Whispers

by Lisa Jackson

  During the second trimester of her pregnancy with Samantha Claire first learned of her husband’s infidelities. One of Paul’s colleagues had let it slip that he’d been seeing another woman on the staff. From that point on, the marriage had gone downhill and eventually foundered.

  Claire and Paul had split up years before but the divorce hadn’t been final until this past year when Paul, visiting Sean, had met Jessica Stewart, Sean’s girlfriend and had promptly seduced her.

  That same sick feeling rolled over Claire again, the nausea that accompanied thoughts of her husband and a girl too young to have been involved in consensual sex.

  “Don’t think of it,” she told herself as she turned her attention back to the Moran cottage and wondered again about Kane. Was he there? Her heart skipped a beat, and she closed her eyes. It was useless to think of him. Whatever innocent love or lust they had shared was over a long, long time ago.

  He’d quit six years before, but now, staring at the torchlights burning across the lake, Kane wanted a cigarette. And he wanted one badly. Like runway beacons showing a pilot the correct path, those golden torches lured him into unknown and dangerous waters.

  Knowing full well that he was making a mistake of the highest order, he unleashed the old motorboat at his dock, shoved off and primed the engine. Grabbing hold of the handle he jerked hard on the pull start. With a crack and a sputter, the twelve-horse Evinrude caught fire and Kane opened her up. The little boat flew across the water, prow slicing the surface, white wake churning behind, wind whistling through his hair as his fingers sweated over the handle.

  After interviewing witnesses all afternoon and learning less than he’d hoped, he’d given up his idea of seeing Claire again. He wasn’t ready; there was just too much about her that he found intriguing. He lost his objectivity when he was near her, and instead of the hard-edged, pushy, news-or-nothing reporter he’d always prided himself on being, he reverted back to those hellish teenage years when he was randy as a wild stallion and wanted to make love to Claire Holland every way up from sideways. As a horny kid, he’d spent nights touching himself, imagining his tongue running up and down her body, between her breasts, and down her spine. In his mind’s eye he’d seen himself kiss the dewy thatch of red-brown curls sprouting between her legs before touching her wildly with his tongue as he explored the dark and moist secrets of her womanhood. He imagined stripping her of clothes, of kissing her breasts until they blushed and filled in his hands, of sucking like a newborn babe until she was trembling and filled with the same heart-pounding, hot-blooded lust that coursed through his veins.

  Those same old fantasies had reawakened lately and he, always in control, the cool journalist who never let a woman get too close to his heart, was a frustrated, horny teenager again.

  “Shit,” he growled. A smoke wouldn’t solve the problem. Neither would a pint of whiskey or another woman. Nothing but bedding Claire Holland St. John would.

  The torchlights grew brighter and the scent of citronella wafted in the hazy smoke that curled heavenward from the torches. Claire was seated on the dock, her slim legs dangling into the water, a shiny white wrap surrounding her body.

  He cut the engine and the boat drifted slowly to the pier. She was watching him, her eyes luminous in the moonlight, her face scrubbed free of makeup.

  He flung the anchor line around a rotting post and hopped onto the dock.

  “You’re trespassing,” she said, as she had in the past.

  God, she was gorgeous. “Good to see you, too.”

  “It seems to be a habit with you.”

  He grinned and sat next to her, stretching his legs on the dock, facing away from the water and staring at her face. “One I haven’t been able to break.”

  “It’ll get you into trouble.”

  “Already has.” Just looking at her heated his blood, and the beginnings of an erection stirred deep in his loins.

  “So why’re you here?” Her gaze, silver in the moonlight, drilled into his.

  “Couldn’t sleep. Saw the lights.”

  Her jaw slid to one side, and her fingers brushed at the deck. “So it’s not because you’re trying to dig up some dirt on my father for your book?”

  “I’m just looking for the truth.”

  “Are you?” She shook her head and sighed. “No way, Kane. This is some kind of vendetta with you.”

