Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  Son of a bitch, his plan was working.

  Five

  “You really lived here when you were growing up?” Samantha eyed the old lodge as if it were a castle from a fairy tale. She ran up the stairs, explored each room, then stole up to the attic, where the servants had once lived, and clambered down the back stairs to the kitchen. “It’s . . . it’s wonderful.” She grinned from ear to ear as Claire unpacked groceries.

  “Tell it to your brother.” Claire hitched her chin toward the kitchen window, where she watched Sean, who was flopped on an old porch swing, one toe touching the floorboards, his scowl dark as he squinted across the lake. Claire, too, stared across the blue water, and her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the cabin where Kane Moran had grown up. Someone had taken the trouble to reroof the cottage and give it a new coat of gray paint, and the sunlight glinted off some kind of vehicle parked haphazardly in the drive.

  Claire’s throat tightened. Was it possible that Kane had moved in? Her father hadn’t mentioned where his nemesis had put down roots, but someone lived across the water. “Stop jumping at shadows,” she reprimanded, and Sam, who was reaching for the doorknob, stopped short.

  “What?”

  “Just talking to myself. Go out and see if your brother’s hungry. I can whip up a turkey sandwich or heat some pizza.”

  “He won’t say anything,” Sam said with a lift of her slim shoulder. “He’s just a big grouch.”

  Amen, Claire thought, reaching into one of the sacks and stuffing a pint of strawberries into the refrigerator. At first she’d hesitated, not wanting to take her father’s charity, but then she’d decided she was being selfish, that her children could heal here in this rambling house in the woods, perhaps even thrive. So she’d taken Dutch up on his offer and moved in. The house still looked bare. Her small amount of furniture plus what had been left years before couldn’t begin to fill over twenty vast rooms. In the distance she heard the trill of a meadowlark and the soft rumble of a boat trolling in the lake.

  “Well, here goes nothing.” Samantha, having easily shaken the Colorado dust from her heels, was enthusiastic, glad for a change, whereas Sean hated his new life in Oregon and treated Claire as if she were an enemy, the person responsible for all his misery, which, of course, she was.

  “I’ll make some lemonade.”

  “It won’t do any good, Mom,” Samantha said with a knowledge far too wise for her tender years. “He likes being a jerk.” She sauntered through the door, walked up to Sean, and though Claire couldn’t hear the exchange of conversation through the closed window, she got the idea. Sean, arms folded over his chest, jaw thrust forward in silent accusation, didn’t respond. Samantha threw a look over her shoulder and met her mother’s gaze. She didn’t have to say “I told you so.” Claire read it in her eyes.

  Great. Claire attempted and failed at avoiding hateful thoughts directed at her ex-husband. Sean needed a father figure in his life right now, a man who could straighten him out, and definitely not someone who thought any female over the age of fifteen was fair game. Shuddering, Claire put away the rest of the groceries and, from the corner of her eye, watched as Samantha skittered off to explore the woods near the lake. Sean stretched, cast his mother a bitter glance through the glass, and, as if he didn’t want to be within ten feet of her, sauntered toward the stables, where three horses, two geldings and a mare, now resided, compliments of Dutch Holland.

  She shut the refrigerator as someone rapped loudly on the front door.

  Claire wiped her hands on a towel. Maybe Tessa or Randa had stopped by. It had been several days since the confrontation with Denver Styles in this very house, and she hadn’t heard a word from either of her sisters. “Coming!” she yelled as she hurried through the hallway to the foyer. She threw open the door.

  Kane stood on the porch.

  Claire held on to the doorknob for support. Her heart took a fateful, stupid leap.

  “Claire.” One side of his mouth lifted in an arrogant but hauntingly familiar smile. Taller than she remembered, his features hardened by the passing years, he would never again be considered a boy. A breeze had the nerve to ruffle his hair—light brown, sun-streaked, and in need of a cut—while he stood, arms crossed over his chest, stretching a wheat-colored cotton sweater at the shoulders.

