Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  A wet breeze rolled in off the ocean, mussing Weston’s hair as he waited on the deck of his pride and joy, the Stephanie, a racing yacht he’d bought for himself just this past year. He glanced at his watch. Eight-fifteen and no sign of Denver Styles. Shit, the guy was probably going to stand him up. Who was the bastard, and why had Dutch Holland hired him? For what purpose? Dutch always had a reason. But what was it?

  Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Weston found his pack of Marlboros and lit up.

  Who the hell was Styles, a man on whom there seemed to be no record whatsoever? It was as if the guy had appeared out of thin air. And to do what? Christ, it was maddening.

  He flicked ash into the water and watched the sun inch its way into the Pacific. For the past few years Weston had enjoyed hiring Dutch’s key employees away from him. Better yet, a few of Dutch’s men were still employed with Holland International, still kissing up to old Dutch, but were secretly on the take and reporting everything that went on at the company headquarters in Portland to Weston. No one knew a thing about Denver Styles, so Weston decided it had something to do with Dutch’s bid for the governorship. Or maybe that nasty little book Kane Moran was writing. The book bothered Weston. Though he liked the idea of an exposé of sorts, spilling all the dirty little Holland secrets, this one might just backfire. Too many of the Taggert skeletons were locked in the same closets as those belonging to the Hollands. Too many of Weston’s own personal evils might be unearthed.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, glancing up the dock to the parking lot of the marina. Where the hell was Styles?

  His cell phone rang, and he flicked the butt of his cigarette over the side of the railing before walking back to the main cabin.

  “Weston Taggert,” he said curtly, checking his watch again. Was this Styles giving him the brush-off?

  “Well, Weston, how’re you doing?” a sexy female voice asked. Weston’s heart nearly stopped. He should recognize the woman, but there had been so many over the years. From the sultry tone of his caller, though, he should be able to conjure up her face.

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Don’t you remember me?”

  “Should I?” Anxiety began to nip at his brain.

  “Mmmm. I think so.”

  Christ, who was it? The bitch was getting to him. “I’m not into playing games.”

  “Aren’t you? That’s not the way I remember it. Oh, Weston, don’t tell me you’ve changed now that you’ve become an honest, upstanding family man.”

  Who? Who? Who? A dozen faces flashed before his eyes and were quickly discarded. “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “You don’t remember?” she asked as if disappointed. Weston sensed she was only toying with him. “I’m sooo hurt.” A breathy sigh rushed over the wires, and then she hung up.

  “Wait!”

  But she was gone. He stared at the phone for more than a minute, willing for her to call back, but she didn’t, and as he thought about the conversation he began to put two and two together. It was someone from his past, someone he’d been involved with before he’d taken a wife and started a family. Shit, the list was still long.

  He heard the sound of footsteps on the dock and looked out a porthole to spy Denver Styles walking toward the Stephanie. Though unnerved by the caller, he managed to drag his thoughts back to the present problem with Dutch Holland.

  Holland. That was it! His lips curved into a hard grin. The woman on the phone had been involved with him before, involved to her pretty eyes. “Just you wait,” he said under his breath and started planning a way to see Tessa Holland again. She’d been a hot little virgin sixteen years ago. Now, with a little age and maturity, she was probably even more of a hot-blooded woman. He grinned. She had nerve, to call him up and tease him like some twenty-dollar whore. Well, he’d play her little game, whatever it was. His groin tightened at the thought.

  So she thought she had him at a disadvantage, did she? Wouldn’t she be surprised? The tables were about to turn on Dutch’s youngest daughter. Weston couldn’t wait.

  Twenty-seven

  The sun was setting in a blaze of peach and amber, high clouds reflecting the brilliant colors and tossing them back to the sea. Claire told herself that he was using her, getting close to her because of his damned book, but she couldn’t resist the feeling that she was falling in love with him all over again. That notion was silly, she knew, but it was a quiet little fantasy that was hers alone—one she didn’t dare examine too closely.

