Whispers (30 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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She turned toward the road, but the solitary rider sped by, the huge machine barely slowing as a deputy waved him on.
Was it Kane? Claire's hands twisted in the wet blanket.
“What a night,” one of the deputies said to the other. “First the Taggert kid, and now this!”
Claire jolted inwardly as she was jerked back to the here and now, away from her fantasies about Kane Moran.
Harley was dead and, somehow, she was responsible. Whatever had happened after she'd left the sailboat was because she broke up with him. She knew it. Harley, sweet, sweet Harley, might not have been the love of her life she'd once thought him to be, but he certainly didn't deserve to die.
Twenty-two
Claire couldn't sleep. She tossed and turned in her bed, while images of Harley and Kane blazed through her mind. Alternately crying to herself or lying dry-eyed and numb, she watched the clock and listened to the house creak in the storm. Somewhere a limb battered a window, and rain splashed noisily in the gutters until, right before dawn, the rain stopped suddenly.
Still she couldn't sleep. The past few hours replayed themselves in her mind, like a record that skips to the same few notes over and over again.
After being examined by a physician and questioned by several deputies and detectives, the Holland girls had been released to their parents, who had been called back to Chinook from Portland. Dominique, in tears, had fussed over her daughters and Dutch had promised them the best legal counsel on the West Coast. No one, not even Neal Goddamned Taggert, was going to win this one. He told the girls that he believed them, that of course none of them had killed the Taggert boy, but his words lacked conviction or empathy. Harley's death was just one more obstacle in Dutch's cluttered life.
As Claire had huddled in the backseat of her father's Lincoln, she'd caught his harsh, uncompromising gaze in the rearview mirror and suddenly realized that his concern wasn't grief over the loss of a young man's life but worry about a scandal surrounding his daughters. He was only worried what stockholders in Stone Illahee and his other holdings might think.
Now, Harley's handsome face slid through her mind, and his desperate pleas for her not to break the engagement rang in her ears.
I can't lose you. I'd give up everything for you. Everything. Please, Claire, don't . . . don't say it's over.
Tears rained from her eyes. “Harley,” she mouthed. She'd never intended to hurt him. And now he was dead, found, according to what she'd overheard at the sheriff's office, facedown in the bay, maybe the victim of an accident, or suicide, or murder.
Suicide?
Dear Lord, she prayed not.
Murder?
Who would hate him enough to kill him?
Miranda's skirt was stained with blood; Tessa was nearly catatonic. They'd both been to the marina and needed alibis.
Oh, Harley, what have I done?
Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed his image away. She couldn't spend the rest of her life feeling guilty because he'd died on the night she'd broken their engagement, but, deep in her heart, she knew that a cloud of dark uncertainty would follow her for the rest of her days.
She pulled herself into a sitting position and buried her face in her hands. But it didn't help. In her mind's eye, she spied Kane, tall and rawboned, dressed in faded denim and black leather. His rugged face, intense gold eyes, and smoky voice commanded her attention.
I'd like to do anything and everything I could with you. I'd like to kiss you and touch you and sleep with you in my arms until morning. I'd like to run my tongue over your bare skin until you quiver with want, and, more than anything in the world, I'd like to bury myself in you and make love to you for the rest of my life . . . And, believe me, I would never, never treat you like that bastard Taggert does.
She couldn't take it another minute. She threw off the covers and tossed off her nightgown. Silently she grabbed a pair of jeans she'd flung over the end of her bed and grabbed a sweatshirt that was lying wrinkled on the floor. She struggled into a clean pair of socks and carried her boots in sweaty hands as she passed by Tessa's room with the door firmly closed and Miranda's room where light from the bedside lamp sliced through the crack in the doorway to fall upon the worn rug in the hallway. Slowing, Claire peeked into the room. Miranda sat on her window ledge, her knees tucked up inside her nightgown, her arms wrapped around her legs as she stared vacantly out at the lake. There was a soul-rending sadness in her eyes that Claire had never seen before.