  A vise seemed to clamp over her stomach, slowly turning and squeezing so hard she could barely breathe. He was the one man she had no right ever to lay eyes upon again, and he was here, standing on her front porch, as bold and brash as the wild, rebellious teenager he’d once been. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I thought I’d welcome you back to the old neighborhood.”

  “But you . . . you . . .” She caught hold of herself before she came across as the tongue-tied adolescent she’d once been—the rich girl he’d adored, the girl who had scorned him . . . well, for a while. She licked her lips and crossed her arms over her chest, as if protecting her heart. “Dad says you’re writing some kind of tell-all book about him, about us, and about Harley and the night he died.”

  A dark cloud passed behind his gold eyes but was gone in an instant. “That’s true.”

  “Why?”

  His lips twisted cynically. “It’s time.”

  “Because Dad’s thinking of running for governor?”

  A slight elevation of his eyebrows. “That’s one reason.”

  “And the others?” Her hands were beginning to sweat.

  His gaze narrowed, shifting for a second to her lips before returning to her eyes and settling there. Claire’s heart thumped mercilessly. “I think I—we—owe it to Harley.”

  “You were hardly best friends.”

  Again that chilling smile. “The reasons for that run too deep to mention, don’t you think?”

  She swallowed hard against a throat so dry it ached. “What happened between us—” she said, then stopped, gathering herself. Don’t let him get to you. Not again. “Was there something you wanted to say to me?”

  “More than you’d want to hear. I figured your old man told you what I was up to and tried to make it look like I was on some kind of witch-hunt.”

  She nodded. “That’s about the gist of it.”

  He snorted. “Okay, so there’s some truth in the fact that I’d love to show good old Benedict that he’s not above the law, that he can’t always bribe his way out of a mess, that he’s not goddamned royalty around here.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  He fingered the rough post that supported the roof. “I thought you should know that things have changed around here. Significantly. For one thing, Neal Taggert suffered a stroke a few years back. He’s stuck in a wheelchair. Weston’s in charge now.”

  Claire shuddered inwardly. Weston Taggert was the opposite of his younger brother. Tall, athletic, cocksure, and mean-tempered, Weston was the antithesis of all that was good in Harley.

  “It’s no secret that Weston’s worse than Neal when it comes to hating your family. And his wife . . .”

  “Kendall,” Claire said, feeling as if the weight of the world had been dropped on her shoulders. They had a past, she and Kendall, a link because of Harley. And now Kendall Forsythe was married to Harley’s older brother, a man who had stated publicly as well as privately that he’d like nothing better than to embarrass the hell out of Dutch Holland—then run him out of town.

  “Seems like you and Weston are cut from the same cloth.”

  Kane’s eyes flashed dangerously, and the skin over the bridge of his nose tightened a bit. He leaned closer to her and she took a small breath. “I have nothing against you or your sisters, you know that.”

  “I don’t know anything about you, Kane, or why you’re on this mission to destroy my family.”

  “Not the family. It’s your father—”

  “Who had nothing to do with Harley Taggert’s death. You know, Dad thinks you’re being paid by the Taggerts, and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit.” She tilted up her ch
in and gazed defiantly into eyes the color of expensive scotch. “I assume you’re being paid a lot of money to paint my father as an ogre.”

  “This isn’t about money.”

  “Sure it is. Big book deal, kickbacks from my father’s political opponent, and a little pot sweetener from the Taggerts. Looks like you finally got what you wanted, Kane.”

  “That, darlin’, is where you’re wrong.” He stared at her so intently she wanted to back away, was certain he’d reach out and grab her, yank her hard against him, but he didn’t move. Instead his pupils dilated and the corners of his eyes squinted ever so slightly. “You know what I wanted a long time ago, what I couldn’t have.”

  Her throat caught.

  “That’s right, Claire. Back then, I wanted you. I would have laid down and died if you would have just looked at me—really looked at me—as a person who loved you rather than as a curiosity, a one-night stand to experiment with, a tiny step onto the wild side when you had no one else to turn to—”

  “Stop it! I don’t know why you’re here, why you’ve started dredging all this up again, but it’s a mistake. Believe me. Leave this alone. Find some other dirty little scandal to expose, but just . . . just don’t do this.”

