Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  Too bad. Tonight he was going to see Claire, and he didn’t give a damn what his father had to say about it. He was on his feet and had reached for the door when his father’s secretary’s voice called over the intercom. “Mr. Taggert?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have a call on line two.” Harley’s insides congealed. What if it was Jerry Best? What could he say to the man? How could he save the account? He wasn’t a salesman; never would be. “It’s Miss Forsythe.”

  Harley wanted to climb into a hole and die. This was worse than pretending he cared about the price of milled lumber. Why did Kendall keep chasing him? Didn’t she understand that it was over? He snatched up the receiver and barked out a greeting. “Hi.”

  “Oh, Harley, I’m so glad I caught you.” He imagined her face—all blue eyes and pink cheeks, pouty lips turned down at the corners.

  “What’s up?” Not that he cared. He flicked a piece of dirt from under one fingernail.

  “It’s—it’s that I have to see you.”

  “Kendall, don’t, I already told you—”

  “It’s important, Harley. I wouldn’t have called you at work if it wasn’t.”

  Holy shit, she was pregnant. Hadn’t she said she wanted to be? Harley’s knees went weak and he sagged against the desk for support. His stomach cramped so hard he thought he might lose his lunch. “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to talk over the phone. Meet me at my parents’ beach house tonight.”

  “I can’t.”

  A beat. “Please.”

  “I have plans.”

  Her voice sounded strangled. “Harley, listen, this is a matter of life or death.”

  The baby. She was pregnant and considering the abortion.

  “I’ll see you at eight.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You really don’t have a choice,” she choked out, then slammed the receiver in his ear. For a second he thought he might pass out, the blackness in the corners of his vision threatening to blind him, but slowly he caught his breath. Kendall was right—he had to meet her. With shaking fingers he smoothed his hair from his face and tried to appear calm.

  As he left the office he managed to wave to the woman in the steno pool who was assigned to be his secretary. Linda Something-Or-Other. Fair, fat, and forty, but pleasant and efficient enough to make him feel foolish, that her smile was often at him not with him. Stop it, Taggert, you’re the boss.

  His Italian loafers crunched on the gravel of the washed-out parking lot. Potholes scarred the dusty asphalt, and no tree dared offer shade in an operation that was meant to reduce forest giants to two-by-fours. The fresh scent of sawdust mingled with the overpowering odor of diesel, and Harley hated every second of it.

  His father, like Dutch Holland, was president of a corporation made up of many divisions. This sawmill was only one of the small companies under the umbrella of Taggert Industries. So it seemed ridiculous for Harley to be stuck in the mill when there were resorts and restaurants to operate.

  “It’ll do ya good,” Neal had explained when he’d told Harley about his summer job. “Mix with the men who are the backbone of this company. Next year you can work at the resort in Seaside.”

  An empty promise, Harley thought as he pushed a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose and Weston’s Porsche convertible roared into the parking lot.

  Crystal Songbird, Jack’s younger sister and a girl Weston dated off and on, was slouched in the passenger seat of the convertible, her fingers tapping the rhythm of Bruce Spring-steen’s “Hungry Heart.” Her black hair shimmered blue in the afternoon sunlight. If she saw Harley, she didn’t acknowledge him, but Weston was out of the car in an instant and bore down on him as if with a single purpose. Jaw set and hard, fists clenched, he crossed the parking lot.

  Got a wife and kid in Baltimore, Jack . . .

  Wes looked angry enough to spit nails.

  Harley braced himself for what appeared to be a showdown. Weston’s lips were white with determination.

  “Where’s Dad?” he demanded.

  “Not here.”

  “You’re sure?” Weston asked, then muttered under his breath, “Son of a bitch. I called the office in Portland and . . . oh, hell, they said he was here.”

  “What’s got into you?”

  Weston ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, then glanced over his shoulder at Crystal, but she didn’t seem to pay him any attention as she studied her reflection in the rearview mirror and applied another layer of glossy lipstick.