  On the far side of Chinook, past the Taggert sawmill, Kane angled the bike inland, driving north along the county road that led back to Lake Arrowhead. Instead of turning back toward the lodge, he pushed the bike onward, ever faster, the asphalt beneath the Harley’s tires slipping away.

  “Where are we going?” she called loudly, but her words were stripped away by the wind.

  “You’ll see.”

  She laughed for a second, lighthearted, before she realized what was happening. Dear God, no! Her heart sank and she shuddered slightly when she felt the bike slow and saw the stand of oak and fir give way. He turned off the road, onto the sandy banks of Lake Arrowhead, the beam of the cycle’s headlight bobbing through the long grass to land upon the still waters of the lake, dark and glassy and forbidding.

  A shudder slid down her spine. She couldn’t be here, not in the very spot where Miranda had driven off the road and into the lake sixteen years ago. Claire’s arms slackened around him. Her stomach kicked over, and she didn’t know how she could find the strength to face the questions he was sure to ask her.

  The bike flew over a final short dune before skidding to a stop, throwing sand in its wake. Kane cut the engine. His voice was still low, but instead of teasing, it was deadly serious. “I think we need to talk.”

  “You tricked me,” she said, releasing him and sliding off the motorcycle. In her mind’s eye she saw herself and her sisters in the interior of Miranda’s Camaro, black, frigid water swirling around them, panic banging through her body. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She rubbed her arms as if cold to the marrow of her bones when the summer night was still warm. “You brought me here on purpose,” she said, all her dreams crumbling before her eyes.

  He didn’t bother denying it. “Guilty as charged.” He slid his sunglasses off his nose and she was staring into gold eyes that didn’t look away—just stared at her as if he could see into her soul.

  She was having none of it. “Why?”

  “I think it’s time for everyone to come clean about that night.” He got off the bike and walked toward her, but she backed up to the far side of the dune and an outcropping of rocks and brush.

  She didn’t want to be close to him. She was afraid of how she would respond if he touched her. “If you think I’m going to come up with some confession, or some kind of alternative story to what I’ve told the police, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “Claire—” He was so close. Too close.

  “For the love of God, Kane, I’ve told you and the whole world over and over again what happened that night! Check the police reports.” She stumbled on a rock and nearly fell to her knees, but he caught her, one large hand around her arm and holding her upright.

  “I have.”

  “And the newspaper accounts.”

  “Them, too.” He didn’t let go of her, and his hand where he touched her burned through her sleeve.

  She stood stock still. “Then ask anyone who was here or was with Harley that night.”

  “I’m asking you.” His fingers tightened possessively. An unwanted thrill skittered down her spine.

  “So that I’ll tell you something else that you can use to print and destroy my family?”

  “Harley Taggert died. We owe it to him to—”

  “You didn’t care about him at all. That’s what’s so crazy about all this,” she said, her heart pumping wildly, her flesh suddenly on fire as his fingers rubbed the inside of her arm. Why wouldn�
�t he let her be, accept her lies, drop his warm hand, and take her home? Before she said something that would hurt her family. Before she blurted out that Sean was his son.

  “I cared about you.”

  “Oh, God.” His confession seemed to fill the evening. As the first stars began to blink and twilight swirled around them, she fought the urge to tilt her face up and kiss him, to tell him that she’d never stopped loving him, that if not for fate, she would have waited for him forever.

  “You’re carrying around a burden that you shouldn’t.”

  “I—I think we should let Harley rest in peace.”

  “Is that what you want, Claire? For me to back off?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her throat closed.

  “Liar.”

  “No, I—”

  “That’s the problem, don’t you know? You’ve always been a lousy liar.”

  If you only knew. Oh, Kane we have a son. A wonderful boy, one to be proud of and . . .

  He tugged on her arm, dragging her closer to him, and as she felt heat spread through her limbs, his strong arms surrounded her, wrapping around her body as if she were the only woman on earth and he the only man.