  He wanted to argue, but bit his tongue. No more lies. There could be no more lies.

  “What is it? Why do you hate us so much?”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Don’t you?” She whirled, dragging her feet out of the water, sending a spray of drops over the dock and his shoulders so that she, too, was facing away from the lake, her shoulder brushing against his. “Then why don’t you just leave us all alone?”

  “I have a deal—”

  “You said yourself this isn’t about money, so what is it?” she demanded, her teeth flashing as brightly as the fire in her eyes.

  “Something that needs to be done.”

  “Just to derail my father from his bid for the governorship?” she asked, frowning into the darkness. “I don’t think so. Why would you care?”

  “We go way back, me and your dad.”

  “To your father’s accident?” she asked, and when he didn’t answer immediately, she looked over her shoulder to the lake. “I’m not standing up for Dutch,” she admitted. “He . . . he’s never been perfect, and what happened to your father was unforgivable.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Don’t I?” She glanced at him with her wide, furious eyes, and he was undone. Her cheekbones, more pronounced as she turned, her lips, moist and shining, her eyebrows lifted in skeptical disbelief, all worked against his hard-fought promise to himself that he wouldn’t touch her again, would never step across that painful barrier. But as he watched her, his determination began to crumble, and the images that had kept him awake at nights, of her lying naked in his arms, became more real, more attainable. He smelled her skin, freshened by the scent of perfume, and the fire between his legs became a furnace. “I know that your father paid an ex-con to haul him over here years ago. The man helped Hampton break into the house, and then the two of them took chain saws to the stairs, decapitating the posts of their art.”

  Stunned, Kane didn’t move. “What?”

  “That’s right, Moran. Your old man came into the house and trashed the place. The only reason Dutch didn’t press charges is because he was afraid of the bad press. It would’ve made your father, a poor unfortunate cripple, the underdog. A victim. So it was all hushed up and forgotten.” She sighed and blew her bangs from her eyes. “Not that it matters now,” she said. “Dad’s fixing the railing now that we’re here and . . . well, I guess I understand why your father was angry. Why he hated us.”

  “Not you. Just Dutch.”

  “As you do.”

  A muscle leapt in Kane’s jaw, but it relaxed when Claire placed her hand over his.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. I know your father died, and I’m sorry.”

  “He’s better off,” Kane said, as the softness of her fingers stroked the back of his hand.

  As if she realized what she was doing, she pulled away. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He was a miserable son of a bitch while he was alive. Maybe he’s found some peace now.” But he didn’t believe it. Hampton Moran’s soul would be as tormented and angry in the afterlife as it was when he’d walked this earth. He’d been a furious man with a chip on his shoulder before the accident that had crippled him, and afterward he’d let his dissatisfaction and jealousy eat a hole in his heart and poison his system so that his wife had left him and his son slowly lost all respect and love for the shell of a man he’d become.

  “I won’t be used, you know,” she said softly.

  “Used?”

  “By you. For your book. I know you’ve been snooping around, poking your nose into the
past, but if you came here because you thought I’d tell you some great secrets about the night Harley died, then you’re wrong.”

  “I came here because I wanted to see you,” he said, surprised at his own honesty. “I was going to come by earlier, try and talk to you about the past, but I was too tired, then I saw the torchlights and—” he caught himself before he said too much, but then he looked into her eyes and his soul clutched. Before he could stop himself, he reached upward and cupped the back of her head, drawing her face to his.

  “Kane—no—” she said breathlessly, his tongue brushing those perfect lips. “I can’t—”

  But it was too late. His mouth claimed hers and memories of what it felt like to be with her, to touch her, to take her supple body with his own, washed over him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Her breathing was as erratic as his own, he could feel the flutter of her heartbeat against his chest. “Claire,” he whispered. “Claire—”

  She moaned, opening her mouth, offering him access to the inside of her. His tongue touched her teeth and the ridges of the roof of her mouth before finding its mate and dancing in a sensual and moist intimacy that caused his erection to grow and ache.

