Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue, dear,” he warned, and she closed her mouth immediately. Over the course of their marriage there had been a few times when he’d had to get a little rough with her, just a couple of slaps across the buttocks or face when she’d opposed him. Afterward, when she was contrite and willing to prove her love for him, he had come up with intricate sexual maneuvers for her to perform to show just how much she appreciated being Mrs. Weston Taggert.

  She’d always been so willing to please. It was strange really. He’d once thought her cold as ice, her pussy tight and impenetrable. He’d learned differently. When she realized that he was her meal ticket, her entrance into the royalty that was the family Taggert, she’d become a hot little love machine, giving eagerly of her favors. No wonder Harley, that wimp, had never been able to break it off with her. But outside the bedroom, she bored him.

  “Just don’t disappoint Stephanie tomorrow,” she said and Weston clinked his glass to hers.

  “I won’t. Promise.” But that was tomorrow. First he had to get through the rest of the evening. Tonight he was going to meet with Denver Styles and offer Dutch Holland’s newest employee a deal too sweet to pass up.

  He sipped his martini slowly and grinned.

  Twenty-six

  “So you didn’t get any correspondence from Riley at all. No phone calls. Nothing?” Denver, seated in one of the cane-backed chairs that surrounded Miranda’s small kitchen table, was settled low on his back, the heel of one boot hooked over the base of another chair. Throughout their conversation, he regarded her with eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, eyes that missed nothing, eyes that made her want to squirm away. But she wouldn’t. She’d faced murderers, rapists, wife beaters, and worked hard to put them behind bars. She’d been cool against big-league defense lawyers and even survived Ronnie Klug’s knife attack. She’d even managed to lie and put that God-awful night sixteen years ago to rest. As intimidating as Styles was, he still couldn’t get to her.

  “I didn’t hear from Hunter. No letters, no phone calls. Nothing.” Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, warming Miranda’s back. The Metro section of this morning’s copy of The Oregonian was lying open by a basket of fruit. Styles’s beat-up jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of another chair and looked as if it belonged there.

  Coffee, unwanted by either of them, cooled in ceramic mugs and scented the air. Styles’s cell phone chirped. He ignored it.

  “Didn’t you think that was odd?”

  “Yes, but . . . I assumed it was because of the charges that were going to be brought against him.”

  “Statutory rape and grand theft auto?” he asked, obviously having done his homework.

  “Yeah.”

  “No charges were ever filed.”

  “I know, but I thought it was because he left the country.”

  “There are extradition proceedings, you know.”

  Of course she knew. Now. But at the time she’d been much younger, less knowledgeable about the law, and hurt, wounded that Hunter had betrayed her and been involved with someone else. When he’d never contacted her it had been easier to close her eyes and turn her head, believe the worst. Besides, by that time, it didn’t matter. Not really. The baby was already gone. And somehow she’d survived those dark, debilitating nights.

  That old pain, the one she’d tried so desperately to lock away, stole past her defenses to grab hold of her heart and twist mightily, squeezing until she could barely breathe. Dear God in heaven how she’d wanted that child, needed that special part of Hunter he’d left with her.

  “I was young,” she admitted, fiddling with her coffee mug. “And scared.”

  “And pregnant.”

  The word seemed to echo through the room like the reverberations of a chapel bell, resounding through her heart.

  “Yes.” There was no reason to lie; he knew too much already. Dry-eyed, she stared him down and refused to let him see the pain that was still with her after all these years. “Not that it’s anyone’s business.”

  A flicker of tenderness and understanding passed through his harsh eyes, but it quickly vanished, and she wondered if she’d imagined it. Styles wasn’t the empathetic type. “Just doing my job.”

  “Digging up the dirt on people. Great job.”

  One dark brow quirked upward. “Not unlike yours, counselor.”

  “I’m always looking for the truth.”

  “So am I.” He took a swallow of tepid coffee and set the mug onto the table again. His voice softened when he asked, “So what happened to the baby?”