  Everybody’s got a hungry heart . . .

  “It’s the same damn thing it always is.” Weston swiped the sweat from his brow with his bare hand.

  “What thing?”

  Weston’s eyes narrowed into slits. “The rumor.”

  “The wha—oh. That one.” Harley finally understood. “The one about Dad having other kids—illegitimate ones?”

  “Just one. A son.”

  “If you believe the rumors, yes.” Harley didn’t give two cents about the old lie that had been attached to Neal Taggert and his womanizing. Who cared?

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “I don’t lose any sleep over it.”

  “Don’t you realize if it’s true and this guy—this bastard of a half brother—ever steps forward, he might want a cut of everything?”

  “So?”

  “Christ, Harley, are you really that much of a moron?”

  Harley’s blood ran hot. “I just don’t let things I can’t control bother me. Where’d you hear it this time? From some guy three sheets to the wind at the Westwind Bar and Grill? Or over at Stone Illahee—Dutch Holland is always ready to spread a rumor about Dad? Or maybe from one of the gossips who hang out at the coffee shop?”

  “No,” Weston drawled, his lips thin with disdain for his younger brother. “This time I heard it from Mom.”

  Harley laughed. “Oh, great. Like she’s never trying to get your goat. I don’t know what happened between you, but Mom likes nothing better than to irritate the hell out of you and send you off on some wild-goose chase.”

  “Jesus, Harl, you’re beyond hope!” Weston squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, as if wondering how they could possibly be related.

  “And you’re jumping at shadows. What were you gonna do if Dad was here? Accuse him of having another little family tucked away?”

  “I’d just ask for the truth.”

  “A good way to get cut out of the will, Wes, and we all know that no matter what, you’d never do anything to jeopardize getting your rather substantial piece of the Taggert financial pie.”

  “At least I don’t sit around on my ass doing nothing, nothing, and just expect to inherit money.”

  “I don’t expect anything.”

  Weston slid a glance at Harley’s Jaguar and the fine layer of sawdust that had settled on the car’s sparkling paint job. “Yeah, right. Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll catch up with Dad later.”

  “Do that. And tell him to say ‘Hi’ to our half brother, would ya?”

  “Go to hell, Harl.”

  Harley chuckled as Weston turned back to his sports car and Crystal. It was so rare that he could get one up on Wes, that watching his older brother’s frustration warmed the dark cockles of his heart.

  A shrill whistle blew as Weston wheeled his Porsche out of the parking lot. Across the street, behind tall mesh fences boasting signs about worker safety, it was time for the shift to change. Harley hurried to his car. He didn’t want to have to make small talk with any of the workers. It wasn’t that he was a snob, he told himself. He just didn’t have anything in common with them.

  Over the scream of saws, shouts of foremen, and rumble of trucks arriving with raw timber or leaving with stacked lumber, men in clean flannel shirts and dungarees put on hard hats and replaced their counterparts who were covered with sawdust and grime.

  Harley unlocked the door of his pride and joy—a forest green Jag XKE that c
ould go from zero to sixty in less time than it took to catch your breath. Parked between a beat-up Dodge pickup and a dusty station wagon with the words “Wash me” scribbled on the back window, the Jag sparkled like an emerald cast in gravel. He slid behind the wheel and flicked on the engine.

  Packed with horsepower, his car was ready to roar down the road. For the next few minutes as the sleek car’s tires sang against the asphalt, Harley would be in control of his destiny, his own man.

  Then, damn it, he’d have to meet Kendall.

  Ten

  “God help me,” Kendall muttered, holding her abdomen and pacing on the deck of her father’s beach house. Why couldn’t she just let Harley go? What was this obsession with him? Paige was right, she could have had nearly any boy she wanted, but the only one worth having was Harley Taggert.

  It wasn’t just that he was a Taggert, but he was kind and sweet—well, he had been. Until he’d met Claire, that mousy, useless Holland girl. What, what did he see in her?

