by Lisa Jackson
Twenty-nine
The gun bothered him. As Kane reread all the information concerning Harley Taggert’s death, he kept coming back to the gun—a small caliber pistol without a registration. At the time the detectives had dismissed the weapon, even though it had been found in the silt of the bay not twenty feet from where Harley Taggert’s body had been floating. It had prints on it, but none that matched anyone’s.
So why was it there? Could it have been used in another crime and just tossed into the bay, turning up coincidentally at the same time as Harley’s body? Or could someone have thrown it into the dark waters just to complicate the investigation and send the cops looking in the wrong direction? Was it a fluke or important evidence? Did it have anything to do with Claire? His heart jolted as he thought of her again, of making love to her. Visions of her naked body drenched in moonlight bombarded his brain, caught him off guard, and made him horny as hell. Remembering the touch and feel of her skin against his brought him to arousal and he found himself plotting ways to be with her, to touch her, kiss her, and feel her heartbeat as she trembled in his arms. He wanted nothing more than to get her alone, to make love to her over and over again, exploring every part of her body with his tongue and lips.
Hell, he was turning himself on just thinking of her, and he didn’t have time to fantasize. Not now. Not when he felt he was close to piecing together what had happened that night.
Of course the sisters had lied. They were either in it together or protecting each other, but he didn’t know which. He couldn’t picture Claire as being a cold-blooded killer, but maybe there had been an accident. Maybe after she told Harley she was breaking up with him, he’d gotten violent, yelled and screamed and told her he wouldn’t let her leave. Perhaps they’d struggled and in the ensuing fight, in self-defense, she’d hit him hard with a rock or other odd-shaped object, and he’d fallen overboard.
No. That couldn’t be right. If Harley was killed accidentally, why not call the police? Why run? Why come up with some cockamamie story about being at the drive-in and convince your sister to drive her car into the middle of Lake Arrowhead? No, it didn’t make sense. But nothing did.
As he stared at the picture of the small pistol, he doubted that he’d ever know the truth. And then Dutch Holland wouldn’t have to pay for all his sins. Kane walked to the front porch, where his father in the years before his death had sculpted so many stumps into bears and such. There had been no love lost between himself and Hampton Moran, and Kane had felt only mild sympathy for a man who had made the least of an unfortunate accident, continually blaming the owner of the company for his misery.
But Kane hadn’t known the whole truth way back then. He hadn’t realized that his mother had become Dutch’s mistress, that she’d moved to Portland, lived in a condominium and been supported by Benedict Holland, that the checks for three hundred dollars each month had really come from Dutch. Claire’s father.
“Bastard,” Kane muttered under his breath. His mother had died from heart failure just this past winter and Kane had learned the painful truth that Alice Moran had left her husband and only son to become Dutch Holland’s mistress.
Kane’s stomach turned over at the thought of his mother and Dutch and he remembered the nights he’d been alone in his room, waiting for her to return, fighting back tears, refusing to believe that she’d really abandoned him. He’d always held out hope that she’d return. Even his father’s harsh words, reminding him that she was just “a rich man’s whore,” or that “she didn’t care nothin’ for you or me boy. Nope. All she wanted was money and she finally found it by laying on her back and spreadin’ her legs. Remember that about women, son. They’ll do anything for a buck. Even your own mother.”
His jaw tightened and his fists clenched. Benedict Holland had single-handedly turned his mother away from her family. No wonder Hampton had taken a chain saw to Dutch’s precious lodge. The man deserved everything he got, and, if Kane had his way, Dutch Holland was going down in flames.
So what about Claire? What will happen to her? When you bring down her father and her sisters and perhaps implicate her in Harley Taggert’s death, what will happen to her and her kids?
He stared at the picture of the gun and told himself it wasn’t his problem, but he knew he was only lying to himself because, damn it all to hell, he was beginning to fall in love with Claire Holland St. John all over again. It seemed to be his personal curse.
“Denver Styles is a pain in the butt.” Tessa, dressed in a black bikini and white lace cover-up that slid suggestively over one shoulder, looked up from her guitar as Miranda entered the suite where Tessa had taken up residence. Her belly-button ring was visible beneath the lace and her tattoo bound her upper arm like a slave bracelet.
“He’s been bothering you?” Miranda didn’t want to think about Styles. He was too complicated, too dangerous. She felt as if he were breathing down her back, watching her every move and waiting for her to make some kind of mistake. Then, like a patient hunter, he’d pounce.
“Yeah, he’s been here a couple of times.”
“What’d you tell him?”
Tessa smiled, and her blond eyebrows elevated. “Specifically?” She strummed a single note. “I told him to fuck off.”
“Nice, Tessa.”
“The man’s bad news,” she said, setting her six-string on the carpet near a potted plant.
Miranda walked to the fireplace and sat on the raised hearth though no flames flickered in the grate. “I called Dad and told him that hiring Styles was a mistake, that dredging up the past wasn’t in his best interests, but it was the same as before. He didn’t listen.”
“Never does. Haven’t you learned that yet?” Tessa asked. “Hey, how about a drink? I’ve got wine coolers in the fridge.” She was on her feet in an instant, padding barefoot to the kitchen and the tiny refrigerator tucked around the corner.
