by Lisa Jackson
“Just like that? And he came to you rather than his father or me?” She didn’t bother softening the skeptical edge to her voice.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I imagine because he thought I wouldn’t be as judgmental as his father or as wounded as you might be . . . considering your condition and all.” He finished his drink and reached into his bottom desk drawer, from which he drew out a half-empty fifth of Dewar’s Scotch.
“Leave my ‘condition’ out of it.”
He shrugged and lifted the bottle. “Have one?”
“No—”
“Because of the baby?”
“Because I don’t usually drink with jackasses.”
He smiled. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“Not at all.”
“But you want information from me.”
“As I said,” she said with surprising calm, “it’s the only reason I’m here.”
“A woman with a purpose.”
“And not a lot of time,” she said, wanting to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. But Weston might have information about Hunter—information no one, not even the police—had discovered.
He tapped his front teeth with the end of his finger as if he were lost in thought, but his gaze hadn’t changed. There was still the promise of passion lurking in his eyes, and she wondered just how full the bottle hidden in his drawer had been at the beginning of the day.
Inwardly she shivered. She shouldn’t have come here. But she had to.
“Hunter figured that I—well, Dad, really—could give him what he wanted.”
“And that was—?” She heard a secretary’s voice calling ‘good night’ through the pebbled-glass door, and every muscle in her body tensed, ready to spring as she realized she was alone with him. There was no one else in the building, and the men working across the street in the mill might as well have been a hundred miles away. If anything should happen, they could never hear her screams over the whir of saws, smack of lumber being tossed on the green chain, and the rumble of trucks. But nothing was going to happen. Her imagination was running wild because she didn’t trust Weston, and Tessa had clawed him.
“Hunter needed sanctuary.”
“No way.”
One brown brow rose over pitying blue eyes, as if he understood what she was going through and felt sorry for her. He sipped at his drink, then cradled it. “I know this is hard for you, especially since—” His eyes slid to her abdomen and she held her purse over it, as if to protect the baby. It was insanity to be here alone with him and yet she couldn’t budge. He was the only person in Chinook who seemed to have any kind of information about Hunter—be it truth or lies—and was willing to share it. She gritted her teeth and stayed planted in the uncomfortable chair.
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but it looks like Hunter got himself into trouble down here. Something about a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“The one without a name.”
“Oh, she’s got one. Cindy Edwards. Lives near Arch Cape. If she files charges, he’ll have to come back to the States and face them.” Absently he touched the wounds on his face.
“I don’t believe you.” But Miranda made a mental note of the girl’s name.
Outside a shrill whistle announced a change of shift or dinner break.
Weston shook his head and ran stiff fingers through his hair. “When are you going to figure out that Hunter isn’t a saint?”
“You don’t know anything about him,” she countered, but felt as if she’d stepped square into the middle of a well-set trap.
“No?” Another swallow from his glass, and when he set it back on the desk, some of the scotch splashed onto the desk. “He worked for the company already, you know. Had a decent enough job history. I read his personnel file along with his new résumé, and I talked to him. Believe me, Miranda, I know more about Hunter Riley than you do.” Weston’s smile was cold as ice. “He got involved with Cindy about six months ago, when he was still doing community service for some little disagreement over a car he claimed was borrowed, though the woman who owned it said it was stolen. Anyway, the community service and probation were part of his sentence.”
“I know that much,” she admitted, as sweat collected under her arms and around her hairline.
“I think this all happened before he got involved with you, or so he said.”
“He told you about us?” This wasn’t ringing true at all. Hunter had been adamant that no one should know of their affair. No one. Not even his father.
“He didn’t want to, but I admitted that I knew about you and the baby and—”
“Oh, God.” No way! Her brain screamed denials. This couldn’t be happening. “He would never have said a word.”
Weston sighed patiently, as if willing to let her anger run its course, but his eyes moved from her eyes to her lips and lower still before returning, bright and eager to hers. “You’re right, he wouldn’t have. Seemed embarrassed about it, but his back was to the wall, and so he asked for a job out of the country and we provided one. He even took out a life insurance policy through the company naming you as primary beneficiary. The original documents are at the company headquarters in Portland, but I think we have copies here . . .” He rolled to his feet, nearly stumbled, then caught himself and was out the door of his office, leaving Miranda and her doubts to face each other. How much of the truth was he telling? How much fiction was woven into the facts?
She was relieved that he was gone for a few minutes. She had to pull herself together, find a way to prove that he was lying, and yet the feeling of doom, that what Weston and Dan Riley were telling her was true, clasped around her throat as cold and hard as a steel chain.
Could it possibly be true? Every instinct told her that Weston was lying through his straight, white teeth, but she had no way of proving it. The private investigator she’d hired a few days before had turned up nothing.
“Here ya go,” Weston said, his speech slightly off, as he reentered the room and dropped an employment folder onto the desk in front of her.
Miranda scanned the documents. Health history, life insurance policy application, old job employment reviews. All signed by Hunter Riley. Her heart dropped. Some of what Weston was telling her had to be true; there was no other explanation. A buzz, like the singing of heavy electrical wires, started in a distant part of her brain.