  Kendall, when she realized that he was going to break up with her, had become desperate. She wanted to marry Harley Taggert and wasn’t used to not getting her way.

  Her stomach churned, tears threatened her eyes, and she placed her hands against the rail to stare past the shifting dunes with their clumps of beach grass to the darkening waters of the Pacific. This view of the sea, stretching for miles to the horizon, had always had a calming effect upon her, had helped her put her life into perspective. But not this evening. Not when everything was so out of control. A couple walked by, holding hands, laughing, their bare feet making impressions on the wet sand as the frothy tide eddied and swirled around their ankles. Their dog—a rangy, red Irish setter—frolicked in the surf, chasing after sticks that the man threw, then bounding back.

  The lovers seemed so happy. As she and Harley had been. Before Claire. Her throat closed in on itself, and she fought the urge to break down and cry. Never in her life had she felt so helpless, never had she wanted anything so badly.

  She heard a car stop in front of the cottage and opened the sliding door when she heard footsteps on the stairs to the deck. Her heart leapt. He’d come. He still cared.

  “Harley—” she cried, only to have his name lodge in her throat as Weston appeared, big as life, an easygoing grin stretching over his square jaw. “Oh.” Disappointment lodged deep in her soul.

  “Thought you might be here.”

  “Did—did Harley send you?”

  Weston’s smile, one that had melted more female hearts than it should have, curved easily upward. “Nope. Came on my own.”

  “But how did you know that I—”

  He leaned a hip against the railing of the deck and folded his arms over his chest. “When you leave a message at the office, word gets around.”

  “I didn’t leave—”

  He waved off her explanation. “Doesn’t matter. I just came by with some advice.”

  The muscles in her back tightened. “I don’t remember asking for any.”

  “Believe me, you need it.” Weston glanced at her and sighed. “You know, Kendall, I’m surprised at you. I always thought you were a smart girl, one who knew what she wanted and figured out how to get it.”

  “With Harley it’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just not so simple.”

  “Sure it is.”

  She ran frustrated fingers through her hair. “How?”

  “Well, take advantage of the fact that he’s not all that smart—don’t argue the point, okay,” he said, holding up a palm when she tried to protest. “We both know his limits.” Weston’s grin bordered on evil.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Trap him.”

  “What?” Had she heard him right?

  “Get pregnant.”

  Her lips pursed. “I would never—”

  “Sure you would,” he cut in, looking suddenly bored. “I overheard your last conversation with him. You’ve got him on the ropes, now finish it.” He hoisted himself onto the rail, back to the ocean, and stared at her. “Don’t tell me you don’t have the guts Kendall, because I don’t believe it. I think you’re a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it.”

  She bit her lip and considered. “What—what if there’s no baby.”

  “Then make one.”

  She’d never thought Weston was an idiot, but he acted as if all she had to do was wave a magic wand and . . . “I can’t just pretend.”

  “I didn’t say to pretend. I said make a baby.”

  “I think I’ll need Harley for that.”

  Weston stared at her as if she were incredibly dense. “Come on, Kendall. Harley’s weak. Everyone knows it. All you’ve got to do is seduce him.”

  “Seduce him? Just like that?”

  “Trust me, he won’t be able to say no.”

  She considered his proposal. It had merit, true, but she didn’t want to take any advice from Weston. He never did anything without a purpose—his own purpose. Eyeing him as she adjusted the umbrella sprouting from an outdoor table, she asked, “Why do you care?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to the ocean, as if weighing his answer. “Don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said that I was doing it because I cared about my brother.”

  “Nope. Try again. What’s in it for you?”

  “Okay. Harley’s a pain in the butt. Now he’s mooning around about Claire Holland, talking about marrying her—”

  Kendall gasped, a pain sharp in her heart. Never once had he mentioned marriage to her.

  “—and that would be a disaster.”

  “For you?”

