by Lisa Jackson
And so she would.
“Hiya!” She yanked on the reins. Turning the horse toward the lodge, she pressed hard with her knees and urged the mare into a gallop. For some reason she felt as if she was running out of time, that if she didn’t reach Kane soon and tell him the truth, all hell would break loose.
The last person Weston expected to find at his office was Tessa Holland, but here she was, seated on the couch, her shapely legs crossed, a cigarette burning in one hand. Somehow she’d sneaked by his Nazi of a receptionist, but Weston didn’t mind. She was still as sexy as ever in her tight white sweater and short black skirt. He felt his cock quiver and silently damned his overactive sex drive, which forever got him into trouble. Serious trouble.
“Tessa,” he said, hoping to sound casual as he propped his butt against the corner of his desk and clasped his hands over one knee. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“I thought it was time to come clean.”
“You?”
“No. You.” She took a puff from her cigarette and let a cloud of smoke rise from her mouth. “You’ve heard they found Hunter Riley’s body at the excavation site for the next phase of Stone Illahee?”
He had to be careful here. Obviously she knew more than he thought. “I heard they found a body, one assumed to be Riley because of some ring he wore, but that there wouldn’t be a positive ID until dental records were examined and reviewed.”
“Just a matter of time.” She cocked her head to one side and eyed him in a way that made him want to squirm. “You did it, Weston,” she said. “We all know it, because you lied about having him on the payroll in Canada.” She clucked her tongue. “You know, I thought you were smarter than that.”
“So you came here to what—? Accuse me of being a murderer?” He laughed. “Come on, Tessa. Lighten up. The way I remember it, we had some good times together. Isn’t that really why you’re here, why you came over?”
“In your dreams. I just wanted to play with you.”
“Tessa, baby—”
“The way I remember it, we had some bad times,” she said, her blue eyes widening a bit. “Like the time you beat me and forced me to go down on you.”
“Now, I don’t—”
“And then there was the time that you raped Miranda. Remember that? She miscarried. Did you know?” Tessa rose to her feet and strode close enough to Weston that she could poke him in the chest with the two fingers holding her Virginia Slim. She seemed empowered and hell-bent for vengeance, no longer a scared little girl. “You were so brutal with her that she lost the baby. And I was so weak, so damned worthless, that I couldn’t even get up and help her. I should have killed you then, Weston, and saved the state the trouble when they find you guilty of Hunter Riley’s death.”
“I didn’t—”
“Then you know who did.” She let ash drop onto his carpet. “You’d better get yourself a damned good lawyer, Taggert, because you’re going to need it.”
“You have no proof of anything you’re saying,” he replied, cool on the outside while his guts turned to water. “And who would believe you? How many shrinks have you seen in the last fifteen years? Five? Ten? And wasn’t there some rumor about you having sex with one of your therapists? Christ, Tessa, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just another deluded psycho.”
She didn’t back down an inch. “And what about Jack Songbird? You know they found his knife by Hunter’s body.” She smiled strangely, her lush lips stretching under a sheen of red lipstick. Tapping her head as if she just came upon a thought, she asked, “Didn’t I see you with that knife—you remember, right after your car was vandalized?”
Weston was starting to sweat, but he was too used to this game to break down. “You are deluded, aren’t you?”
“You’re going down, Taggert, and it’s about time. I just wanted you to know that I can’t wait to testify, not only about the knife, but about everything else as well. I’ve got nothing to lose and you know what, it feels good.”
Weston laughed even though he felt like strangling her. “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide. Why would I want to kill Riley or Songbird?”
“Good question, but you know,” she said, grinding out her cigarette in a brass tray on the table near the couch. “The cops are good at finding motives. Oh,” she stopped as if she’d just had another thought, though her timing was so impeccable he was certain this was all a show. “I suppose you know that your business is being investigated as well.”
His stomach knotted. “Investigated?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure which branch of the government is checking you out—the IRS or the state department of revenue or whatever, but you’d better hope your records are all in order.” Clutching her purse in one hand, she walked to the door. “I came by with the good news because I figured I owed you one for everything you’ve done to me and my family.” She blew him a kiss and reached for the doorknob. “See you in court.”
Then she was gone, breezing out of the room and leaving the scents of smoke and expensive perfume. She was bluffing; she had to be. Or did she hate him so much that she’d humiliate herself by testifying? Wasn’t there a statute of limitations on rape and assault or . . . had that changed? As for murder . . . Think, Taggert. Think. You’ve been in tighter spots than this; there’s got to be a way out of this!
He rounded the desk and sat in his chair. His heart was hammering and sweat stood out all over his body. He thought he might lose control of his bowels for a second, but the feeling passed as he realized he had an ace up his sleeve. All he needed to do was get rid of Tessa. And Sean as well. The kid was Harley’s son, a threat to the inheritance, and so he’d have to be taken care of. Weston had worked too long and hard and taken more than one life in his pursuit of more and more of the Taggert fortune. Only Paige was left to rival him for her share of the wealth, but he’d never been able to get rid of her. He needed her to take care of the old man, and there was something about Paige, an edge to her that he saw in the superior lift of her chin or the glint in her eye, that warned him she could be very dangerous. Though she’d never said as much, he was certain she knew everything vile he’d ever done, cataloged the act, and waited to use it against him.