  “Kane, I don’t think—oh.”

  His lips found hers in a kiss that was hot and fierce and hungry.

  Her knees threatened to give way.

  “Claire,” he whispered, his voice cracking over her name. “Sweet, sweet Claire.”

  She closed her eyes and told herself to fight him, to push him away, that getting close to him was playing with fire, but as his kiss deepened and his tongue forced its way past her teeth, she melted inside, and all the reasons to deny him fled. She opened to him, like a flower to the sun, wanting more, feeling her breasts fill with a need to be touched and stroked and loved. Desire curled lazily inside her, stretching and moving, heating her blood and causing a moist warmth to form deep in the center of her womanhood—a warm ache that she hadn’t felt in years. She wanted him. How she wanted him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let his weight push them to the ground.

  He buried his face between her breasts, his mouth open, his tongue stroking her blouse, the fabric wet as he reached behind her and pulled her buttocks closer so that she fit against him, felt the firm rod of his erection through his jeans press against her, knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  His fingers were at the buttons of her blouse, opening it quickly while she breathed in shallow gasps against his neck. He skimmed her bra, brushing the lace with his fingertips before yanking hard on the cup so that one breast, nipple erect, was free. His breath was warm and moist, and she curved against him, cradling his head, allowing him to kiss and tease the hard little bud, his teeth and tongue exploring and causing wanton ripples of need to whisper through her body.

  He sucked noisily, hungrily, and he rolled her atop him so that she was lying on his erection, her mound, though covered by denim, pressed intimately to his arousal. His hands were on her buttocks, curling inward so that the tips of his fingers brushed against the juncture of her legs. She writhed and moaned, he held her fast, stripping her of her blouse and bra, kissing and sucking at her nipples, the stubble of his beard rough against her skin.

  Desire raced like wildfire through her veins. The ache within her grew. She rubbed against him, wanting more, knowing somewhere deep in the back of her mind that she was begging for trouble. But she couldn’t stop herself. It had been so long . . . so very long. His fingers delved into the waistband of her jeans and slowly undid the zipper. Her breathing was shallow and needy, and he skimmed the jeans away from her body with ease.

  Don’t, Claire. Don’t make this same mistake again.

  With a groan he pressed his face into the front of her panties, his breath fanning through the sheer lace to her skin.

  “Claire,” he murmured into her abdomen. “Are you sure?”

  She wasn’t sure about anything except that she wanted him. As the blood swirled through her veins, she wanted all of him. “Y-yes. Yes, Kane, yes,” she said, as he flicked the panties off her legs, lifted her hips to his shoulders, and buried his face in her most intimate of places.

  Her body turned to jelly. She squirmed, feeling his lips and tongue, his hot, sweet breath. She arched against him, her back bowed, his hands caressing her flesh.

  “Kane,” she cried, her voice unrecognizable.

  Stroking her legs with his hands, he kissed her and loved her, his tongue working magic as she moved against him, wanting more, needing so much more.

  “That’s it, darlin’, let yourself go. That’s iiiit,” he said, the sound muffled, the words dear. She moved against him, unable to stop. The stars and moon swirled overhead, and she felt the earth shift as the first convulsion rocked her. She cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body slick with sweat as spasm after delicious spasm rocked her.

  “Kane—Kane!”

  “I’m here, Princess,” he said, moving upward between her legs, kissing her abdomen and neck before pressing his lips to hers. Tears filled her eyes and he kissed them away. “It’s all right, Claire.”

  “No, I shouldn’t—”

  “Shh. Just feel good.” He nuzzled her neck and fondled her breasts, offering comfort and yet asking for more. She couldn’t stop, and though a thousand denials flitted through her brain, and she was still breathing wildly, she slid her fingers beneath his jacket and shirt, peeling off his clothes and feeling him suck in his breath as she touched his nipples and abdomen, tracing the ridges of his muscles. She reached for his fly.

