighed more loudly than the wind chasing over the bay. Her heart kicked over and she forgave him. This was her dear, sweet Harley, the boy she loved with all her body and soul.

  Closing her eyes, she held him close, ignoring the doubts, the fears, the worries that had tried to undermine their love.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” she said, her voice husky, tears burning in her eyes.

  “Forgive me.”

  Her heart nearly stopped. “I don’t need to forgive you.”

  “Oh, Claire, if you only knew.” The despair in his voice echoed in her soul.

  “Knew what?”

  His entire body clenched, and he held her so tightly she could barely breathe.

  “Knew what, Harley?”

  He hesitated a beat too long. “That I love you. No matter what happens, please believe that I love you.”

  “Harley . . . nothing’s going to happen,” she whispered, but even as she clung to him, she felt a chill as cold as the sea in winter burrow deep in her heart.

  “I hope you’re right,” he said, lifting his head to stare into her eyes. “I hope to God you’re right.”

  Twelve

  Checking her watch, Miranda felt her heartbeat quicken. It was nearly time to meet Hunter at the cottage, just as they’d planned. Her mouth went dry at the thought.

  For the first time in her life, she was in love, and though she knew it was crazy, that she and Hunter Riley had no future together, she couldn’t ignore the attraction she felt for him, the conviction in her soul that he was, at least for the moment, the man for her.

  She’d seen enough of Claire’s heartache to realize that she, too, was walking a dangerous path, a thin tightrope guaranteed to snap and only bring her pain, but for over eighteen years she’d trod carefully, never straying from the straight and narrow, hell-bent to prove herself as worthy as any son, any male heir, Dutch Holland might have spawned.

  But for all her efforts, her father hadn’t been impressed, nor had he even noticed, and soon she’d be off to college. She snatched a sweater from the foot of her bed and tucked her purse under her arm as she headed down the back stairs.

  Hunter was older, and though he’d dropped out of high school, he’d gained his equivalency diploma and was taking classes at the local community college while working part-time logging for the Taggerts, and helping his aging father with odd jobs around the Holland estate.

  Miranda had first noticed him—really noticed him—late in the spring when he and his dad had been clearing brush from one of the picnic spots on the shore of the lake. She’d been sitting on the back porch, reading as clouds had stolen over the sky and fat raindrops had begun to fall.

  Beneath the roof of the porch, she’d been dry, but Hunter and his father had worked on, even when the sky had opened and the spring shower had come down in earnest, curtains of water soaking the already wet ground. Throughout the downpour, Hunter had continued to slice away the scrub oak and hazel brush, uncaring that rain ran down his chin and plastered his T-shirt to his back. Miranda saw through the thin cotton, watched in throat-dry fascination as his smooth muscles worked rhythmically, in a fluid motion that caused butterflies to flutter wildly in the pit of her stomach.

  Sandy blond hair turned dark in the rain, and when he looked over his shoulder to pin her with eyes as gray as a winter storm, she had to look away. Heat climbed up the back of her neck and some new feeling, a mind-stripping sexual awareness found its way to a spot low in her belly.

  She hadn’t said a word to him that day, nor the next when, as the sun warmed the damp ground, creating steam and a sultry heat, she’d sat on the porch again, pretending interest in her book, while never taking her eyes off a man she’d known all her life but had never really seen.

  “You were watching me,” he’d accused her in the stables later in the week when she, not knowing that he was helping his father shore up the empty hayloft, had walked inside looking for Claire. The elder Riley was nowhere in sight, but Hunter stood at the top rung of the metal ladder of the loft, ripping off a f
loorboard that must’ve rotted through.

  Sweat trickled down his neck and dampened the strands of hair at his nape.