  Closing her eyes, she said, “It’s not something I want to discuss.” Oh God, the pain. Losing the child, losing a part of Hunter. And because . . . because . . . She felt as if she might be sick.

  “I know.”

  “You couldn’t,” she whispered. “No one could.”

  “All right, no more platitudes.” He looked so deeply into her eyes she was certain he could see past her pain, past her lies, to the truth. The seconds ticked by in silence and finally Miranda opened her eyes. What did it matter what he knew? “I lost it.”

  “When?”

  “The night that I lost control of the car and it ended up in Lake Arrowhead. I’m sure you’ve seen the hospital reports. There must’ve been some mention of a miscarriage.” Not many people had known. She’d been eighteen at the time, and so her parents were never told that she’d been pregnant and was suffering the loss of her baby. Miranda had been well enough versed in the law to know that she had rights and that patient–doctor confidentiality wasn’t to be compromised.

  If her father had ever found out, he’d never mentioned it, and so the subject had been avoided. But somehow Denver Styles had come up with the information. How? She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill.

  “How did you link up with Dad?” she asked, wondering about him. An interesting, but threatening man, one who had no past. If Petrillo couldn’t find anything on him, no one could.

  “He came looking for me.”

  “And how did he find you?” she asked. “Somehow I don’t think you’re listed on the Internet.”

  The ghost of a smile touched his lips and his gray eyes sparked for a heartbeat. “Through a mutual acquaintance.” He finished his coffee and reached for his jacket. “But we’re not here to talk about me, remember?”

  “How could I forget?”

  He leaned closer to her. “You know, Miranda, you’re a smart woman. Clever. But not quite as clever sixteen years ago. Personally, I think the story you’ve peddled to the sheriff’s department about the night that Taggert was killed is bullshit. I think you and your sisters made some sort of pact that you’d be each other’s alibis, and I think, whether you want to face the truth or not, the whole damned thing is going to blow up in your face. Now you could tell me the truth, and I could keep it between me, you, and your old man. Or else Kane Moran or your father’s political enemies will grab hold of it and it’ll be the biggest scandal that’s ever hit good old Chinook, Oregon. Your job will be on the line. Tessa could end up needing more than a personal shrink, and Claire will think that little scandal with her husband in Colorado was just a teeny ripple in her life compared to the waterfall that’s going to sweep over her when all this comes out.”

  “You’re wrong,” she insisted, anger surging through her, but his words scared her spitless. “And if you’re finished, I don’t think we have anything else to discuss.”

  He scraped his chair back. “You’ll change your mind.”

  “Nothing to change it to.”

  “We’ll see.” He snagged his jacket from the back of the nearby chair, reached into the pocket, and dropped a business card for a motel in Chinook, the Tradewinds, onto the table. “Room twenty-five if you want to talk to me. My cell phone number is—”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” She didn’t bother picking up the white card. The less she knew of him, the better. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t eage
r for the truth, didn’t know how she could face it.

  He slung his jacket over one shoulder, and touched her lightly on the back of the neck with his free hand. “Think about it, Miranda,” he said softly as her skin heated beneath his fingertips. “I’ll show myself out.”

  As she heard his footsteps retreat, her skin still was warm where he’d touched her. A second later the latch of the front door opened, then softly closed again. He was gone. She let out her breath and sighed. It was all falling apart. All the lies that she’d so carefully fabricated. Biting her lower lip, she dropped her forehead into her hands. “God help me,” she whispered because she knew the end was near. Come hell or high water, Denver Styles wouldn’t rest until his job was done.

  Tessa felt the breath of salty breeze against her face and wished she could find some peace of mind, the kind that was supposed to come when a person stared out at the vastness of the ocean, the serenity that people felt just walking on the sand, but as she ambled along the edge of the sea, feeling the frothy tide nibbling at her toes only to ebb away again, she only felt restless and distracted.

