by Lisa Jackson
“You wanted to know.”
“Oh, God.”
“And, believe me, I would never, never treat you like that bastard Taggert does.” Then he let go. His own stupid words ringing through his ears, he walked back to his bike, hooked the heel of his boot over the kick-start, and jumped down hard. The machine roared to life, and Kane rode away, knowing she was standing just where he’d left her, on the edge of the porch, probably laughing at him and his sick romantic fantasies.
“Fool,” he ground out as the bike whipped through the gates of her father’s estate. “Goddamned idiot fool.”
He roared toward town, hoping to outrun the feeling that he’d made the worst mistake of his life when he noticed the first cop car, coming up behind him fast. Lights—red, blue, and white—strafed the night, sirens screamed.
Glancing at his speedometer he knew the police had nailed him. At seventy-five he was twenty miles over the speed limit. He pulled off at a wide spot in the road and the police cruiser sped by, the officer never turning his head in Kane’s direction. A second later an ambulance blew by and then another cop car appeared over the rise, bearing down on him with a fury, only to race past.
Heart hammering, Kane pulled onto the highway again and was relieved for a few minutes as he drove over the final hill into town. As bad as the night had been, at least he didn’t have another ticket . . . then he saw them, the stream of cars turning off on Third Street near the old feed mill. Cop cars were parked at odd angles, policemen were guiding traffic and pedestrians past the fifth house on the left, the neat cottage owned by Ruby and Hank Songbird.
Kane’s first thought was Jack. The law was always crawling up Jack’s shorts. He was sure to be in the thick of it. What now? He’d already been arrested for a car theft when he was sixteen, minor in possession of alcohol at seventeen, shooting mailboxes and lampposts just before he turned eighteen, but now things would be worse. He would be looked upon as an adult—a serious criminal—rather than a juvenile delinquent who was just full of piss and vinegar.
Kane drove down the clogged street, over the railroad tracks that sliced through this part of town, and cut the engine of the bike while a policeman, Officer Tooley, whom Kane had the pleasure of knowing personally, waved him on. “Let’s go, people, let’s go. Nothin’ to see here. Move along.”
“What happened?” Kane demanded.
“It’s the boy. He was hurt. Fell off the cliffs at Stone Illahee,” one of the bystanders, a withered-looking man in a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants said.
Kane didn’t move. His heart stopped beating for a second. “Jack?” he hardly dared ask. For the love of God what had happened? Kane thought of him as he’d last seen his friend, cocky, half-drunk, and running off with a rifle strapped across his back.
“Come on, people, let’s move,” Tooley was intoning as he waved his flashlight and cars clogged the narrow street.
From in the house a keening wail, the kind of grief-stricken cry only a woman in the throes of deep despair could utter, erupted.
“Oh, dear God,” a woman behind him whispered as she made the sign of the cross over her bosom with deft, well-practiced fingers. “Dear Lord in heaven, please listen to our prayers—”
Kane couldn’t stand it a second longer, and, ignoring the cops, he ran to the front door just as it was thrown open and silhouetted by the dim light of the house, Crystal raced outside. Without a word she flung herself into Kane’s arms and began sobbing hysterically. Deep, heart-rending gasps racked her small body and scraped his soul as rain began to fall.
“Jack!” she cried. “Jack! Oh, God, Jack!”
“Shh,” Kane whispered, despair clawing at his soul. He was holding her, stroking her hair, trying to calm her when his own mind was screaming denials.
“For the love of God, no!” she cried.
“Crystal, please. Honey, it’s gonna be all right.”
“Never,” she said with a finality that killed all his hope. “Oh, Jesus, Kane, he’s gone.”
“Gone?” But he knew before she said the damning words, he knew. Jack Songbird, cocky hellion, an arrogant son of a bitch whom Kane thought of as his only friend, was dead. Anger coursed through his blood, and his stomach clenched in disbelief. Tears burned the back of his eyes, and his fists curled. He wanted to hit, to scream, to flail at fate. But he couldn’t. Not now, not with Crystal falling apart in his arms.
