Whispers (22 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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On trembling legs she sat in her desk chair. This couldn't be happening, not to her, not to the girl who had her life planned so carefully. She clenched her fists and thought about a baby . . .
a baby,
for the love of God. It wasn't just the shame of being pregnant, it was the rest of it as well, that she would bear a child. Hunter's child. She rested her head in her hands and it felt incredibly heavy. “Help me,” she whispered.
What would that mean for college? Graduate school? Her dreams of becoming a lawyer?
Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to cry. This was a new person she was thinking about, a part of her and a part of Hunter. A tiny human being growing deep inside her. A baby! Unclenching her fists, she rubbed her flat abdomen, and, through the tears that she couldn't fight, she gave way to romantic fantasies of marrying Hunter, having the baby, and still going to school. So she'd have to work and Hunter, his dreams of owning his own ranch would be put on hold, but just because they were having a child, didn't mean it was the end of the world.
No, in fact, it might just be the beginning.
Still, she was scared to death. She would take an in-home pregnancy test, then if it showed positive, make an appointment at the local county hospital, find out for certain if this was a false alarm, then give the news to Hunter. How would he take it, she wondered, knowing how he felt about his own father—well, stepfather really.
Hunter Riley wasn't Dan's biological son as everyone seemed to think. No, Dan Riley had married Hunter's mother when Hunter was barely two years old. He remembered no other man in his life nor had Dan treated him any differently than if he'd been his own flesh and blood.
Hunter had confessed to Miranda that he didn't think he had another father, that no man could take the place of Dan Riley; therefore, he'd never try to find out who had sired him. That secret had been kept by his mother to her dying day, when Hunter was nearing his twelfth birthday and ovarian cancer had claimed her. At her funeral in the small Presbyterian church just outside of town, he'd half-expected some middle-aged guy to step up to him and claim that he was Hunter's natural father, but it hadn't happened, and, apparently, Hunter's biological dad didn't know he existed or just didn't give a damn. Either way, Hunter, didn't really care.
Miranda stood, walked to the window and opened it wide enough to let in the breeze. The smell of roses and honeysuckle mingled to drift up to her.
What if Hunter didn't want to marry her? What if his dreams were more important than she was, more important than having a child of his own? What if he insisted upon an abortion? Holding on to the window casing for support, she swallowed hard and realized that she knew so little about him, much too little to think of marriage.
And yet she loved him. Things would work out; they always did. She rubbed her belly and smiled. Corny as it sounded, maybe a baby was just what they needed.
 
 
“What's this?” Paige asked, her eyes bright as Kendall handed her a foil box with a big pink ribbon.
“A surprise.”
“But it's not my birthday or Christmas or anything.”
“I know,” Kendall said, taking a seat on the desk chair and linking her fingers over one knee. “I just saw something I thought you'd like. Go ahead. Open it.” Paige's smile was pathetic, just like this cloying room with its canopied bed and matching dresser, vanity, and desk. White with gold trim, pink rosebuds and gingham, lace trim on everything. For what? This oddball of a girl.
Smiling widely, Paige tore open the box, tossing aside the ribbon and tissue paper until she found the prize deep inside—a silver charm bracelet with a single charm—a cat with a curled tail—dangling from the tiny links. “Oh, my,” she whispered, holding the damned thing to her eyes and watching as the kitten swayed rhythmically in front of her nose. For a second Kendall thought the pathetic girl might hypnotize herself. “It's beautiful.”
“It's nothing.”
“Oh, no, Kendall,” Paige said, clutching the bracelet as if it were made of huge diamonds and holding it over her heart. “It's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.”
“It's just a bracelet.”
Paige shook her head and swallowed hard. She blinked as tears filled her eyes. “It's much more than that. Thank you.”
“Don't thank me, just be happy with it,” Kendall said, but she was really thinking the kid's reaction was all wrong. Hadn't anyone ever been kind to her? This rich child of Neal Taggert, the only daughter who wore gawd-awful braces and had endured rhinoplasty to ensure her beauty had to have been spoiled rotten. Surely Paige had received tons of gifts over the years.
“This is special because you gave it to me,” Paige explained as she placed the links over her thick wrist and locked the clasp. “Not because you had to, but because you wanted to.”
Kendall felt worse than ever. She had hoped to find a way to secure Paige's loyalty, of course, but she didn't want to be in a position of breaking the girl's heart. Guilt weighed heavily on her shoulders. “It's not that big a deal.”
Paige's eyes were filled with adoration. “I wish you were going to be my sister-in-law instead of that stupid Holland girl,” she said, as if she'd read Kendall's mind. Perhaps the kid was sharper than she looked.
