Whispers (34 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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“You don't want any advice about your kid?”
“No.” She reached for the door handle. “Sean's having a tough time, not only dealing with all he knows about his father, but also about the move here. He left a lot of friends and . . .” Her heart squeezed as she thought that she might be messing with her son's life. “. . . and living here is an adjustment.”
“It's not so bad, though,” he said softly, and, for a second, as he gazed into her eyes, she expected him to reach forward and touch the side of her face with those callused fingers. “You and I made it.”
“Did we?” she wondered aloud, then cleared her throat. Every time she was around this man the clarity in her mind suddenly clouded, and the atmosphere seemed to change, to become more dense and sticky. She licked her lips.
“Yes.”
Swallowing hard, she yanked on the screen door. “Thanks for saving Sean's skin,” she said. “I appreciate—oh!”
The flat of his hand slapped the door shut. Bam! In a second he stepped closer, so that his body nearly touched hers. The toes of his boots were a hairbreadth from her own sandals, his chest was only inches from hers and his face was close enough that she could see the striations of color in his eyes, feel the heat and hostility radiating from his body. “I came by for another reason.”
“And . . . and that is?” she whispered, her skin alive at his nearness, her pulse leaping in her throat.
“To apologize for last night.”
“You don't have to.”
“You took off like a scared rabbit.”
“I—I didn't know what to think . . . to do,” she admitted even though her blood was already racing, her throat tight, her breathing shallow.
“Sure you did,” he cajoled and he placed his other hand on the door as well, trapping her head between his arms, keeping her pressed against the door by the nearness of his body. He was lean and muscular and tough. No longer was there a trace of any boyhood in his features, no longer was there any part of him that was soft with youth. His lips curved down and he sighed as if about to admit his darkest secrets. “I can't stay away from you, Claire,” he said. “I told myself when I took on this project that I'd keep my distance, reminded myself that what we had a long time ago was gone, but I just can't seem to convince myself.”
She swallowed hard, and he watched the movement of her throat.
“Christ, you're beautiful.” With a finger he captured a curl that had fallen over her face. Her skin, when his fingertip touched it, nearly sizzled. “Too damned beautiful.”
She wanted to melt into his arms. Over the thudding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears, she heard her daughter, yelling from the kitchen.
“Mom! Mom! The pancakes are done.”
She shoved one of his hands away. “Look, I've got to go . . . but . . .”
Don't say it, Claire. Don't invite him in. For all you know he could be using you, trying to weasel information out of you for his damned book. He's dangerous!
“. . . if you haven't had breakfast yet . . .”
“Is this an invitation?” His smile was so sincere it nearly broke her heart.
“Yes.”
He glanced into the interior of the house, to the foyer where the mutilated railing of the stairs was still visible. “I think I'd better pass this time. You've got a lot to work out with your kids.”
Disappointment shrouded her insides, but she forced a smile. “Another time.”
“I'd like that.” He shoved away from the door and turned away quickly, as if afraid to second-guess himself. Claire sagged against the exterior wall and caught her breath. What was wrong with her? Certainly he was a lover from her past, one she'd buried deep in her heart, but that was years ago. A lifetime.
“He's a prick!” Sean's voice filtered through the screen as he bounded down the stairs.
“Wait a minute. Don't talk like that.”
“He is. I saw the way he looked at you. He just wants . . . well, you know.”
She opened the screen door and found her son, freshly scrubbed from a shower, hair wet, clean shorts and T-shirt, standing on the bottom step of the staircase and towering over her. He'd grown so fast and he looked so much like Kane. Why neither one had noticed, she couldn't fathom. But, for the time being, it was a blessing.
“I don't trust him,” Sean said, glaring through the mesh of the screen. “Not half as far as I could throw him.”
 
 
He was waiting for her. The minute Miranda drove into the garage of her row house in Lake Oswego, Denver Styles climbed out of a rental car he'd parked across the street.
Great,
Miranda thought,
just what I need.
Grabbing her briefcase and purse, she locked her car and pressed a button to close the garage door. Not that it mattered. By the time she walked up the five steps to the living room level, he was at the front door, leaning on the bell.
“Determined son of a gun,” she said, tossing her briefcase and purse onto a chair in the kitchen before walking to the foyer and opening the door. “What is it?”
“We need to talk.”
“There's nothing to discuss.”
He arched a serious black eyebrow. “I think so.”
“I said everything to you I needed to when we met with my father. I don't know why he's obsessed with the idea that any one of my sisters or I had anything to do with Harley Taggert's death.”
“Because he halted the investigation himself and he knows that Kane Moran won't give up until he finds out the truth.”
“The truth is that we were at the drive-in and—”
“And I would think you'd want to know what happened to Hunter Riley.”
Her knees nearly gave way. “Hunter?”
“You were involved with him.”
Sixteen years were suddenly stripped away and she was eighteen again, running along the beach, holding Hunter's hand, meeting him at the cottage, making love to him until the wee hours of the night. Her heart nearly collapsed on itself. “Hunter . . . Hunter was my friend.”
“Who left you.”
“He took a job in Canada.”
“Did he?” Styles's eyes, gray and harsh, didn't flinch. His lips compressed. “He never made it to the logging camp.”
She held on to the wall for support. “But Weston Taggert told me—he showed me employment records.”
“And you believed him?” Styles shoved his hands into the back pocket of his jeans. “From what I understand there was no love lost between your family and the Taggerts.”
“Can't argue with that,” she admitted, hardly finding her voice. What was he suggesting? That Hunter had lied to her? To everyone? That he skipped out because she was pregnant? An old pain, raw as if it were brand new, sliced through her heart and nearly drove her to her knees.
“Except for your sister Claire. She was engaged to Harley.”
“But she broke it off that night,” Miranda said, scrabbling to grab onto the rags of her composure. She couldn't slip, couldn't allow Denver Styles to find a chink in the armor that was her alibi.
“That's right.” He looked past her into the house. “Why don't you invite me in?” he suggested. “I think we have a lot to discuss.”
 