As gently as possible, he guided her back up the unpainted steps and through the front door. Jack’s father Hank stood near the fireplace, dry-eyed, his face lined with an unspeakable sorrow, his fingers working nervously.
Ruby rocked in a chair near the cold grate, her eyes fixed on the braided carpet, staring, as she witnessed visions only she could see. She chanted softly under her breath in a smooth cadence and a language Kane couldn’t understand. An aunt, Lucy Something-Or-Other, pried Crystal from his arms.
“The boy brought this on himself,” his father said, stoical as ever.
“Jack wouldn’t fall.” Crystal’s voice, though trembling, was filled with conviction. “He was as surefooted as an antelope. He’d been on that ridge a million times.”
“He was drunk.” Hank’s tone brooked no argument.
“It doesn’t matter.”
Ruby closed her eyes, and she spoke sharply, the words that passed through her lips hard and foreign in the language of her elders. When her eyelids raised, she looked directly at Kane. “A curse,” she explained dry-eyed, lips quivering, chin wobbling. “A curse upon the man who killed my boy.”
Hank snorted. “Then you’ve cursed our own son’s soul, Ruby.” He stared at his wife with searching black eyes, but he didn’t touch her, didn’t offer her so much as a moment’s consolation. These two people suffered alone. “Jack-the-fool killed Jack-our-boy. There is nothing more to it.”
With a final grunt, Weston collapsed, sweating, the image of Miranda planted firmly in his mind as he placed a final wet kiss on Kendall’s passionless lips. No wonder Harley hadn’t been interested in her. She made love like a rag doll, just lying there, nearly frowning as he’d done all the work. But Weston didn’t care. He needed time to clear his head, to think. His life, he felt, was slipping out of his control, and he’d begun to act rashly without thinking things through, and he couldn’t afford to foul up now.
He was screwing Kendall, Tessa, and Crystal, a juggling act that was surprisingly less than satisfying, and he was still concerned that his old man had another family tucked away, or at least a son who was poised ready to come forward and demand part of the Taggert estate, and then there was the other thing . . . a darker, more sinister part of him that had come to the surface just last night . . . His blood ran alternately hot and cold thinking of it.
“Get off me.” Kendall pushed on his shoulder.
“You know, you could help out with this,” he teased, slapping her on her skinny rump as he rolled to the side of the bed.
She cringed. “It’s so disgusting.”
“What?” he said with a grin as he reached for his crumpled pack of cigarettes, “Oh, Kendall, I’m wounded.” He spread one hand over his chest, above his heart as he shook out a Marlboro with the other. “Deeply wounded.”
“Save it for someone who believes it.” She snagged a beach cover-up from the chair near the bed and flung it over her head.
“You could have fun, if you let yourself.” He reached for his lighter.
“Let’s get this straight, Weston, this is not fun.” She cinched the tie around her slim waist and walked to the windows, where the shades were drawn. “I just hope it works.”
“It will. Given time.”
She shuddered.
“Is it that bad?” Clicking the lighter, he watched the flame catch on the end of his cigarette.
“You don’t get it, do you? I love Harley. He’s the only boy I’ve ever made it with . . . well, until now, but this is different.” Her chin quivered a little, but she had too much steel in her backbone to break
down. “I’m just doing this for the baby.”
Cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth, Weston reached for his slacks and slid his legs into the wrinkled khakis. “But you want to keep on, right?”
“Until I’m sure. Yes.” Arms wrapped protectively around her middle, she added, “I thought you were seeing Tessa Holland.”
“Bad news travels fast.”
“So you really are,” she said, disgust in her voice.
Slowly, he fastened his buckle. “Yeah, so what?”
“You really are an alley cat, aren’t you?” she asked, peering through the blinds to the night outside. “If you’re involved with Tessa, why did you call out Miranda’s name when you were with me?”
“Did I?” He reached for his shirt. Of course he’d let his fantasies run wild while trying to get some kind of response from Kendall, whom he now considered queen of the tight, dry cunts.