He reached for the desk phone, thought better of it and found his cell in his briefcase. He snapped the phone open. With practiced fingers he dialed Denver Styles, reached an answering machine, and left a message for Styles to meet him later that evening.
Never in her life had Claire been to the little cabin across the lake. She’d known Kane had lived there, even roared by the place while boating, but she’d never stopped, and her relationship with Kane had been so short and fierce before he’d joined the army that there hadn’t been time. Besides, in those days, Kane was always looking for excuses to leave the house and his drunk of a father rather than stay in.
Now, as she drove to the parking area next to the house, she felt her heart pound. Kane’s Jeep was in the drive and she’d have to face him and tell him he was a father. No more lies. Her fingers were wet with sweat, and she found a thousand excuses to put the inevitable off, but she couldn’t. It was time.
She walked up the front steps as Kane opened the screen door. “Looking for me?” he asked, and he seemed more distant than he ever had. He didn’t hold her or kiss her or even offer her much of a smile, but he was still as handsome as ever, as virile, and a part of her wanted to throw her arms around his neck, kiss him and never let go.
“We need to talk.”
A gold eyebrow lifted in interest. “About?” he asked casually, but she noticed an undertone of something . . . condemnation? . . . in his voice.
“A lot of things.”
His mouth was a hard line, his eyes guarded as he held the door open for her and she ventured inside. The place was clean, aside from his work area that was strewn with papers, pens, files, and paper clips, as well as his computer. She felt him standing behind her, waiting, and she tried to find the words to make h
im understand. “There’s . . . something you need to know.” She was shaking inside. How long had she waited for this moment? Dreamed of it? Feared it? And now the words stuck in her throat. Sixteen years of lies. Sixteen. Until she sometimes doubted the truth.
“Turn around, Claire,” he said, touching her on the shoulders, gently rotating her so that she was forced to look into his eyes.
“This is hard.” She cleared her throat. “It’s . . . it’s about Sean.”
Kane’s lips tightened a fraction. “He’s not Paul’s son.”
“What? No, but—” Oh God, he knew!
“He’s mine.”
The words seemed to echo through her brain, and yet there was nothing but silence in the room. Was it condemnation she saw in his eyes or just plain anger? “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I—I couldn’t. By the time I knew, I was married, Paul had agreed to claim the baby as his own and I thought . . . I mean, until Sean was three or four months, I believed . . .” Tears filled her eyes, shame colored her cheeks.
“You thought he was Taggert’s.”
“Yes.” Her voice shook. “I—I—oh, Kane, I’m so sorry.” Never had truer words been spoken. How she rued all the deception, all the time that had been lost.
She stepped into his arms and felt him stiffen.
“I thought the baby was Harley’s. All through my pregnancy and during the first few months of his life, I believed that Sean’s father was dead, that there could never be any kind of reconciliation and then . . . as the months and years went by it was obvious that he was your boy, but I got pregnant with Sam and it was just easier to pretend that we were a happy, normal family.” She blinked against the hot tears invading her eyes. “Of course we weren’t.”
A shudder ran through his body and something inside him seemed to crack. His arms, so distant a second before, wrapped tightly around her body, holding her close, as if possessing her, body and soul. “It’s all right,” he said against her hair, and her knees sagged. What had she done to deserve his understanding? He kissed her crown, and she let out a cracked little sob.
“I love you,” she said, and he held her even more fiercely.
“I love you.” His hands reached up and turned her face up to meet his. “I knew about Sean.”
She froze. “You did?”
“I found out yesterday.”
“What?” Dear God, he’d known and he’d let her humiliate herself, grovel at his feet? She tried to pull away, but he held her close, forcing her head against his shoulder.
“I got a copy of his birth certificate.”
“Oh, no—” She wanted to die a thousand deaths.
“At first I thought he was Taggert’s boy, and then, as I thought about it, he looked too much like my family. The blood type matches. I checked.”
“I didn’t know until it was too late, and then I thought it would be best for him to think that Paul was his natural father since we were married.” She sniffed. “Another mistake.”
“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, surprising her. How she wanted to believe him, to trust him.
“I don’t see how.”
“I want you to marry me, Claire,” he said, looking down at her and offering just the hint of a smile. “We’ve lost a lot of time, but I think it could still be good. For all of us.”
Stunned, she stared up at him. Marriage? He wanted marriage? “But Sean and Samantha—”
“Will both be my children.”
“I don’t think . . . I mean . . . Kane, you’re writing a book about Harley.” This was all happening too fast. Or was. Sixteen years was a long time to right a wrong.
“It’s over. I have a confession to make.” He led her to the sofa, and they sank upon it together. Once seated, he placed an arm around her shoulders and told her about the night before, how he’d jogged around the lake intending to confront her about Sean and then, when he’d overheard the sisters’ conversation, been unable to tear himself away from it.