“Me, too, but there's not much I can do. Harley wants her.”
“Harley's stupid.”
“You know I love him.”
“Oh, I know.” Paige nodded her head sagely, lank strands of hair moving against her shoulders. “And she doesn't. Not the way you love him.”
“She couldn't.” Kendall ran a finger over the edge of Paige's desk, along the gold trim. “If I could convince him, I would, but, believe me, I've tried everything.”
“He just needs to spend more time with you and less with her.” Paige walked over to the mirror and studied her wrist in the reflection, watching the silver cat dance in the sunlight. “I wish she would leave.”
“That won't happen.” Kendall sighed longingly.
“Then I wish she had the same kind of accident that Jack had.”
“Jack Songbird?” A chill as cold as death itself climbed up Kendall's spine. Sometimes Harley's little sister was downright creepy.
“Yeah.” Paige lifted her eyes to meet Kendall's horrified gaze in the mirror. “He died.”
“I know.”
“So he won't bother anybody anymore.”
“I didn't think . . . I mean I don't think he bothered anyone.”
“He stole from the mill.”
“What?” Kendall's throat was suddenly tight. She had hoped to steer the conversation to Claire and suggest that Paige do a little spying on her or talking with that nitwit of a younger sister of Claire's to dig up some dirt.
No one
could be as lily-white as Claire Holland pretended to be, but somehow the discussion had taken a new and decidedly dangerous turn. Anxiously, she licked her lips and wondered how she could make a quick exit. Paige wasn't just weird, she was borderline psychotic.
“So God punished Jack for taking money from Daddy.”
“Surely you don't believe that.” Kendall was horrified.
“Why not? It's what they teach in Sunday school and everybody dies someday anyway.” Paige tilted her head and studied the ceiling. “Yeah, I think it would be a good idea if Claire died.”
“She's
not
going to die. She's seventeen, for crying out loud. People don't just keel over at that age.”
“Jack did,” Paige said philosophically as she stretched and reached for her favorite stuffed animal, a huge panda bear with sad eyes. “Well, he was a little older, but not much.” She looked at the shiny cat with eyes that made Kendall shiver as Paige stroked the bear's wide head. “Claire could die, too, you know.” She nodded to herself. “You just have to want it bad enough and pray real hard.”
Seventeen
With a click of his lighter, Weston lit a cigarette and wondered why he'd agreed to meet Tessa here, only a stone's throw away from her house, in the middle of the night. It was almost as if she loved tempting fate, becoming bolder with each of their clandestine meetings. He should break it off with her, she was a little too offbeat for him, but he liked the idea of screwing one of Dutch's daughters—even if it was the wrong one.
He paced along the shore of the lake, screened only by a hedge of arborvitae that ran from one end of the garage to the dock, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as if he was being watched by unseen eyes.
Gossamer clouds drifted over the moon, allowing only a weak light, but still he could see the outline of the lodge nestled in the trees, the garage, gardens, and stone paths and steps leading in different directions through the fir and pine. The lake was smooth, and mirror-dark. Overhead he heard the rustle of bats' wings. He checked his watch. She was late. Christ, this was a mistake.
Just then he heard light, hurried footsteps and squashed his cigarette. Peering through the lacy branches of the arborvitae, he watched as a woman ran toward him, her bare feet skimming the stones. He nearly called out, only to open his mouth and remain silent. It wasn't Tessa who was racing through the night but her older sister Miranda.
Long dark hair caught by a white ribbon streamed behind and she was breathing heavily.
Weston's heart pounded and his mouth felt as if it had turned to cotton. She was wearing a gauzy white dress, maybe her nightgown, that billowed and showed off her slim legs.
A low whistle caused her steps to falter, and then she sped down a path toward the lake.
Weston couldn't help himself. He followed. Darting between the trees, watching her gauzy dress flash in the darkness, he kept a short distance behind her and tried to quiet the desire that thudded in his temples. God, she was beautiful. She paused at the beach, moonlight playing upon her face.
Weston stopped behind a Douglas fir and swallowed hard as a man appeared—a tall muscular man, who, without a word, took Miranda into his arms and kissed her long and hard. She moaned, and Weston's blood thundered.
He recognized the guy. Hunter Riley. Son of the goddamned caretaker. Wearing only low-slung jeans, he kissed Miranda until her knees gave way and they tumbled into the sand. “Randa,” Riley growled, his fingers plucking at the buttons on the front of her dress. “My beautiful Miranda.” As the dress parted, exposing her lush, bare breasts, Weston felt his erection stiffen, and it was all he could do not to touch himself.