 
Tessa was back. And looking better than she had the last time he'd seen her. With shaking hands, Weston lit a cigarette and walked out to the back deck, where Kendall insisted he smoke. Why he put up with his wife, he didn't know. Maybe because she had a certain class to her, maybe because he knew she'd take him to the cleaners if he ever made noise about divorce, or maybe because she turned her head and allowed him his little dalliances. She was nothing if not loyal, his wife.
He leaned against the rail and looked out to sea. A fishing trawler was moving slowly along the horizon, and a few hazy clouds deigned to hide the sun. From this monstrosity of a house on the hill, he could look over the town of Chinook and feel as if he were the king.
The house was Kendall's idea. Glass, cedar, brick, and tile, it curved along the face of the cliff and glinted in the reflection of the sunset. The largest and most ostentatious house on the northern coast, it fit him and his passion for building his own empire. He hadn't been content to run his father's businesses. No, when he took over, he'd pushed for expansion and now there were three more resorts on the coast, an interest in a casino on tribal lands to the south, and two more sawmills in western Washington. And each time he outbid Dutch Holland for another scrap of land, each time he raised a bronze sign for Taggert Industries over another development or building, each time he heard that Dutch's interests were dwindling, he felt a moment's satisfaction.
Take that you old bastard. That's what you get for fucking my mother.
“You're home early.” Kendall's voice surprised him, and he turned to find her, as was her custom, balancing a pitcher of martinis and two glasses on a slim tray. She placed the tray on the table under the oversize umbrella and poured them each a glass.
“I'm meeting someone tonight.”
“Here?” Kendall was surprised.
“No.” He never discussed business with her, and she never asked. It was their own unwritten agreement.
“Paige was going to stop by.”
The thought of his sister turned his stomach. She was still a pathetic, overweight, sneaky bitch. And she hated him. She'd never even tried to hide her animosity. Weston's back teeth clenched as he took the drink from Kendall's slim fingers. She was a beautiful woman with her pale hair and big blue eyes. She kept herself in shape, hadn't gained a pound in all the years that they'd been married, and dressed with flair. Even after Stephanie had been born, Kendall had been careful, losing the few pounds she'd gained, refusing to breast-feed as she was concerned that her breasts would flatten, and exercising with a personal trainer until she was her usual size four. He couldn't complain. Except that she was boring as hell.
Not like the Holland women.
“Isn't Paige taking care of Dad?”
“Not tonight. The caregiver's there. So, I thought we could barbecue and watch a movie.” Kendall's slim fingers wrapped over his wrist. “Come on, Weston, you haven't seen much of Stephanie lately.”
He felt a tiny prick of guilt. His daughter was special, no doubt about it. Regardless of the fact that his plan for Kendall to trap Harley had worked all too well and she'd ended up pregnant, and that had Harley lived, she would have passed the kid off as his, Weston loved Stephanie. More than he loved anything on the earth. He should have slapped Kendall around when she told him she was pregnant and that since Harley was dead, he would have to step up to the plate and claim his child. He should have insisted that she get an abortion. He should have told her to fuck off. But he hadn't. And the one thing in his life he didn't regret was his kid. The trouble was, Kendall knew it and used it to her advantage.
“I'll see Steph tomorrow. We'll go looking for a car for her,” Weston offered.
Kendall laughed. “She's only fifteen.”
“Sixteen soon enough.” He ground out his cigarette and took a long sip from his martini glass. The drink was always just right. Kendall took special care. He should love her, he supposed, but decided he was incapable. Besides, love and all romantic notions were for idealists and had nothing to do with reality. Weston's feet were firmly planted on the ground.
“But—”
“Don't argue, dear,” he warned, and she closed her mouth immediately. Over the course of their marriage there had been a few times when he'd had to get a little rough with her, just a couple of slaps across the buttocks or face when she'd opposed him. Afterward, when she was contrite and willing to prove her love for him, he had come up with intricate sexual maneuvers for her to perform to show just how much she appreciated being Mrs. Weston Taggert.
She'd always been so willing to please. It was strange really. He'd once thought her cold as ice, her pussy tight and impenetrable. He'd learned differently. When she realized that he was her meal ticket, her entrance into the royalty that was the family Taggert, she'd become a hot little love machine, giving eagerly of her favors. No wonder Harley, that wimp, had never been able to break it off with her. But outside the bedroom, she bored him.
“Just don't disappoint Stephanie tomorrow,” she said and Weston clinked his glass to hers.
“I won't. Promise.” But that was tomorrow. First he had to get through the rest of the evening. Tonight he was going to meet with Denver Styles and offer Dutch Holland's newest employee a deal too sweet to pass up.
He sipped his martini slowly and grinned.

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