“I shouldn’t have stuck around and eavesdropped,” he said, guilt obviously still eating at him. She was rocked again to think he’d overheard her private conversation, Miranda’s grief and Tessa’s chilling confession. “But I couldn’t leave. Believe me, your secret is safe with me.”
“Nothing’s safe anymore.” That was the one certainty in life.
“Shh.”
He kissed her and tasted the salt of her tears. “Just trust me, Claire.”
“I do.” She shuddered against him and gave out a tiny sigh of surrender. How long had she waited to hear him utter those words? There had been a time when she would never have thought they could ever be together.
“Be my wife.”
“I—I will,” she promised through her tears. “I will.”
Weston adjusted the jib and the sail snapped in the breeze. He’d put in a call to Denver Styles, requested a private meeting, and now they were alone on the Stephanie, tacking toward shore. As he guided the sleek boat, Weston wondered just how far Styles could be trusted. The greedy son of a bitch would do just about anything for the right amount of money, Weston was sure of it, and as far as he could discern, Styles had no scruples whatsoever. Styles was a rogue private investigator of sorts with possible ties to the underworld.
“I’ve got a problem,” Weston admitted, steering into the wind.
“What kind?” Styles flicked his damned gaze in Weston’s direction.
“One I’m hoping you’ll help me solve.”
“Maybe.”
“I need some people to . . . disappear.”
The wind kicked Styles’s hair across his face, but he didn’t change expression, just stared at Weston with those gunmetal gray eyes.
“What do you mean ‘disappear’?”
“As in leave permanently.”
Styles rubbed his jaw. “You want them killed.”
Lifting a shoulder, Weston said, “That would be the easiest, I think. An accident up on 101 where the road curves high above the sea—the guardrail could be weakened and the car could be forced off the road. It would plunge off the cliffs and end up in the ocean.”
Styles’s jaw tightened nearly imperceptibly. “And who would be in the car?”
“Tessa Holland and her nephew, Sean St. John.”
“What if I say ‘no’?”
“There’s a lot of money involved.”
Styles hesitated, and Weston knew right then and there that he had him. The bastard was certainly money-motivated. “How much?”
“Half a million. All you have to do is find a way to abduct them, pour a little liquor down Tessa’s throat, maybe the boy’s as well, he’s a troublemaker, and I’ll bet has already emptied his share of beer bottles. After they’re inebriated put them both in Tessa’s car, and while everyone else is at the party tomorrow night, the one where Dutch is going to announce his candidacy for the governorship, they have an accident.”
“So you’ll have an alibi.” There wasn’t a trace of inflection in Denver’s voice.
“Bingo.” Weston turned the sailboat into the channel leading to the bay. “What d’ya say?”
“Five hundred thousand?”
“That’s right. A hundred up front.”
The flinty eyes sparked and there was only the slightest hint of hesitation, or twinge of conscience. Then the hard-edged smile that stretched from one side of his mouth to the other. “It’s a deal, Taggert,” he said. “But I’ll want to be paid tomorrow night as soon as the party’s over. Then I’m outta here. You’ll never hear from me again.”
“All the better,” Weston said, deciding that he liked the man’s style. “All the better.”
Thirty-two
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Claire said when Sean stormed into the house. He’d been gone a lot lately, still angry about moving to Oregon. Though he hadn’t been caught stealing again, he’d been hanging around some kids she didn’t trust, coming in late, and mouthing o
ff. Oftentimes he smelled of cigarettes and beer, though she’d never caught him red-handed or drunk.
He was heading up the stairs to his room.
“What?” Belligerent, he turned on her, then noticed her cream-colored dress. “Oh, shit. You think I’m going to that damned party, don’t you?”
“It’s Grandpa’s big night.”
“Grandpa can go suck pondwater for all I care. He’s a manipulative bastard.”
“Sean!”
“Well, he is. Besides, I’ve got plans.”
“With whom?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course. But this party isn’t something you can ditch out of.”
“Sure I can. Grandpa doesn’t care if I’m there. He doesn’t like me anyway.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I can tell by the way he looks at me.”
“You’re paranoid,” Samantha said as she skipped down the stairs in her new dress. Made of rose-colored silk, it swished as she passed.
“Yeah and you’re a—”
“Let’s not get into this now, okay? We don’t have time. Come into the kitchen, Sean, there’s something we’ve got to talk about.” It’s now or never, she told herself. Too many people knew that Sean wasn’t Paul’s son. It was time for him to know the truth.
“If anyone says I’ve been swiping things, it’s a big lie—”
“Samantha, we need to be alone for a few minutes,” Claire said, and Sam nodded as she flitted outside to the front porch. “Don’t get dirty.”
“I won’t. Don’t worry.” The screen door slammed behind her.
Claire followed her son into the kitchen and watched as he rummaged in the refrigerator before plopping onto a stool at the counter with a can of Coke and a piece of cold chicken. His eyes were distrustful, his hair hung in his face, his expression was one of irritation, and yet she loved this boy with all her heart. “There’s something I want you to know. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”