  “Too late, darlin’. I’ve already got myself a deal.”

  “As I said. ‘Money.’”

  “Mom?” Sean, hearing the end of the conversation, appeared around the corner of the house. His eyes centered on the intruder before settling on his mother. “You okay?”

  Oh, great! How much of the discussion had he heard? As if suddenly jolted by a current of electricity, she stepped away from Kane, put much-needed distance between her body and his, and forced her quivering insides to settle. This was no time to lose a fraction of her composure. Not in front of her son. Not with Kane Moran.

  “Your boy?” Kane asked.

  “Yes, uh, this is Sean. Sean—Mr. Moran.” Her voice sounded so much calmer than she felt.

  “Glad to meet you,” Kane said, walking up to Sean with his hand outstretched. “I knew your Ma when she was about your age.”

  “That’s right. Kane was a . . . neighbor.”

  “My dad worked for your grandfather.”

  “So?” Sean wasn’t impressed and his insolent I-don’t-give-a-damn attitude was firmly in place.

  “Lived right across the lake in that old cabin over there.”

  Sean couldn’t help himself, his gaze wandered over the water to the thicket of fir trees and the tiny cottage nestled therein. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  “Sean!”

  “Well, it doesn’t.”

  Kane didn’t appear to take offense. He gave a stiff nod of agreement. “You’re right. It wasn’t then and isn’t much better now. In fact I grew up humiliated and embarrassed that I lived in that dump. Avoided being there as much as possible.”

  Suspicion tightened the corners of Sean’s mouth. He hadn’t expected Kane to see things as he did.

  “My old man was a cripple and a mean son of a bitch. I found ways to avoid being around him or hanging out at home, and usually managed to get myself into a mess of trouble. But I didn’t really give a rip. I figured fate had given me a bum deal, and I spent a lot of time being angry at the world and a royal pain in the butt.”

  “All I said was that it doesn’t look like much,” Sean mumbled.

  “And I agreed with you.” He clapped Sean on the back, and the boy visibly jerked away. “You, now, you’re lucky, living in a great big house like this.”

  Sean made a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “Yeah, right,” he grunted as he glanced at his mother, seemed satisfied that there wasn’t any serious trouble brewing, and vaulted over the rail to disappear around the corner of the house.

  “What is it you want from me?” she asked when Sean was out of earshot.

  “Same thing I’ve always wanted.”

  Her pulse jumped a little, and she had to remind herself that she was a grown woman, divorced, mother of two, someone unaffected by long-forgotten emotions. “I think you’d better go.”

  His lips clamped together in a hard, thin line. “You’re right. I should. But I thought I’d give you the chance to tell me your side of the story.”

  “My side?”

  “About the night Harley Taggert died.”

  “So we’re back to that.”

  “Never left it. Despite everything that happened between us, you never told me the truth.”

  “Oh, God, Kane, I can’t.”

  He pinned her with a hard glare, then, fleetingly, a hint of regret softened the edge of his jaw. “Look, Claire, I know this will be rough. Okay, so I’m the bad guy, but I’m doing this because it’s time, and I’ve been given the opportunity, okay? Whatever happens, I want you to know that I’m not trying to hurt you or your sisters.”

  “Oh, thank God. Now I’m relieved,” she said, unable to hide the sarcasm that crept into her words. “I’ll finally be able to sleep at night.”

  “I thought you should know.”

  “And I think you should go to hell.”

  “Been there.” Scratching his jaw, he eyed her for a long second. “See ya around, Claire. If you decide you want to tell me anything about that night, just give a yell. I’m right across the lake.” Turning on his heel, he jammed his hands into his pockets and sauntered down a path to the boat dock, where tied to one of the bleached moorings was a small motorboat. Kane stepped aboard, cast off, started the engine, and, with a final wave, gunned the motor. The boat made a wide arc, leaving a frothy wake as it curved near the shoreline and headed back to the far side of the lake.

