Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  “Promoting Sean’s riding your bike isn’t a good idea,” Claire had warned at the time, but Sean was in seventh heaven, and, the way Kane saw it, the kid needed something to look forward to in his life. He obviously missed his friends back in Colorado. The few kids he’d picked up with here in Chinook were borderline punks and hoods. Like you were.

  “Here,” Claire said, handing him a cup of coffee, liquor, and whipped cream. “Let’s have these outside.”

  Together they walked to the porch and sat on the old swing. The sounds of the night closed in on them—a moth flitting against the windows, cars whizzing by on the highway, fish leaping in the lake, a train rattling on far-off tracks, and the muffled throb of a heavy metal CD pounding through Sean’s open bedroom window on the second floor.

  “You’re right. Sean and Sam are surviving here—Sam better than Sean, but he’s older, had more friends.”

  “He’ll find his niche here.”

  “Mmm. Kids are resilient,” she said, though, from her expression, he assumed it killed her to think of the pain her children had borne.

  “More resilient than you?” He had one arm slung around her shoulders and he rubbed the back of her neck.

  She sighed and leaned her head back, exposing the white length of her throat, causing him to get hard all over again. What was it about this woman? One look and he was lost, his blood on fire. It had always been this way, probably always would be.

  “More resilient than me? Maybe.” She blew across her cup, and he tried not to stare at the way her lips puckered suggestively.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Who? Oh, Paul?” She wrinkled her nose, then lifted a shoulder. “What do you want to know?”

  “How’d you meet him?”

  Scowling slightly, she glanced away from him and into the woods. “He was a professor at a community college where I was working on my GED. Divorced from wife number two. I should have been smarter about him, but unfortunately I wasn’t.” She took a sip from her cup and wondered just how much she could confide. It was time to tell him the truth, that the boy with whom he’d spent the better part of the day was his son, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Once he found out that Sean was his child, her life would be thrown into worse turmoil than it already was. So she told him only a few of the essentials, leaving out a lot of the story.

  She explained that after Harley’s death and Kane’s induction into the army, she’d left Chinook and moved to Portland, where she finished high school at the community college. She didn’t mention that she was pregnant or that she planned on having the baby alone. If her parents had found out, they would’ve screamed bloody murder, but she was quiet and neither Dutch, nor Dominique before she divorced Dutch and moved to Paris, had guessed the truth. If they had figured out that she was carrying a child, Claire wouldn’t have cared. This child, who she first believed was fathered by Harley, was special to her. The fact that he was so obviously Kane’s child, only endeared Sean all the more to her.

  “Paul liked being married—liked having a wife cook, clean, take care of his house, and look good when he went to business affairs. He liked the idea of being married to a young girl, especially since my name was Holland and he probably thought I’d inherit a lot of money someday. What he didn’t tell me was that his divorces were based on his affairs with young girls, some barely sixteen.”

  “Great guy,” Kane muttered, and took a gulp of his drink.

  “Remember, I was just seventeen myself. Marrying him was such an irrational thing to do.” But she’d been adrift and frightened. Paul had been an anchor. At least at first. And he pretended her baby was his. They even lied to everyone about Sean’s birth date, saying that he was born in July, rather than the end of April. Since Harley had died the previous August, and because Claire was somewhat estranged from her family at the time, no one knew the truth. Her parents hadn’t met Sean until he was over a year old, and even he didn’t know his true birth date as Claire doctored the birth certificate he used to get into school. “What can I say? It was a mistake.”

  “And you’re finally rid of him.”

  “Except that he is the kids’ father.” Well, at least he was Samantha’s.

  “But you named Sean after Taggert. Sean Harlan St. John.”