  He felt her shudder and he reached upward, scaling her ribs with his thumbs, reaching inside the shiny wrap with his fingers, unfastening the tiny buttons of her nightgown.

  “Kane—oooh.” His fingers delved beneath the soft layers and found her breast, full and hot, the nipple erect and waiting. “Please—” With one hand he clutched her hair, with the other he stroked her breast and opened her robe, exposing more of her white skin to the night, watching in fascination as one glorious globe spilled out of the fabric and the slit opened farther, giving him a glimpse of the firm tight muscles of her abdomen, the erotic impression of her navel, and a glimpse of her reddish curls where her legs joined.

  With a groan, he lowered himself until he could kiss her breast. She arched upward and he licked at the nipple, feeling her heat, knowing she was as eager as he.

  Encircling his head with her arms, she held him close, writhing against him as he opened his mouth and sucked hungrily. She began to pant, to breathe in short sharp breaths, and she didn’t fight him, but moved closer, as if she, too, couldn’t resist. Her hips ground against his, and he slid one hand through the fabric of her robe, touching her abdomen and reaching farther downward until he grazed the juncture of her legs with his fingers. She cried out as his hand cupped her thigh before touching that warm soft haven deep within her. She shuddered and moved with him, tossing her head back, losing herself. “Kane,” she cried, as he delved deeper still and then, as if realizing she was at the point of no return, she grabbed his arm with her hands. “Oh, no,” she whispered, as if suddenly realizing where she was and with whom. “No, no, no!”

  He froze, his fingers still deep in that sacred warm center of her.

  “Oh, God. Oh, no.” She moved away from him and then moaned as if in agony. “Kane, please—we can’t just . . . Oh, God, I’m a mother . . . I’m too old to—”

  “Shh.” He hushed her by gathering her close, wrapping both arms around her and fastening his lips over hers. His crotch was on fire, his manhood throbbing to join with her, but he forced himself to slow down, to quiet his breathing, to realize that she was right. They couldn’t finish this act. Not now. Not ever. “I’m sorry,” he said when at last he could speak.

  She trembled in his arms. “Don’t be.”

  “But—”

  “Please.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and cradled his head between her hands. “I know what you’re feeling. God, do I, but . . . there’s too much between us. Too much time. Too many memories. Too many mistakes.” She blinked rapidly as if fighting tears and then, as he held her, she slipped out of his grasp. “I . . . I just can’t do this . . . not yet. I don’t even know you.”

  “You know me,” he said. “You remember.”

  “Yes.” Tears tracked down her cheeks. “I do.” She licked her lips nervously, as if there was something she wanted to tell him, some dark and painful secret, but she suddenly shook her head, and then she was on her feet, running away from him as fast as her bare feet would carry her.

  Twenty-five

  “I’m tellin’ ya, the man’s got no past,” Petrillo said as he plopped himself into the one chair pushed up against Miranda’s desk. After more than a week off, she was back on the job, determined to keep her equilibrium, refusing to let her father or one of his henchmen, particularly Styles, run her life. “It’s as if Denver Styles doesn’t exist. No police records, nothing through the computers or Social Security or the IRS or the DMV.” He reached into the pocket of his too-tight sport coat and found a pack of Juicy Fruit. “My guess is his name is a phony; he’s got an alias.”

  Miranda, seated behind neat stacks of mail and files on current cases the department was prosecuting, shuddered. She touched the scar on her neck, and refused to let her mind wander toward the murky depths of that time in her life. Instead she wondered about her father’s latest employee.

  “How did your old man get in touch with him?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Humph. Probably didn’t go through the Yellow Pages.” Petrillo unwrapped a stick of gum, then folded it neatly before plopping the wad into his mouth. His pager went off and he glanced at the readout, then scowled as he turned it off.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Styles could be connected to the underworld.”