  “Me?” She stared up at him, past long legs tanned by hours of hard work in the sun and dusted by golden hair. Above his knees a tattered pair of cutoffs hung low on his hips and seemed barely supported by a disreputable tool belt. The rest of his body was naked, smooth sun-bronzed skin, sinewy muscles, chest hair that was a rich red-blond. Determined not to prove the jackass right, Miranda looked past all his purely male features to the back of his head. He tossed the rotted board onto the floor at the base of the ladder. Crash! Dust motes swirled upward, a horsefly buzzed wildly, and Miranda coughed as Hunter slid a new piece of planed lumber into place.

  “No reason to deny it,” he went on. “The other day while I was clearing brush. You were watching.”

  “No, I—”

  “I thought you were the smart one. The one that never lied.” His voice was a low, sexy drawl that teased her even as his words condemned. “Don’t tell me all those rumors are wrong.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, bristling. Who was he to talk to her as if she were a sneaky, untrustworthy child trying to pull a fast one on him?

  He slid some nails from a pouch in his belt and shoved them into a corner of his mouth. Around the stainless steel toothpicks, he said, “Everyone in town seems to think that you’re the smart one of the three Holland sisters. Ambitious and driven. You know, the oldest, most responsible kid, and all that shit.” He slid a look down the ladder and grinned around the damned nails. “Come on, Randa, don’t try to convince me that you don’t know your own reputation.”

  “I don’t listen to gossip.”

  “Right.” He slipped a hammer from its loop.

  Folding her arms under her breasts, she gave up all pretenses and leveled her gaze up at him. “You presume to know me.”

  “Just your type.” He placed a nail on the board and slammed it three times with the hammer. Bam! Bam! Bam!

  “I’m not a type.”

  “No? Admit it, you get off watching peons labor for your dad while you sit around and let your nail polish dry.” He cast a look over one muscular shoulder, and his gaze was as hot as it was condemning.

  “You know what? You’re just another arrogant, self-serving jerk. There’s plenty of those in this town.”

  “You were watching me.”

  “My mistake.”

  “Sure.”

  He turned back to the task at hand and banged another nail into place. Fluid muscles rippled with the effort. “And, just for the record, I’m not a jerk.”

  “Just like I’m not a self-centered rich bitch.”

  A low chuckle filled the barn. “No?”

  “No.” Miranda headed for the door, and he dropped lithely to the floor to land in front of her.

  Startled, she couldn’t help but take a step back. He smelled of sweat and musk and he was so close—so half-dressed, so blatantly sensual, she lost her breath for a second. His jaw was hard, softened only by a day’s growth of golden whiskers and his eyes, darker in the shaded barn, were the color of gunmetal. He was staring at her so intently she wanted to back away, but there was a post from the hayloft already brushing her back, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of backing down, not even when she glanced at his mouth and her stomach curled in on itself as she saw the edge of white teeth against the hard seam of thin, dangerous lips. She licked her own and he stepped closer still, only the barest of space between the tips of her breasts and his naked chest.

  “I heard you wanted to be an attorney.”

  “That’s . . . that’s right.”

  Flat nipples were partially hidden in the swirls of chest hair. Rigid abdominal muscles flexed as he breathed.

  Her knees were suddenly less than dependable.

  “Big ambitions?”

  “No . . . yes, I guess so.”

  “What’re you trying to prove?”

  The question pierced through her consciousness, and when she raised her eyes to his, she saw that he was no longer mocking her, just curious and, from the dilation of his pupils she guessed, he was as sexually aware of her as she was of him.

  “Nothing. I don’t have to prove anything.”

  “But you want to.” He lifted his hands and grabbed the post behind her, pinning her within the span of his arms, but not touching any part of her.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? So your old man will quit spouting off about not having any sons?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice breathy with the lie. Of course she wanted to prove to Dutch Holland that she was as good as any son he might have sired.

  “Or because you want to compete in a man’s world?”

  “I just want to be the best that I can.”

  “And to that end you’ll deny yourself any simple pleasures.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know that you eat carefully, exercise regularly by doing calisthenics in your room, read whatever you think will expand your mind, and try your damnedest to prove that you’re everything Dutch should want in a child.”