Weston didn’t take his chair again. Instead he stood behind her, close enough that, as she looked over the documents, trying to concentrate, fighting against an overwhelming sense of defeat, she sensed him; felt his heat. So close. Too close.
He leaned nearer, his breath hot and smelling of scotch. “Whether you want to face the truth or not, Miranda, the fact of the matter is that Hunter Riley is a snaky son of a bitch. He stole cars and knocked up underage girls. Fourteen, for crying out loud. How old is he? Nineteen?”
“Twenty.”
Her head was pounding. This was wrong—so wrong, but the pages of black and white that blurred in her vision were evidence, hard, solid testimony that Hunter had left her. Her insides squeezed painfully.
“But he does have some redeeming qualities, I suppose,” Weston went on, whether to make her feel better or to give credence to Taggert Industries’ decision to hire him. “Riley’s a hard worker, when he stays out of trouble. He does right by his old man, and he wants to provide for you and the baby—at least when he dies.”
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“Face it.”
“He wouldn’t leave me.”
“Sure he would. He had no choice.” Rounding her chair, he faced her and dropped a hand to her shoulder. His fingers were hot. Tense. “I’d like to take care of you, Miranda,” he said.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned as she tried to scoot away.
“Can’t help myself.”
The buzz in her mind cleared and she realized he was more drunk than she’d first susp
ected. “Don’t even think about it,” she cautioned, but he was already closing in on her. “Weston, for the love of God, don’t—”
Both his arms surrounded her, and he hauled her effortlessly from the chair. “I care about you, Randa. Always have.”
“You’ve got me mixed up with Tessa.”
His laugh was short and brutal. “Don’t think so.”
“But—”
“Didn’t she tell you? She quit seeing me because every time I’d touch her, or kiss her, or make love to her, I was thinking about you.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” she said, trying to scramble away, the room spinning as he grabbed her and pulled her close.
“Don’t you know how hard this is for me?”
“Then stop.” Dear God, what was happening?
“I can’t, Randa girl, and you know it. You’ve felt it, too, the heat between us. I never wanted Tessa. Never. She was just someone to fill a void.”
She hit at him, tried to scramble away, but he was strong, his body hard from years of athletics, and the more she fought him and struggled, the more insistent he became. “Let go of me, you bastard, don’t—”
But his lips crashed over hers. Hard. Hot. Anxious. Tasting of scotch.
Nausea roiled in her stomach as she fought, her hands scratching and clawing even though her arms were pinned and she couldn’t strike him with any force. She kicked, but he shifted and as she opened her mouth to scream his tongue darted between her teeth. Quick and slick it delved. Possessive and vile. She bit down, but he was quick, the tongue withdrawn as he twisted her around so that her rump butted up against the edge of the desk.
“You little bitch, admit it, you want it. You’re as hot for me as I am for you.”
“No—”
His crotch was pressed against her abdomen, his erection rigid and straining against his fly. The room spun. He kissed her again and lust—raw animal lust and hunger—pulsed in the air.
She realized then that there was no stopping him. She didn’t know what had set him off, but sensed he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d forced his body into hers.
Sick and reeling, she struggled, but by sheer strength he pushed her ever back, his weight bearing down on her, the desk hard and flat beneath her back. “Let go of me!” she yelled when he lifted his head.
“I’ll take care of you.”
“Bull! Let go of me, Weston, or I’ll scream.”
“No one will hear you. The doors are locked, babe, and no one else is here.”
“Go to hell!” She let out a scream to wake the dead, but it only echoed back to her in the small room. Then he was upon her.
His breath was hot, his body heavy, his purpose singular. “Come on, Miranda. Don’t fight it.”
Wrenching her body, she managed to get one hand free and slapped him. Smack! Her palm collided with his cheek. He yelped in pain. “You bitch! You stinking bitch! You’re as bad as your sister!”
“Keep Tessa out of this.”
“I should do to you what I did to her.”
“Wh-what?”
His face, looming over her, was menacing, his skin flushed, his eyes burning with lust. She struggled, but he was strong, his muscles young, firmed and honed by years on the gridiron. He managed to grab both her wrists and haul them over her head to clasp them in the steely fingers of one hand.
“I knew you’d be a fighter.”
“Get off me!”
“What’d you say? Get off on me?” His leer was obscene. “I intend to, baby. Over and over again. If you can give it to that lowlife Riley, then you can damn well spread your legs for me.” With his free hand he unzipped his fly, and Miranda realized that he wouldn’t stop.
“Don’t do this, Weston,” she said, sick at the pleading sound of her voice. He yanked down her skirt. A seam gave way. Miranda thrashed violently as her panties ripped.
She started to scream again, but he placed his mouth over hers, her breasts crushed, his body beginning to move. With his free hand he found the buckle of his pants. They slid to the floor.