  She should never have come back to Oregon, should have stayed away, but one of her shrinks, the bald one with the red beard—Doctor Terry, was his name—had told her she would have to face her demons someday. She’d have to return to this hellhole of a spot in Oregon and confront those who had used and abused her.

  The sand was squishy under her feet, and here and there she spied round razor clam holes or the soft spoonlike impressions indicating a crab was just below the surface. Kelp and broken sand dollars, the shells of eviscerated crabs and clams and pieces of clear jellyfish littered the white sand of the beach that curved close to Stone Illahee, where Tessa was now living in a private suite. Complete with Jacuzzi, sauna, two king-size beds and a spectacular view of the ocean, the suite was hers for as long as she needed it. Dutch wanted her to be comfortable.

  “Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said, picking up her pace to a slow jog. She’d come back to Oregon with a single purpose in mind and now as she splashed along the edge of the sand, she couldn’t help but savor her own sweet revenge. She’d waited sixteen years, hoping that the need to get back at those who had wronged her would disappear with years of counseling. But she’d been wrong. As long as she was in California, away from her sisters and the memories of that one hellish, pain-riddled night, she’d been able to push all thoughts of vengeance aside, but now that she was back in Oregon, faced with all the torments of her youth, she could only think of one thing. She needed to get a little of hers back, and those who had hurt her would pay. Big-time.

  From the attic over the garage where she and Samantha were refurbishing the studio, Claire heard the sound of a motorcycle engine. She poked her head out the window and her heart clutched.

  Astride a huge black Harley-Davidson, Kane Moran wheeled down the drive. Reflective aviator glasses shaded his eyes, dusty jeans and his battle-scarred leather jacket covered his body. Old memories of riding with the wind racing through her hair, her arms wrapped around Kane’s leather-draped torso, the smell of leather and smoke drifting to her nostrils assailed her. She thought of the days of longing for him and the nights wanting nothing more than to hold him close.

  His hair was burnished by the sun’s final rays this late afternoon, and she couldn’t help but remember how much she’d loved him, how much she’d cared. “Oh, God,” she whispered.

  “What? What is it?” Samantha demanded while standing on her tiptoes and peering over her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, wow!” she said on the heels of a gasp.

  Sean had been shooting hoops at the old backboard he’d mounted over the third bay of the garage, but at the sound and sight of the motorcycle, he’d stopped, tucked his basketball between his wrist and hip, and stared in awe as Kane slowed the bike to park not five feet from him.

  “Is this yours?” Sean asked as Kane climbed off the bike.

  “As of today.”

  Unaware his mother was watching, Sean let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. “Holy shit.”

  “Sean!” Claire said from the window.

  “But Mom, look, a Harley!”

  Harley. This was all about him.

  “Big deal,” Samantha muttered under her breath.

  Kane wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Like it?”

  “Like it?” Sean repeated. “What’s not to like?”

  “Want a ride?”

  “You mean like I get to drive it?”

  “Wait a minute!” Claire dashed across the room and hurried down the stairs. She was through the garage and outside within seconds. Samantha was right on her heels. “Sean doesn’t have a driver’s license or even a permit in Oregon.”

  “Aw, Mom, come on.” Sean dribbled the ball, but his eyes never left the big shiny bike.

  “No way. Don’t you have to have a special license to drive one of these?”

  “Legally,” Kane agreed, balancing the machine between his legs.

  “I’m only interested in legally.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “Sean, please.” She shot Kane a look that could cut through steel and saw again the resemblance between father and son. The square jaw, thick eyebrows, long straight nose. How could they not?

  “I’ll tell you what, hop on and I’ll give you a ride,” Kane said to the boy he didn’t know was his son. He reached behind him to find a helmet and tossed it to Sean, who caught the headgear and let his basketball drop. The neglected orange ball bounced toward the garage.

  “What about me?” Samantha asked.