Quietly, she stepped into the room.
Miranda slid a glance her way. “What are you doing?”
“Going for a ride.”
“It's not light yet.”
“I know, but it will be soon,” Claire whispered. “I can't sleep. Can't stand another minute in bed.” Suddenly she felt awkward and out of place in this sad, somber room with its pine-paneled walls and bookcases filled to overflowing. “What happened to you last night?” she finally blurted as she crossed the room and rested the edge of her rump on the other end of the window ledge.
Miranda's smile was brittle, her skin pale. Blue smudges made her eyes appear sunken. “I grew up.”
“What's that mean?”
“You don't want to know.” She looked out the window again. “And I don't want to tell anyone.”
“There . . . there was blood on your skirt.”
Randa nodded and ran her fingers on the edge of the open window frame. “I know.”
“Was it yours?”
“Mine?” She shuddered. “Some of it.”
“Oh, God, Randa. Aren't you going to tell me what happened?”
Miranda's eyes focused sharply on her middle sister and she looked older than she ever had. “No, Claire,” she said firmly. “I'm not going to tell anyone. I'm eighteen, remember. An adult. I can make my own decisions.”
And you're considered an adult in a court of Oregon law. Anything illegal you did, could send you to prison rather than juvenile hall.
Claire didn't say it. Didn't have to.
“Just remember our pact. Stick with our story. Everything will work out.”
The words sounded hollow, but Claire didn't argue as she passed her parents' room, where the rumble of heavy snoring and the ticking of Dominique's antique crystal clock could be heard.
Stealthy as a cat sneaking up on an unwitting bird, Claire slipped down the stairs and through the kitchen. For the first time since Jack's death she was grateful that Ruby, who sometimes had appeared at five in the morning, wasn't around.
Outside the sun was just beginning to chase away the night. The new dawn was fresh, evidence of the storm visible in the puddles and litter of branches in the yard, but the air smelled clean, and the mist that had settled over the lake began to rise.
Claire entered the stables, threw a bridle over a surprised Marty's head, and led him through a series of paddocks before opening a final gate and, with a running start, hopped onto his bare back.
He sidestepped just a bit, then once she was astride and pressing her knees into his ribs, the horse responded, loping up the familiar trail, splashing through puddles, jumping over a few fallen logs.
Towering stands of old growth timber spread lacy needled branches overhead, allowing little of the gray light of dawn to pierce the forest floor.
“Come on, come on,” she urged, as the little paint edged ever upward, past an outcropping of clay-colored rock to the crest of the ridge, the sacred, haunted spot of the Native Americans—the place where Kane had camped before.
She licked her lips nervously as the horse rounded a bend in the trail, her eyes scanning the still-dark timbers.
Her heart beat a sharp cadence of anticipation as she reached the clearing and spied him leaning against the mossand fungi-covered bark of a tree. A shadow of a beard darkened his chin, his hair was wild and uncombed, his leather jacket battered, his Levi's threadbare and sun-bleached. A cigarette burned slowly between his fingers.
Tears of relief burned in her eyes as she slowed her mount.
A dying campfire sent up a smoldering curl of smoke, and a tarp had been strung between two trees to protect his motorcycle and bedroll.
“Lookin' for me?” he drawled. His blade-thin lips barely moved, and his eyes were the intense shade of aged whiskey she remembered. Her heart cracked. “Yes.”
“Thought you might be, so I waited.” He tossed his cigarette into the fire and started toward her. She was off the horse in an instant as she raced over the uneven ground and flung herself into his arms. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and all she wanted to do was hold on to him. To cling to him forever and never let go.
His arms surrounded her, giving her a warm haven, silently promising her that everything would be all right. “I heard about Taggert.”
She let out a long, pained cry and felt the world tilt all over again. “Oh, God, Kane, it's my fault.”
He stiffened. “Yours?”
“I broke off the engagement. Gave him back his ring.” She was sobbing now, the words rushing out of her like water spilling through a broken dam. “Down at the marina. He was drinking on the sailboat and . . . and I left him.”