  Claire’s insides felt as if they were made of jelly. Why was Kane so insistent to dig up the past, why did he move back into the cabin he’d sworn to hate as a kid, and why, for God’s sake, why did her traitorous heart beat a little faster just at the sight of him?

  As it always had.

  Because you’re an idiot around men. Always have been, always will be.

  Guilt caused her teeth to dig into her lower lip as she watched the wake disappear into the smooth, glassy surface of Lake Arrowhead.

  Kane Moran had always been a thorn in her backside, a poor wild kid who’d once had a crush on her, and she’d spent most of her adolescence avoiding him. But it hadn’t always been possible, and there had been times when she’d wondered if her devotion to Harley was the result of fear—a gnawing worry that she should cling to good and decent Harley because the Moran boy with his hang-the-law attitude and air of invincible recklessness had appealed to her on a baser, more primitive, level.

  Kane Moran was bound by no rules.

  He hated authority and spit in its face.

  He was the ultimate rebel.

  He was bad with a capital B.

  And deep in her heart, Claire had found him irresistible. She’d spent nights on her knees praying that this indecent attraction to him, one that caused her blood to heat and her heart to trip-hammer, would pass before anyone—especially Kane himself—noticed. She told herself that when she woke up from dreams where Kane was performing all sorts of wildly delicious ministrations to her body, it was only whimsy, nothing to worry about. She swam lap after lap in the pool, trying to force him from her mind. But late at night, when the moon rose high, its silvery light spangling the black waters of the lake, Claire had sat on the window ledge in her bedroom with the sash thrown wide so she could feel the salt-laden breeze off the Pacific rush through her hair and press her nightgown to her body while she gazed across the dark expanse to the single light burning in the attic window of Kane’s house. She had closed her eyes and imagined his hands and tongue caressing her sweat-soaked body. Stirrings deep inside her made her restless, and she knew that despite her vows to herself otherwise, making love to him would be an experience worth any risk on earth, a once-in-a-lifetime chance that would condemn her forever.

  Now, years later, she looked across those same shadowy waters and felt long-buried yearn
ings deep inside, the pulsing want that had, as a girl, kept her from sleeping. She clutched a hand to her throat and hoped history wasn’t so foolish as to repeat itself.

  Once with Kane Moran was bad enough; twice would surely damn them both.

  Part Two

  Sixteen Years Earlier

  Six

  “I don’t know what you see in Harley Taggert.” Tessa wound another clump of blond hair around a heated roller. Wearing only a bra and panties, she was sitting at the vanity in her bathroom, her face drawn in concentration as she met Claire’s gaze in the mirror. “If you ask me, Weston’s the interesting one.”

  “And a jerk.” Claire didn’t trust the older Taggert boy. Weston was smooth as a perfectly tuned engine and twice as oily.

  “Yeah, but you have to admit Harley’s kind of a wimp. Damn!” Tessa sucked her breath through her teeth, shook her hand, and dropped the roller. “I always do this.”

  Gingerly, Claire picked up the hot roller and dropped it onto a heated spindle in Tessa’s case.

  Licking her finger, Tessa scowled. “The problem with Harley—”

  “There is no problem.”

  “Sure there is. He’s a dishrag. He’ll do anything his old man says.”

  “No way.” But Claire felt a smidgen of doubt in her own convictions. If Harley had a fault, and that was a pretty big “if,” then it was that he didn’t have as strong a will as Claire would have liked.

  “Then why hasn’t he broken it off with Kendall?” Tessa asked, finely arched eyebrows lifting a fraction higher as she reached for another roller. “You remember her, don’t you, Kendall Forsythe from Portland, daughter of one of the biggest real estate moguls or whatever you want to call them in San Francisco before the family moved up here and—”

  “I know who Kendall is.”

  “Harley was engaged to her.”

  “It was never official.” Claire hated the feeling that she had to defend him. Harley was good and sweet and kind and so what if he wasn’t the athlete or student or ladies’ man that Weston had been? Who cared that he sometimes had trouble making up his mind? It was just that he was thoughtful.