  “Yeah, and the whole damned family. Dad’s so worked up about it, he can hardly concentrate on running the business. Going to give himself a heart attack or a stroke. Paige is upset, and I’ll bet my eyeteeth old Dutch doesn’t like it any better than the rest of us. This whole feud thing will start up again, and it will probably kill Dad.”

  His argument didn’t ring true. Weston had never cared about anyone in his family. He’d always been out for number one, and there had never been a number two or three in his life. “There’s more to this, isn’t there? This is personal.”

  A muscle worked in Weston’s square jaw. “Harley can’t have a Holland,” he said bluntly.

  “Why not?”

  His gaze narrowed as it slid back to her. “Because he doesn’t deserve any one of them—even Claire.”

  “But he does deserve me?” Had he come here just to insult her?

  “Look, I’m offering you a way to get what you want, that’s all.”

  “So that Harley doesn’t marry Claire and mess up whatever plans you’ve got.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “What if he won’t be seduced?”

  “Get a phony pregnancy test result, marry him, and get pregnant on the wedding night. Figure it out, Kendall, this isn’t exactly brain surgery.”

  She gnawed on her lip. “What if it takes three or four months to get pregnant? He’ll know—”

  Weston swore under his breath, and when he looked at her it was with a new high-powered intensity. “You want a baby to seal this deal?” he asked.

  “I—I guess.”

  “Then I’ll give you one.”

  “What?” The saliva dried in her mouth. She couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly.

  “I’ll get you pregnant.” He dropped to the deck and advanced on her. Despite her loathing for him, she felt a thrill slide down her spine.

  “You?”

  “Same gene pool as Harley. Same blood type. There wouldn’t be any question of paternity.”

  “Oh, God.” Her heart was racing as her gaze locked with his. “What . . . what would you get out of this?” She swallowed hard as his gaze slid slowly down her body, then returned to her face.

  “Your undying affection and gratitude.”

  “I don’t think I can—”

  “Not even to be Harley�
�s wife?” He reached for her hand, drew it up to his lips, and kissed the inside of her palm.

  Her knees went weak, but she yanked her hand back quickly, as if his kiss had seared her skin. “This is nuts. No way—”

  “Think of it. You’ll be Mrs. Harley Taggert.”

  “With your baby.”

  “You could miscarry . . .”

  She nearly threw up, and one hand shot up to cover her mouth. “You’re beyond perverted.”

  “Just trying to help.” She turned away, but he was quick and wrapped strong arms around her middle so that her breasts were resting on his forearms. “Think about it, Kendall,” he whispered into her ear as the ocean rumbled on the other side of the dunes and a hot July sun slowly lowered on the horizon. “We could have a little fun and then . . . bingo, you get Harley. What could it hurt?”

  “Everything,” she said, disgusted, though her skin, where he touched it, tingled. “You could ruin everything.”

  He laughed against her ear. “Don’t think so, babe. You’ve done a good enough job of that yourself.” He released her and headed for the steps. Before rounding the corner, he called over his shoulder, “But if you’re content to let Harley slip through your fingers so that he can marry Claire Holland, don’t blame me. Nope, honey, you’ll only be able to blame yourself for that one.”

  Harley’s voice had a definite edge to it. “I’m sorry, Claire, I’ll call you later, but something’s come up. Business. Dad won’t let me out of it.”

  Closing her eyes, Claire wrapped the phone cord around her fingers and fought the urge to scream. Something was wrong, definitely wrong, and all those doubts she tried so valiantly to hold at bay continued to inch closer, crowding her. “He’s just trying to keep us apart.”

  “I know, but I’ll see you later. You know I will.”

  “It’s been over a week.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, and Claire could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. Was he lying to her? Avoiding her? Why not just break it off? Despair clutched her soul. She loved Harley, adored him and yet . . .

  “We’ll meet later—well, probably not tonight but soon. I swear. Claire, I miss you.”