“Shh.” He kissed her crown and the scents of smoke, leather, and musk surrounded her in a comforting mist. “It's not your fault.”
“But he was upset and . . . and . . . I had the night watchman look in on him . . . but . . .”
“But nothing.” Taking her hand, he led her to the tent and sat beneath the sodden tarp on the dry ground. Still he held her, his arms offering support as she leaned against him. “It's gonna be all right.”
“How? He's dead, Kane.
Dead!”
Broken sobs escaped from her throat as she pounded feebly on his chest.
“And you're alive. Don't beat yourself up over it, Princess.”
“Don't call me—”
“All right. Hang in there. I'm here, Claire. You knew I'd be here waiting for you, didn't you?”
Of course she did. That's why she'd come. Guilt trod eagerly over her bare soul. “I—just—didn't love him enough.” Sniffing loudly, she pulled back to look into Kane's eyes. “Because of you.”
“It's
not
your fault.” He shifted his gaze to her lips, and she knew they had to be swollen, her eyes were red and wet, her skin mottled. “You did nothing wrong, Claire. Nothing.” Staring at her, he pulled her close again and his lips found hers. No longer gentle, he kissed her with a pent-up passion and heat she'd never felt before. Hard, eager lips demanded more. He wrapped those strong arms around her until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, and the pain slowly faded away to be replaced by desire, a slow deep throb that pulsed deep within her. His tongue rimmed her lips, and she opened to him, body and soul, knowing that he would soon be gone, and throwing caution to the wind.
Somewhere in the back of her mind Claire knew that kissing him was wrong, that she was too emotionally drained to make the right kind of decisions, but she didn't care. He was warm and comforting, his hands, as they touched her, hard and callused, the heat uncoiling deep within her, moist and wanting.
His fingers found the hem of her sweatshirt and touched her back, tracing the curve of her spine, sending desire racing through her blood, numbing the sorrow and guilt that were just beneath the surface of her consciousness.
With a groan, he discovered she wore no bra, and his hands moved forward to caress both her breasts as his legs wound through hers and they were lying together on the bedroll. She felt the hardness straining against his fly, the pressure of his erection against the V of her legs through denim and cotton.
Lifting the sweatshirt over her head, he stared at her breasts and then moved his gaze upward, his eyes dark with desire, a muscle jumping near his temple.
“You're more beautiful than . . . than . . .” He pulled her breasts together and rubbed her nipples with his thumbs. Passion glided through her blood. Hot. Wild. Uncaring. She moaned as he kissed her on the lips, then moved downward, his tongue circling the hollow of her throat and the tight skin over her sternum before finding one of her breasts and nipping gently.
“Kane,” she cried, bucking upward, and his hands cupped her buttocks, fingers hard and eager. “Kane . . .”
The trees overhead began to spin and damp heat swirled in counterpoint deep in her most feminine of places. His beard was rough, his tongue wet, his hands firm. Fingers dug into the muscles of her rear as he straddled her, his erection solid beneath his jeans, the ache between her legs pulsing with want.
This is wrong! You don't love him. You don't even know him. Think, Claire, he's using you!
a voice deep in the back of her mind screamed, but she didn't care. Wouldn't listen. Swept on a current of passion, she reached up and skimmed his jacket from his shoulders, then worked at his T-shirt.
He yanked the worn cotton over his head, and, as the sunlight blazed over the eastern ridge of mountains, she watched the sinewy muscles of his chest flex as she touched him. “You're playin' with fire, darlin',” he warned, but she didn't stop and watched in fascination as he trembled when the tip of her fingertip caressed his flat nipple. “Claire . . . don't stop . . . I can't—” His voice was rough. “Do you know what you do to me?”
“What?”
“Everything,” he admitted, and found the waistband of her jeans. With one quick jerk the waistband and buttons of her fly opened in a series of sharp pops. Practiced hands skimmed the denim over her hips.

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