  “Another error,” she said. Originally, Claire had thought the baby should be named Taggert, but decided that it would be best for her child to have a clean slate in life, and then, as it became clear that the baby was fathered by Kane, she’d been at her wits’ end. She’d decided to concentrate on her marriage and try to make it work. Claire did everything Paul asked, though her second pregnancy was unplanned and Paul wasn’t thrilled about the thought of having another child to support, even if this one was his. The baby came—a daughter—and he accepted her. Meanwhile Claire managed to juggle her life, going to school, running the kids around and keeping the house clean enough for Paul’s white glove inspection. Later, Claire started working as a teacher. She spent more and more hours away from the house and, over time, the marriage crumbled. Claire had grown up, became more independent, and developed a mind of her own. Paul disapproved.

  As Sean reached adolescence, Paul became inflexible—he couldn’t stand the fact that Sean was in trouble with the law, picked up for vandalism and petty theft. Then there were the girls. Pretty high school girls were throwing themselves at the handsome boy. Eventually Paul’s old character flaw, his desire for young girls, raised its ugly head, and he ended up seducing Jessica Stewart, one of Sean’s girlfriends. But his liaison blew up in his face when Jessica not only told her parents but the police as well; other girls came forward and Paul was indicted.

  “—I didn’t divorce him until the charges were filed, even though we’d been separated for a long time, because I thought it was better to stay married. For the kids’ sake.”

  “And now?” Kane prodded, drawing her closer still.

  Sighing, she rested her head on his shoulder. “And now I think I would have been smarter to leave him the first time I learned that he was fooling around, about the time Samantha was two. But I was young and utterly dependent upon him. My only other option was to crawl back to my father and beg him to help me out.” She looked into the darkening woods and shook her head. “I didn’t want to do that. Not ever.”

  “So you stayed with a man who treated you like dirt.”

  “No, we separated. I just never found the courage to divorce him until I realized there was absolutely no future with him. Even though I wasn’t in love with him, I believed in marriage and that it should last forever.” Her smile was bitter. “A romantic fantasy left over from my youth, I guess. Randa always said my romantic streak would be my undoing. Seems like she was right.” Troubled, she sipped from her cup, but the coffee had grown cold, the alcohol strong.

  “So you didn’t love him.”

  Never. Not like I loved you! “It wasn’t about love, Kane. It was about commitment. To him. To the kids. To the family.” She let out a brittle little laugh. “He just didn’t feel the same. I finally figured that out, and so here I am, divorced, unemployed, trying to raise two headstrong kids.” And lying through my teeth to you. Oh, God, Kane if you only knew. If you could guess that Sean is your son, not Paul’s. Not Harley’s. Yours!

  Claire shuddered. All of her secrets were unraveling, as surely as if Kane had found the broken thread of her life and began tugging, her lies were about to be exposed. Either by Kane or Denver Styles. And what then? She couldn’t think of the consequences, was grateful that she didn’t have a crystal ball to see into the future.

  Kane kissed her temple and she bit back a sob. It wasn’t fair to fall in love with him again. Not when she was sure that when the truth came to light, he’d hate her for the rest of his days.

  “So you’re working for Dutch Holland,” Weston said, handing Denver Styles a drink, shutting the teak cabinet, then taking a seat on the opposite side of the cabin of the sailboat. He didn’t like being alone with
Styles and felt restless as a dog one pen away from a bitch in heat. But, unfortunately, right now Weston needed this man.

  “That’s right.”

  “Special project?”

  “You might say that.” Styles sat low on his back in one of the chairs. One booted ankle rested on his opposite knee, his expression bordering on insolence.

  Weston tried to shake the feeling that he was being manipulated. First by Tessa on the phone and now by this silent man with his eagle-sharp eyes, black jeans, faded T-shirt, and lightweight jacket that had seen better days. He wore cowboy boots with worn heels and an attitude of arrogance that rankled Weston, rankled him to the marrow of his bones. The guy’s nose had been busted more than once from the looks of it, and there were white scars on the tanned skin of his hands, probably from fistfights or knife fights in his younger years. Styles was tough, lean, and, if the confidence that surrounded him was to be believed, knew his own strengths and weaknesses.