“Yes.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, it’s always been a fantasy of mine.”
“A fantasy?” She blanched.
“Yep, doing all three Holland sisters.”
Her nose wrinkled in revulsion. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Well, not all at the same time, of course—unless that’s the way they’d want it.”
“Weston, enough. God, how can you even think about that?”
His laugh was brittle. “Now, Kendall, what’s this sense of latent virtue all about? You don’t have much room to judge since you just fucked me so that you can pass off my kid as Harley’s.”
“Oh, God.” She buried her face in her hands.
But he didn’t stop. Who the hell did she think she was? “Just remember, Kendall, you’re balling me so that you can trick Harley into marrying you.”
“I know, but it’s because I love him.” She gave out a little sob and hiccup.
“Noble.”
“You hate me.”
“Of course I don’t.” Jeez, he hated it when females tried to pull the martyr bit on him. “Listen, just relax. Enjoy what we’re doing.” A cloud of smoke rolled up from his mouth. “It could be a lot more fun than you’re making it, and you might just learn some tricks for when you’re finally with my brother again.”
She actually gagged. Christ, what a mental case she was.
Buttoning his shirt, he took a long drag on his Marlboro. “Tomorrow? Same time, same place?”
She sagged into a chair and hung her head, looking for all the world like the sacrificial lamb being led to the slaughter. “Yes,” she said so softly he could barely hear her.
“I’ll be ready,” he promised as he opened the door and slunk into the night. The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t enjoying their trysts any more than she was. Weston had always prided himself on his ability to please a woman, to make her come with just the right words or touch. But Kendall wasn’t giving an inch. He’d tried everything short of rape to get her attention, and she was just going through the motions, lying on the bed, eyes closed, legs spread, nipples soft while he performed like a goddamned robot. It would serve her right if she didn’t get pregnant.
But then that would foul things up. The thought that his seed was planted in Kendall’s womb was comforting. Not only would Kendall get Harley to marry her, but the child would actually be Weston’s descendant. He could use his paternity as a bargaining chip in making sure Kendall always came to heel, and if the truth came out, he’d claim the kid and whatever parcel of the Taggert inheritance—Harley’s inheritance—the child would eventually end up with.
Yeah, screwing Kendall, though not physically charged, was worth the half hour of work.
He slid into his Porsche and tried not to notice the deep gash that ran from the front fender to the taillights—an ugly scar made by a coward. His jaw tightened in silent fury that anyone would have the nerve to maim the sleek machine. With an engine that hummed and paint that looked liquid in the right light, the Porsche was a classic. He felt the engine rumble to life as he switched on the ignition. This sleek baby was a woman you could count on.
He threw the racy machine into first and nosed out of the drive of Kendall’s parents’ beach house. He should have been sated; it had been a long hard day at the mill, starting with the fight. Jack Songbird had come in late, been stupid enough to try and alter his time card, and then mocked Weston, spitting at his feet. Weston had savored every minute of firing him while his coworkers looked on. Later they’d had it out and . . . poor Jack, a pathetic drunk, had fallen off the cliffs near Stone Illahee. Weston smiled to himself and felt the jackknife deep in his pants pocket—the knife with flecks of red paint on its ugly blade, a perfect match to the color of his car.
Yep, it had been a long emotionally charged day. Too bad that it had ended in Kendall’s cold bed. What should have been a hot, satisfying fuck had been a disappointment. Screwing Kendall was as passionless as jacking off—coming dry. He was still keyed up and restless.
He needed a real woman with hot blood and wild imagination. He thought of Tessa; she was always ready, but deep in his heart he knew that she wouldn’t cool the fire in his blood. Nope, the only woman guaranteed to satisfy him was her older sister. Miranda. Just you wait, honey, he thought with a low chuckle. Someday soon I’m going to show you what love is all about.
Sixteen
Kendall dialed the phone reluctantly. What could she tell Harley? That she’d just started her period? That after three thrilling days of being late, she’d finally felt cramps and begun to bleed?