  His hand surrounded her wrist. “You don’t have to—”

  “Shh.” She lowered his zipper, pushed the Levi’s down his legs, touched him intimately, and felt him groan as she found his thick erection. “I want to,” she said, throwing caution to the wind and breathing against him. “I want to.”

  He groaned and she kissed him, then he was as lost as she, desire mounting as he bucked against her, holding her fast, moving intimately.

  “Be careful, Claire, don’t—oooh,” He shifted suddenly, pushing her onto her back and sliding down so that he was lying atop her, his pulsing arousal pressed deep into her abdomen. “Tell me ‘no.’”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “This is a mistake.”

  “Is it?” she asked, looking up at him, seeing the strain on his face, the tension from holding back.

  “Oh, God, forgive me.” He cupped one cheek with his hand and then swiftly parted her legs with his knees. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said.

  “Of course you did. So . . . so did I.”

  “Yes.” His mouth claimed hers again as he plunged into her with an unleashed and primal lust that caused her bones to melt.

  She gasped as he thrust into her. Her stupid heart soared as he withdrew only to thrust again, hard and slow. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as he kissed her eyes and throat. The stars blurred in her eyes and she caught his tempo. Faster. Faster. Faster. Slick, hot, and wet. Until she knew she’d explode.

  “Kane,” she cried as she convulsed around him. The moon and earth collided and her soul was flung to the stars as he kissed her hard. “Oh, God, Kane.”

  With a triumphant yell, he fell upon her, spilling his seed, crushing her breasts, holding her with a desperation that tore at her heart. “Forgive me,” he whispered against her skin. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “Wanting you so much.”

  “It’s not a sin,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

  “Isn’t it?” He rolled off her, but pulled her close, cradling her in his arms, kissing her neck, sighing into her hair.

  She froze as his words sank in. Was he using her? Is that what he was trying to say? Her throat was suddenly thick and she wondered what had possessed her, what had caused her to let down her guard and let him get so close to her? “I—I should be going.”

  “Not yet.” Strong arms pinned her to his side.

  “
But, the kids—”

  “—will be fine. Stay just a minute, Claire. Let me hold you.”

  “Why? So that I’ll tell you something about the past that you don’t already know? So that I’ll change my story?”

  “No. Just because I want a little peace in my life.” He levered up on one elbow, his naked body stretched close to hers. “Is that so hard to understand?” His gaze, dark with the night, delved deep into hers.

  “I—I want to trust you.”

  “Do.”

  “But you’re trying to ruin my father, my family, everything that I believe in.”

  “No, darlin’,” he drawled, stroking her hair. “I’m just looking for the truth.”

  “And you believe that the truth can never hurt a person.”

  “Nope. The truth stings like a bitch sometimes, but it’s better than living a lie.”

  She wondered. But she had lived a lie for so long, she probably wouldn’t know the difference. “Really, I’ve got to get back.” She reached for her clothes, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrist with one big hand.

  “Just believe that whatever happens, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “But you will,” she said, finally understanding and feeling the cold breath of doom whisper through her heart. This man was driven by unknown forces, and he wouldn’t rest, wouldn’t give up, until he knew the truth. “You will,” she said, reaching for her clothes. “Because you think you have no choice.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Wrong, Kane. We all have choices.” Yes, and you choose not to tell him the truth about Sean. Now, you’ve made love to Sean’s father again. Oh, Claire. Will you never learn?

  Twenty-eight

  “Looks like your kids are surviving,” Kane observed as he watched Claire in the kitchen, where she was pouring them each a caffeine boost. He’d had to pry Sean off the Harley. The kid couldn’t stop asking questions about the machine, wanted to ride it over and over, and had only agreed to go upstairs to bed when Kane had promised to bring the motorcycle over at another time and teach him how to ride. At least the boy was warming to him, though there was still distrust in Sean’s eyes whenever Kane touched Claire. So the kid was protective of his mother.