Like a sicko voyeur, he watched Hunter caress and kiss those breasts, sucking with deep, satisfied grunts.
Bastard!
Who was he—a nobody, and yet he was touching the one woman Weston couldn't possess.
Riley yanked down the dress and Weston clamped hard on his teeth to suppress a groan. Her supple long legs were slowly exposed and that glorious nest of black curls at the juncture of her thighs caught in the moonlight. Riley buried his head in her abdomen and her fingers tangled in his hair as he moved ever lower, tasting and touching. Weston's breathing became shallow. He should look away, take his eyes off the erotic picture before him, but he couldn't, and his hands slipped the zipper of his fly downward to delve into his pants where he stroked his own throbbing erection, wishing he was riding that warm piece of flesh that was Miranda Holland.
Hunter kicked off his jeans and parted her legs. Weston bit down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out.
Her sounds were soft and eager, she was clinging to her lover, arching up against him, making love to him like the pure, sexual animal Weston had always thought her to be. His fingers moved ever faster as Hunter threw back his head and let out a long cry of triumph.
Weston cringed as Riley, sweating like a pig, fell upon her, holding her close, crushing those magnificent breasts. He whispered something into her ear then lifted his head for a second, and his eyes, dark in the night, seemed to stare straight at Weston. That was impossible, of course, he couldn't be seen in the shadows of the fir trees, and yet Hunter seemed to have Weston in his sights.
Weston's breath stilled in his lungs. Sweat trickled down his neck. He slid his hand out of his pants.
Miranda said something and Hunter turned his attention back to the long-legged, beautiful woman lying beneath him. Desire thudded through Weston's brain as he slowly picked his way back up the path. He stumbled once, his shoe crashing into a tangle of roots, his face slapped by fine-needled branches, but eventually he found his way to the dock.
His heart nearly stopped when he spied Tessa on the edge of the pier, her feet dragging through the water less than two hundred yards from where her sister was lying naked on the beach.
She turned as he approached and he noticed the tracks of tears drizzling from her eyes. “Enjoy the show?” she asked, her voice a harsh whisper that probably echoed over the lake.
“Let's get out of here.”
“What is it with you?” she demanded. “Why do you keep seeing me when you really want her?”
“Who?”
She shoved her hair away from her face. “Don't be stupid. I have eyes, you know. I can tell that you want Miranda. I only wished I understood your fascination with her.”
He didn't argue, and she didn't break down.
“She's in love with Hunter, you know.” Struggling to her feet, Tessa dusted her hands and sniffed back any trace of tears. She had pride, if nothing else. “I don't know why, but Miranda thinks the earth, moon, and stars revolve around him.” She wiped the back of her hand under her nose and squared her small shoulders. When Weston tried to touch her, she backed away quickly, nearly slipping off the pier. “Who would have thought? The ice princess—hot for the caretaker's son.” Her smile was cold and direct as she stared into Weston's eyes. “Hurts, doesn't it?”
“Tessa,” he said, reaching for her wrist.
She yanked her hand away. “Don't touch me,” she snapped, drawing back and slapping him. Smack. The sound echoed over the water. “I won't be used like a two-dollar whore. Go back to Crystal if all you want is a quick fuck.”
Weston's temper flared. “Hey—wait a minute,” he ordered, grabbing her around her small waist. What was going on here? Tessa, who had always been so willing to please, was suddenly turning on him, showing him more fire than he'd seen in weeks. She was fighting him as he dragged her along the shore of the lake, down a path far from Miranda, away from the lodge.
“Let me go, you bastard!” Her heels dug into the dirt and caught on exposed roots. With a sickening rip, her blouse caught on a branch and tore.
“Why?”
“Because it's over!” She struggled and he held tighter, feeling a heat in his groin that was sparked by the fight.
“It's over when I say so.”
“Leave me alone, Weston, or I swear—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and felt her teeth sink into his palm. But he didn't so much as flinch. Let her struggle all she wanted. Right now she was his. Anger fueled his passion, fury caused his dick to rise and heat. She was scared now, he could feel the change in her body, the tension. The smell of fear reached his nostrils and he thought he could easily come in his jeans. “Don't you know that no one messes with me, Tessa? Haven't you figured that one out yet?”
Her body coiled and she struck out, twisting so that her knee connected with his groin. Pain exploded in his crotch. His breath expelled in a rush.