Could she put up with another month of doing it with Weston just so that she could trap his younger brother into a marriage Harley didn’t want? A tear slid down her face and she wondered why she’d fallen in love with Harley. Why, when she could have dated anyone she wanted, had she set her sights on Harley? She couldn’t explain to herself why she’d fallen for him, but she had, and the thought that Claire Holland, a tomboy without any figure to speak of, had stolen him away was a double punch to her already bruised ego.
Her parents didn’t help. Her mother’s constant questions—“What happened between you and that cute Taggert boy? Why don’t you date someone else? Anna Prescott’s son has been asking about you, he’s awfully good-looking, and his family has money and—” It never ended.
“Taggert residence,” a cool voice intoned.
“I’d like to speak with Harley,” she said.
“Mr. Taggert’s out right now.”
She checked her watch, but it was past five, and she knew that Harley never stayed late. “When do you expect him?”
“Later. May I tell him you called?”
“No . . . I’ll try again,” she said, and hung up as tears filled her eyes. Harley was with Claire, she could feel it in her bones. Two-timing jerk, that’s what he was.
She flung herself onto the bed in the beach house and stared up at the ceiling. Maybe she was going about this all wrong. Thinking she might be pregnant wasn’t changing his mind, but if she did something drastic and landed in the hospital, maybe even claiming she’d lost the baby . . . but there were probably tests for that sort of thing. Someone at the hospital would figure it out . . . What was she going to do?
The thought of making it with Weston turned her stomach. She hated herself each time he came over. Her skin crawled at his touch. He’d tried, she’d give him that, touching her and kissing her and attempting to turn her on, but she’d resisted and now sometimes he didn’t even take off his clothes, just tore down her panties, opened his fly, and pumped some Taggert sperm into her. When it was over, he always lit a cigarette and smiled down at her lying on the wrinkled sheets, offering her a smoke and making her feel dirtier than ever.
But it would be worth it. If only she’d get pregnant! Well, she’d just have to try harder. Make Weston do it more than once a day.
Bile rose in the back of her throat, but she told herself she could stomach making love with him a little longer. As soon as her period was over. She’d just pretend that he was Harl
ey. And since she was going to make love to Harley, she’d take scented baths, put on her laciest teddy, and light candles in her room. When Weston came by in a few days, she’d kiss and touch him, slowly remove his clothes and seduce him just as she had his younger brother.
Romance was what she needed; not just sex.
But she had to have a backup plan. There was a chance that she couldn’t get pregnant, so she had to think of another way for Harley to see the light, to realize that she was the woman for him and that Claire, the bitch, wasn’t.
She would need help if she was going to make Claire look bad; otherwise, the plan might backfire. She would have to depend upon someone else to do her dirty work. Someone as dedicated to her cause as she. Someone who would do what she asked without questioning her judgment. Someone like Harley’s twerp of a sister. Paige would do anything Kendall wanted.
The day of the funeral dawned hot and sticky. Storm clouds collected on the horizon, but there wasn’t a breath of breeze. Jack’s ashes were cast from the very cliffs from which he’d fallen, dusty cinders strewn over the rocky shoals far below.
Claire felt sick inside as she stood with her sisters and mother. Dutch was away on business, but had sent his condolences—a large horseshoe of lilies and a check made out to Ruby’s family, to do with what they wanted. As if money would help.
Claire had hardly known Jack, but Ruby had worked for their family for years, and she’d been friends with Crystal, who sat, dry-eyed, staring out to sea, pale beneath her coppery skin. Without makeup she looked young and vulnerable as she twisted a red bandanna—the one Jack wore, Claire supposed—in her small hands.
Tessa rolled her eyes as a man from what had once been a thriving coastal tribe spoke. He looked no more Native American than anyone else, with his short-cropped gray hair and weathered skin, but apparently he had some authority and spoke in terms of the tribe and Jack’s position and all young people today. Claire heard nothing but the thunder of the sea and the piercing cries of seagulls whirling and spinning overhead.