  A man Weston didn’t want against him, at least not until he found out more about the quiet stranger. Somehow he had to figure out Styles’s flaws, so that they could be used against him. But the guy didn’t seem to have a past; it was as if Denver Styles had landed on Dutch Holland’s doorstep by an act of magic.

  But Weston wasn’t about to be derailed. He’d find out the truth about Styles even if the guy had come straight from the portals of Hades. Everyone had a past, and those who hid theirs so well probably had some ugly little secrets they didn’t want exposed. Perfect. Come hell or high water, Weston was determined to find out just what it was that made Styles tick, and what skeletons were hidden in his closets. Weston didn’t like being at a disadvantage. Ever.

  “What is it you’re doing for Dutch?”

  Styles tossed back half his glass of scotch as his gaze flicked around the polished wood of the cabin. As if he were assessing every tiny detail. “Is it any of your business?”

  “Could be.” Weston grinned in a way that usually put people at ease. Styles obviously wasn’t buying it. “I think you’re here for damage control.”

  One dark eyebrow rose, encouraging him.

  “The way I figure it, Dutch is planning to announce his candidacy for the governorship, but he wants to clean house a little before he meets the press. He doesn’t want any surprises, no scandals or skeletons jumping out of closets that he doesn’t know about. He’s having enough trouble with Moran and his book. He doesn’t need anything else to sidetrack him or derail the campaign.”

  No comment from Styles. Just those intense eyes, unblinking and silently charging him with any number of crimes. The guy gave Weston the creeps. No doubt he was good at his job, whatever the hell it really was.

  “What is it you want, Taggert?”

  The question surprised Weston. He didn’t expect Styles to be so direct.

  “Well, you know that the Hollands and my family aren’t exactly buddy-buddies.”

  Styles swirled his drink slowly as the sailboat gently swayed against its mooring. Outside the sound of a muted foghorn bellowed in the distance.

  “In fact there’s been this feud going on for years, and, believe it or not, I think it’s good for the company,” Weston added. “You know I believe that a little honest competition stimulates the economy.”

  “Honest competition?” Styles’s expression was mocking, as if Weston was wasting his breath because he didn’t believe a word of Weston’s speech. “Don’t bullshit me.”

  “Well, honest for the most part.”

  “You’ve stolen most of Holland’s key employees.”

  “Hey, they were unhappy. Wanted more money.”

  “And you probably have a few spies over at Dutch’s place.” Styles’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Don’t try to snow me, okay? This isn’t about competition, this is some kind of vendetta, and it works two ways.”

  Christ, the guy had more information than he should have. Weston started to sweat. Styles would be a much better ally than enemy. “I was thinking you might want to cut yourself a better deal than the one you’ve got with Dutch.”

  “With you?”

  Weston nodded thoughtfully, his gaze centered on Styles, searching for any sort of reaction. There was none.

  “Doing what?”

  “Nothing more than you are now.”

  Slowly Styles sipped from his glass. He didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of emotion. As if he had nerves of steel. Hell, Weston would never want to come up against him in a poker game.

  “All I want is for you to do whatever it is you’re doing for Dutch and report back to me.”

  The hint of a smile—hard-edged and sardonic—twisted Styles’s thin lips. Outside a buoy clanged. “So now we’re finally down to it.”

  “It could be worth your while.”

  “What makes you think I can be bought?”

  “Everyone’s got a price.” Weston was getting a little more comfortable. The liquor was warming his blood, making him bolder, and now he was on solid turf, dickering about money for favors, an area he’d traveled many times before. Styles wasn’t bolting for the door, wasn’t even spitting out righteously indignant epithets against him for suggesting that he could be bought. Oh, no. The man was still sitting, sipping his damned scotch and contemplating his options. Good.