Triumph gleamed in his eyes as he poised above her on the desk. “Now, baby,” he growled, breathing heavily and sweating like the animal he was, “let’s see what you’ve got.”
Claire’s heart was a drum, her hands cold as ice as she tugged on her engagement ring. Biting her lip, she waited on the pier near the Taggert sailboat and watched the diamond wink mockingly in the starlight. What was she doing? Breaking up with Harley, wonderful Harley, because of some stupid chemical attraction she felt to Kane Moran. What about all those promises you made, those vows to yourself and to Harley, those indignant protestations you made to every member in your family?
Closing her eyes, she leaned against the rail and heard the gentle clang of a buoy rolling on the tide. Kane was leaving, joining the army, taking off to places unknown, and she’d probably never see him again. Yet she was convinced that she would never be happy with a boy only a month ago she swore she’d love forever.
Tramp!
But then Harley hadn’t been true, either. Whether she wanted to face it or not, he’d kept seeing Kendall, never completely severing their relationship even though he was supposed to be engaged to Claire.
Sighing, she took in a deep breath of salty air and stared at the heavens, where storm clouds were moving restlessly in the dark sky.
She wasn’t alone. The same shadow-thin wharf cat she’d seen during earlier visits to the sailboat slunk past her and hopped lithely into a small fishing boat moored nearby. In another slip, on a sleek yacht, a party was in full swing, voices loud and boisterous, laughter and the sound of the Eagles’ “Hotel California” drifting over the still waters of the bay.
“Come on, come on,” Claire muttered under her breath, checking her watch and willing Harley to appear. Now that she’d made her decision, she wanted to get it over with, was eager to make a clean break and end the sham of an engagement.
“Welcome to the Hotel California . . .”
She heard his car before she saw it, then caught the gleam of flashy wheels and emerald green paint as the car sped under a security lamp. Give me strength, she silently prayed while wondering if breaking off with him would hurt him at all. Maybe he’d be as relieved as she to be unshackled from a burdensome relationship.
“. . . pink champagne on ice . . .”
Throat dry she watched him walking rapidly along the weathered pier. “Claire.” Raising a hand, he smiled and jogged the short distance separating them.
“. . . we are all just prisoners here, of our own device . . .”
“God, I’ve missed you,” Harley said, spinning her off her feet and holding her close. Her heart began to shred as he buried his face in her neck and kissed her with a pent-up passion she could feel in the heat of his skin.
And yet she didn’t respond. Couldn’t. He tried to kiss her lips, but she pulled her head back and disentangled herself.
“Don’t.” Her voice was husky with unshed tears. Suddenly this wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped it would be.
“What?” he asked, his handsome face perplexed as he lowered his face close to hers.
“. . . you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave . . .”
“Just stop.”
“Are you serious?” He smiled, that shy, unsteady smile that had once melted her heart.
“Very. Look, Harley, we need to talk,” she said, and cringed when she saw his expression turn guarded. He glanced at her ringless hand and slowly let out his breath.
“This is about Kendall, isn’t it?”
Her heart sank. Even though she’d planned to break it off with him, she didn’t want to think that he’d really been unfaithful. But he had. The truth was evident in the newfound defiant tilt of his jaw. “No, not really,” she choked out, surprised that his quick confession stung so deeply. She’d assumed the rumors to be true, but to hear it from his own lips . . . “This is about us. It’s . . . it’s not working.”
“Oh, God.” He paled, his face blue-white in the glow from the bulbs strung along the pier.
“I think we both know it.” She took his hand, turned it palm up, and dropped the ring that had been cutting into her skin into his open fingers.
“No,” he whispered. “Claire, no.”
“It’s for the best.”
Tears sprouted in his eyes. “But I love you. You know I do.”
“No, Harley, I don’t think—”
He reached forward and she shrank away from him. “Don’t.” But his fingers were already digging into the muscles of her shoulders, fastening her to him.
“I can’t lose you.”
“It’s over.”
“I’ll tell Kendall we’re through. For good. I swear. I’ll find a way to make her see that I love you. Only you.”
“No, Harley—”
He kissed her. Crushing her against him, tears sliding down his cheeks, he kissed her, and she tasted the bitter salt on his lips as well as more than a trace of alcohol. “I’d give up everything for you,” he swore. “Everything.” He clutched her hair and sobbed brokenly against her neck.
“No, Harley, please, don’t . . .” Her own eyes burned as he clung to her.
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. You’ll never regret this, but, please, Claire, don’t . . . don’t say it’s over.”
Heart breaking, she held him. “I can’t help it, Harley.”
“You don’t love me,” he accused, and she felt as vile as the most wicked creature in the universe.
“I can’t change how I feel.”
“But I can!” He took her hand and started leading her to the sailboat.
“No—”
“There’s wine on board. Champagne.”
“I don’t want a drink—”
“Hey!” a man’s sharp voice rose over the din on the nearby vessel. “Is there a problem down there? Is that guy bothering you?” A gray-haired guy with a sailor’s cap stepped under the security lamp, his glasses reflecting the illumination from the bulbs strung overhead.