  “I don’t think he’s a mobster, if that’s what you’re getting at,” Miranda said, conjuring up a picture of Denver Styles in her mind. Handsome, cold, arrogant, and something else, yes, persistent. She didn’t doubt that once Styles set his mind to do something, it was done. No pussyfooting around. She bit her lip nervously. He bothered her. He bothered her a lot.

  “Well, if he ain’t connected with the Mafia, then he’s connected to somethin’ else, and I’ll bet ya dollars to doughnuts that it ain’t on the up and up, if ya know what I mean. Upstandin’ citizens have addresses, phone numbers, licenses for their cars and dogs, and are registered with the military and the government. This guy—Styles—it’s like he’s a ghost.” He snapped his gum and rubbed one jowl. “But I ain’t givin’ up,” Petrillo promised. “I’ll find out who he is and what he’s doin’ connected with your old man one way or another.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Tail him, if I have to.” His brown eyes twinkled at the prospect of a challenge. “I want to find out just what this guy’s story is.”

  “So do I,” Miranda thought aloud. She picked up a pencil and tapped it lightly on the blotter covering the middle of her desk. Just who was Denver Styles? How had he linked up with her father? Was he a political ally or some kind of shady private investigator, kind of a soldier of fortune, a man who would do anything for the right amount of cash? Her pencil tapped out a rhythm as she glanced up at Frank and saw him staring at her. “I don’t mean to take up a lot of your time on this guy. You’ve got to have other work for the department.”

  “I’ll squeeze Styles in,” Petrillo said, turning on his pager again. “It could be fun.”

  And it could be dangerous, Miranda thought as she remembered Denver Styles’s intense gray eyes, determined set of chin, and general aura that when he set out to do something, it got done.

  Well, not this time.

  Claire’s hands shook as she poured herself a cup of coffee. What had she been thinking? Kissing Kane Moran. Touching him. Letting him touch her. Even now, in the kitchen, with the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, she tingled between her legs when she thought of his hands, mouth, and tongue and the wonderful ministrations that had turned her inside out. She’d nearly made love to him. As if all the years, all the lies, all the pain didn’t exist.

  As if he wasn’t Sean’s father.

  For the love of God, what was she going to do?

  “You’re a fool,” she
muttered under her breath as she poured pancake flour into a mixing bowl. Cracking two eggs with a vengeance and adding milk, she tried to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the wickedly delicious sensations Kane had created in her body.

  It had been a long time since she’d been with a man. Years. She’d probably just reacted out of desperation, nothing more. As she stirred the pancake batter, she stared out the window and across the lake to Kane’s cabin. She had to forget what they had once shared—because he was a changed man, a man with a vendetta against her family.

  Don’t trust him. He’s only using you to get information for his damned book. Remember that.

  And yet her body still tingled at the memories.

  Pouring batter onto the hot griddle, she heard Samantha’s light tread on the stairs. If Paul hadn’t done anything else right in his miserable life, at least he’d blessed her with their daughter.

  Sam burst into the room. Already dressed in her swimsuit and slathered with tanning oil, she carried a beach basket which she plopped onto the counter. “Where’s Sean?”

  “Asleep, I think. Why don’t you wake him up and tell him breakfast’s about ready?”

  “He’s not in his bed. I already checked.”

  “No?” That was odd. Sean was known to sleep until two in the afternoon. “Maybe he went horseback riding,” she said, though her heart was suddenly heavy.

  Sam pulled a face. “He hates horses. He’s into computer games and skateboarding.”

  That much was true, and through the French doors Claire saw all three horses, heads lowered to the ground as they plucked at a few blades of grass and switched their ears and tails against bothersome flies.

  “Then a hike.”

  “Early in the morning? With who?”

  “Whom,” Claire responded out of habit.

  “Okay, whom? He doesn’t have any friends up here. He’s always e-mailing or instant-messaging kids back in Colorado.”

  “He’ll make some new friends when school starts.”