  “I’ll pay you whatever it is you’re getting from Dutch, so you’ll be making double the money, but you’ll have to report it to two people.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Well, I might ask you to keep some information from good ol’ Benedict.”

  “No deal.”

  Weston’s head snapped up. He’d been so certain Styles would swallow the bait.

  “I’m not interested in pissing off ‘good ol’ Benedict.’”

  “He won’t find out.”

  “No?” Styles’s grin grew sterner and his fingers tightened around his glass, showing white knuckles under his tanned skin. “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why not?”

  “If I sign on with you and you make it known, I’m out of a job.”

  “I won’t breathe a word. This is just between you and me.”

  “Is it?” Styles’s eyes sparked with an intensity that scared Weston. Who was this guy? Lucifer incarnate? “As I asked before, why should I trust you?”

  “Because I wouldn’t pay you a shitload of money just to blow your cover.”

  “And what’s a shitload?”

  So he was listening. Weston felt an evil bit of glee. Denver Styles was out for number one. Just like everyone in this whole damned world. “I said I’d—”

  “Not interested.”

  “So what if I double it—no, triple it?” Weston was anxious to get down to serious business. Any amount of money was insignificant. “Whatever Dutch is paying you, I’ll pay three times.”

  “Up front?” Those intense eyes didn’t leave Weston’s face. “Three hundred grand.”

  “A hundred grand to begin with. The rest later.”

  Styles’s jaw worked as he thought.

  “And for that I’d want to know whatever it is you’re checking into for Dutch, and I’ll want information about his new project—the next phase of Stone Illahee.”

  “That’s pretty much common knowledge—just check the county records. He’s adding on to the original tract, going to build another smaller lodge with a golf course, tennis courts, the whole ball of wax.”

  “Where?”

  “About half a mile inland from the main building.”

  Weston felt a tremor of dread. He’d been expecting this, but had hoped his information was wrong, that Dutch had found a safer, more scenic spot for his newest construction project. Hell, even the best-laid plans . . .

  “The county’s already approved the site. Excavation starts this week.” Styles was staring at him again, as if he were trying to read Weston’s mind.

  “So soon. Jesus.” He reached for his cigarettes and felt sweat collect on his forehead. Be cool, he t
old himself. There wasn’t a problem yet. But he had trouble flicking his lighter to the tip of his Marlboro. All his perfectly laid plans could be destroyed with one swipe of the bulldozer’s scoop. Stay calm. You’re borrowing trouble. “Well, do we have a deal?”

  Styles paused, his jaw hard, his muscles tense, as if he thought he was actually bargaining with the devil instead of the other way around.

  “You could be a rich man when this is over,” Weston prodded.

  “Or a dead man.”

  We both could be, Weston thought, but didn’t say it. Instead he offered Styles his hand.

  Denver nearly sneered, but he wasn’t man enough to walk away. Excellent. “All right, Taggert,” he finally said, standing but refusing Weston’s handshake. “You’ve got yourself a deal. But if word of this leaks out, you’ll be sorry.”

  “Will I?”

  “I’ll rake up enough muck on your family to drown you in it. From what I’ve uncovered already, it looks like the Taggerts aren’t any purer than the Hollands. In fact, I’m not sure the reverse isn’t true.” His eyes narrowed, and his lips flattened in some kind of superior attitude. “You’re dirty, Taggert, and we both know it, so don’t double-cross me.”

  “Is that a threat?” Weston couldn’t believe his ears. This lowlife thug was actually trying to scare him?

  “I’m just advising you. Take it anyway you want.” He walked to the door and didn’t turn around. “I’ll expect cash. One hundred thousand. In three days.”

  Weston watched him leave and tried to convince himself that the guy was all talk and no action. Another blowhard. But Styles did walk with authority, could stare down a jaguar, and had a few scars to prove that he’d spent some time on the streets. Weston wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his slacks. He only hoped that his gut instincts were right, and that he hadn’t just made the worst mistake of his life.