  “You’re next,” Kane promised, and Claire had the distinct feeling that she was being manipulated.

  Sean walked around the machine, his eyes taking in every detail of the shiny bike. “This is really kickin’!”

  “Come on.” Kane cocked his head toward the boy, and Sean needed no more encouragement. Despite his earlier vows to hate “the prick,” he climbed on the bike behind Kane, strapped the helmet in place, then, rather than circle Kane’s waist with his arms, grabbed hold of the belt that wrapped around the long seat.

  Kane revved the engine, and the bike flew forward.

  “Be careful,” Claire called, but it was only to the wind as the motorcycle raced forward, winding through three gears before they hit the first corner and disappeared through the trees.

  “I thought Sean hated that guy,” Samantha observed as she tossed her hair off her shoulders.

  “So did I.”

  “One look at the motorcycle and he changed his mind.” Sam shook her head. “Men,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Amen,” her mother agreed. Far in the distance they heard the motorcycle whining through the gears again, and Claire felt the weight of the moment. Father and son were together alone. Though neither understood the heart-wrenching significance of their solitary ride, Claire felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. Her throat clogged, and she blinked rather than break down in front of Samantha. Somehow, some way, she had to find the words to tell Kane the truth, that he was a father, but she couldn’t bear to ruin everything just yet. Too many emotions, too many hearts were at stake. When he found out, Kane would surely hate her for her lies, for passing off his son as another man’s child, for never mentioning to anyone, including Sean, that his real father had left her for the army and gone on to become a semifamous journalist turned writer determined to ruin Sean’s grandfather’s life. God help us, she silently prayed as the sound of the big bike’s engine approached. Her hands clenched into fists of frustration as the motorcycle, catching a few last rays of sunlight, rounded the bend to slide to a stop near the garage.

  “Your turn,” Kane said to Samantha as Sean reluctantly dragged himself from the bike. Though she feigned coolness and seemed unaffected by riding the Harley, Sam couldn’t hide the twinkle in her eyes as she strapped on the helmet and they took off.

  “Don’t know why she needs a ride,” Sean grumbled. “She likes horses and dogs an
d junk.”

  “Maybe, this’ll change her mind.”

  “Nah!” But he seemed worried and shot free throws until the motorcycle and Sam were back.

  “Awesome,” she said, as she climbed off and dusted her hands.

  “That it is.”

  “We went up to the Illahee Cliffs!”

  “Did you?” Claire asked.

  Kane twisted his head to the side and his eyes, shaded though they were, found Claire’s in a look that caused her breath to stop somewhere in her throat. She had to look away, to distract herself, because his gaze was filled with a sexual promise she couldn’t ignore. “How about you?” Kane asked in a husky voice that caused goose bumps to rise on her skin.

  She hesitated a second before Sam said, “Go on, Mom. Have a little fun.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I’m next,” Sean insisted.

  “Next time,” Kane told him.

  Claire, knowing she was flirting with emotional danger, couldn’t resist. Though she realized she was making a big mistake and remembered her response when they were alone on the dock in the middle of the night, she felt compelled to be with him again. Alone with him as the wind raced past and the coming night flew by. She swung a leg over the back of the cycle, wrapped her arms around Kane’s waist, and felt a surge of power as the bike took off down the driveway.

  In the paddock the painted gelding let out a high-pitched whistle and, tail aloft, ran to the far gate. Fir trees covered with moss and ivy sped by in a blur, and Claire rested her head between Kane’s shoulders as she had as a teenager. Be careful, an annoying inner voice warned, but she lost herself in the feel of his muscles moving as he shifted through the gears. Her heart thudded deep in her chest, and she sensed the tension in his body as she clung to him.

  God, it was good to hold him and for a few glorious minutes she forgot the past, ignored the fact that they could never be lovers again. As the sun hovered just above the horizon, she let her fertile mind conjure scenes of kissing him and touching him, and making love to him over and over again.