  “How do you know—”

  “I’ve been watching you, too.”

  Her throat closed, and she wondered if he’d peered through her windows at night, seen her look at her body, touch her breasts and smooth her hands down her abdomen while wondering what a man’s touch would feel like. “You had no right—”

  “No, just a desire. The same as yours.”

  “I don’t have any de—”

  “Don’t lie.”

  He was too near; the stables too close and tight. “Get out of my way.”

  “If you’re ever going to be worth your salt as a lawyer, you’re going to have to learn how to handle people as well as insults and arguments. Even compliments upon occasion.” His gaze lowered to her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her shirt.

  “Oh, I get it,” she mocked, unable to keep the sting out of her words. “This was a test. So now you’re my teacher.”

  “Just making conversation.”

  His eyes centered on her mouth for a heart-stopping second, and something inside her, a part of her that was warm and vital and wanting, responded. She loathed him and yet was attracted to him on a level that she didn’t want to admit existed. “Make conversation with someone who’s interested.”

  “You’re interested.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His smile said he didn’t believe her. He stepped aside and, as she tried to pass, grabbed hold of her wrist. With a quick tug he spun her around and suddenly all those rock-hard muscles surrounded her. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe, and her heart was knocking so frantically in her chest she was afraid she might pass out.

  “Don’t—”

  His lips crashed down on hers in a kiss that was hard and punishing and ripped the breath from her lungs. She struggled but knew the effort was useless. Her rational mind swore and screamed silently to be set free while that wanton unknown womanly part of her that was just emerging wanted desperately to kiss back, to explore, to feel the excitement of pure, unfettered sex.

  His hands were big and strong, his body hot and sweating, and he smelled of male and sawdust. He groaned deep in the back of his throat, and his tongue rimmed her lips to part them easily.

  “You’re interested,” he repeated into her open mouth as he released her. “When you’re woman enough to admit it, call me.”

  Stumbling backward through the door, she shook her head. “You’ll rot in hell first.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  And, damn him, he’d been right. For two weeks, she’d ignored him, looked through him whenever he was working on the estate, took great pains to remove herself whenever he was around, but each time her mind had spun back to that one, soul-wrenching kiss in the stables, her heartbeat had elevated, and she had begun to sweat.

  At night, lying in her bed she’d tho
ught of him, her body hot from the lingering summer heat, or during the day when she was supposed to be studying for the night classes she took, college courses through the local community college, another place she’d bumped into him in the small quad.

  After two weeks, she’d abandoned her stand and thrown away her pride. She’d picked up the phone and called him. That night they’d spent hours on the beach, walking near the tide, watching as foamy surf licked the sand. He hadn’t so much as touched her.

  The next time was no different, nor the next. It was as if that one kiss had been all Hunter would ever share with her. Finally, she’d laid a hand on his wrist, tilted her head, and sighed. “Are you afraid of me?”

  He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that echoed through her heart. “Afraid? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “But—” She felt like a fool. What could she say? He was leaning against the fender of her car and the sun was blinding and hot. She’d parked on a secluded stretch of beach miles away from her father’s resort.

  “But what?”

  “We never . . . well, you know.”

  “Couldn’t begin to guess,” he drawled, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Don’t be coy, Hunter.”

  “Then spit it out. What’s on your mind?”

  She swallowed and dropped her hand at a loss for words.

  “Come on, counselor,” he goaded. “Anyone who thinks she’s gonna be some big hotshot attorney should be able to say what’s on her mind.”

  “You never touch me,” she blurted, feeling her face turn a dozen shades of red.

  “And it bothers you.” He fiddled with his ring, a gold band set with an onyx stone, while waiting for an answer.

  She wanted to lie, but didn’t. “Yeah, it does.”

  “Maybe I think you’re untouchable.”

  “No, there’s something else. What is it, Hunter?”