“You bitch,” he wheezed, shaking her. “You goddamned bitch! Now you're going to pay!” Doubled over, he dragged her over stones, past berry vines that clung and clawed, over fallen logs to a clearing where his car was parked. He was sweating and breathing hard, but they were far enough away from Dutch's house that even if she was stupid enough to scream, no one would hear her. She wouldn't win. No matter what.
With one hand he reached into his pocket and found Jack Songbird's knife. With a click it was open, and he held it in front of her eyes. “Don't do something stupid and you won't get hurt.”
He let go and she spit on him as she tried to stumble away. “You're asking for trouble,” she hissed.
“Me? Looks like you're the one who needs help.”
“I'm not afraid of you, Weston,” she said with enough bravado to almost convince him. But her voice shook a bit and she couldn't take her eyes off his newfound weapon. “In fact I—I think you're pathetic!” She was sweating, and her perfume teased his nostrils. She turned as if to walk away, and he lunged. Her scream, before he held the knife to her throat, was a tiny squeak.
“Let me go, you cocksucker.”
“No way, Tessa. We had a date, remember?” Holding her firmly against him with both arms, he felt her spine against his chest, her round butt wriggling against his fly as she struggled. Her breasts heaved against his arm, and her breath was hot as dragon's fire.
“Let me go, damn it.”
He smelled her fear and it turned him on. She was a hellcat. He licked the skin at her hairline and she flung her head back, hoping to wound him. Silly bitch. “Careful, darling.” He nipped at her salty skin.
Tessa cried out.
“That was for the slap.” She trembled, and he loved the feeling of power it gave him, the feeling that he could control her, use her as his personal slave. “Now, you're going to do exactly what I want, bitch, and you're not going to stop until I say it's time. Get down on your knees.”
He shoved her to the ground and held the knife up as if he could throw it at any second. “Now, beautiful, unzip my pants.”
“No—”
He grabbed a handful of her hair and sliced it off.
“Ahhh!”
Yellow strands fell to the ground. “Now. Unzip my pants and go down on me like a good little girl.”
“Go find Miranda. She's the one you want,” she said bravely though her eyes were round with fear, her lips trembling.
“She's busy.”
“What do you care? You like making it with more than one girl at a time.”
“She'll have her turn.”
Suddenly she leapt upward and swung at him, her fingernails raking down his cheek.
“Shit!” His entire face stung. He shoved her back to the ground. “No more games, bitch,” he said, as blood dripped to his shoulder. “Open my pants and—”
“I loathe you.”
“Do you? Too bad. Now, you've got no choice and if you so much as touch me with your teeth . . . I'll retaliate.”
“No you won't,” she said, with sudden insight as she stood in front of him. “You're not going to kill me, or even wound me,” she said, “because you'd get caught. Even without a trace of evidence my father would hunt you down like a dog. People have seen us together and now—” she wiggled her fingers with their dirtied, bloodied nails in front of his eyes, “—there'll be traces of your blood on my hands.”
His heart stopped for a second.
Tessa's smile was pure evil. “If you make me do anything I don't want to do, and I mean
anything,
I'll tell my father and swear out a complaint at the police department. You'll be arrested for . . . for trespassing, and . . . and assault and statutory rape.”
He didn't believe her. “You wouldn't—”
“You bastard, I'd kill you before I ever let you touch me again.”
He reached forward and she slapped his hand away. “You'll go to jail, Weston. My father will see to it.” She looked at him with her jaw set and anger burning in her eyes. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her blouse torn, and she stared at him as if she'd like nothing better than to shred him to ribbons with her bare hands.
“Jesus, you wouldn't.”
“Watch me,” she warned, her eyes glinting like those of a wounded animal. Weston remembered a possum he'd trapped and how the beast had snarled, showing off razor-sharp teeth before Weston put him out of his misery.
“Leave,” she ordered. She wasn't joking.
Every muscle in his body screamed to lunge at her, to throw her on the ground and tear off her clothes, but he wasn't stupid enough to make that kind of a mistake. Not now. She was, whether he liked it or not, jailbait.
Later,
he told himself, he'd deal with her later. “When it was safer, and she didn't have the upper hand. He clicked the knife shut and climbed into his car. In a squeal of wheels, he roared off, bouncing onto the old rutted road that led to this stretch of nowhere. He saw Tessa in his rearview mirror, her back rigid with pride, her torn clothes worn like a goddamned badge of honor.
His hands were sweaty on the wheel as he rounded the corner and shifted into second. His blood pounded in his veins, throbbing at his temples. If that little bitch thought she'd somehow gotten the upper hand, she was wrong. Dead wrong.

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