“None for me.”
“Oh, Randa, lighten up!” Tessa returned with two opened bottles of some kind of peach and wine concoction. She handed Miranda one of the bottles. “Cheers.” Clinking the necks of the bottles together, she winked at her sister, then took a long swallow.
“Look, Tessa, I’m afraid Styles is going to find out the truth,” Miranda admitted, then took a swallow of the god-awful drink.
“Let him.”
“No way.”
“Maybe it’s time.” Tessa’s face clouded, and she gnawed on her lower lip, the way she had whenever she’d been uncertain or confused as a little girl. “I’m tired of lying, Randa. This was a mistake.”
“No! It’s too late to change anything.” Miranda shook her head vehemently. “We’ve got to stick to the story.”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s worked so far.” Restless, Miranda walked to the sliding glass door and leaned against it.
“Has it?”
“Just hang in there.” Miranda stared at the vista that was the Pacific Ocean. Green and murky, stretching to the horizon, the sea shifted restlessly, as if it, too, had secrets too deep and tragic to reveal.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Tessa said. “It’s Claire who’s going to be the problem.”
“Claire?” Miranda repeated. Claire didn’t even know the real story. “Why?”
“Because she’s getting herself involved with Kane Moran.”
“No.” Miranda hoped that Tessa was making this up. Sometimes Dutch’s youngest daughter fantasized, other times she was just plain confused.
“I’ve seen them together.”
“Is she out of her mind?” Fear caused Miranda’s heart to pound a quick, irregular cadence.
“You know what a romantic she is. Always has been. A fool for men. She was involved with Harley and he died and within months she married that jerk Paul. I only met him once—around the time of the wedding, but he was already looking at other women. Including me!” She sighed and flopped back on the couch. “Claire’s an idiot. Always has been.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“A lot of good that will do. No one could talk her out of seeing Harley Taggert, could they? And then Paul—Jesus, I told her he’d been coming on to me and she wouldn’t believe me. You can talk to her until you’re blue in the face, Randa, but, trust me, it won’t do a bit of good.”
For once, Tessa was right. Claire had never listened to anyone when her heart was involved. This was worse than Miranda had thought. She felt as if she’d just stepped into the quicksand of the past and there was no escape. Sooner or later she, her sisters, her father, and her damned career would be dragged under.
God help them all.
He had to forget about her. That was all there was to it. But Weston never was one to let a willing woman pass him by, and from the breathy telephone calls he’d been getting from Tessa Holland, she was more than willing to pick up where they’d left off so long ago.
Shit. What was he going to do? He floored the Mercedes and the convertible sped down the highway, tires singing, engine purring, wind whipping by. An expanse of gray-blue ocean stretched to the west, breakers rolling inland in frothy waves, and to the east a bank of forested hills rose high enough to brush the sky. But Tessa was on his mind, and he couldn’t shake her image.
He’d seen her in town, walking into the liquor store, her round rump swaying beneath a short, tight, red skirt, her luscious breasts straining against a white shirt tied just beneath her bra. She hadn’t aged much, though her hair was a little shorter and more spiked than he remembered and her cheekbones were more defined with the added years. Her eyes were still round and blue and he imagined her tongue could still work its special kind of magic.
Christ, what was he thinking? If he got involved with Tessa, or any of the Holland girls again, Kendall would kill him. Besides, each of the Holland sisters had her own ax to grind with him and would be the worst possible candidate for a quick affair. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking of the possibilities. Miranda had always gotten under his skin. More so than Tessa, but then Tessa was available, or so she’d led him to believe when he’d answered his cell phone last night.
“Guess what I’m doing?” she’d cooed, and he hadn’t been able to speak as he had been with his wife and daughter in the family room watching television.
“I’m touching myself. Do you want to know where?” Her voice had been low and smoky.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ve licked my finger until it was wet and then touched my nipples. They’re wet now, too. Hard. And now I’m going to go down a little farther and—”
“I’ll talk to you later. I never discuss business at home,” he’d said, loud enough for his wife to hear, though he’d turned his back on her to hide the evidence of his erection straining against the fly of the slacks she’d bought for him just last week.
“I’ll be here. At Stone Illahee. Waiting.”
He’d hung up and nearly come in his pants. What kind of game was she playing with him? The last time he’d seen her, she’d wanted to scratch his eyes out and now . . . now, she was acting like she couldn’t wait to get him into bed. He was long through with her, he reminded himself, but his hands began to sweat on the steering wheel. He was an upstanding citizen now, had a reputation to protect, but he couldn’t help remembering how it felt to ride her. A sensation of pure, raw power had surged through him. The knowledge that he was humping a Holland girl, making her beg for mercy—or more—was heady, a rush he’d never had before or since. Even the kinky sex of his youth or the string of mistresses he’d bedded hadn’t given him that savage adrenaline high that Tessa had so willingly lured from him.
And was willing to provide again.
Christ, he was hard.
He braked for a corner, skidded a bit, then the car took hold again and he tried to push Tessa out of his mind. Now wasn’t the time to be distracted by a woman. He had other more important situations that demanded his attention. He topped a hill and caught a glimpse of Stone Illahee. His stomach tightened, and he spied the bulldozers hard at work at the next stage of development of the resort. Scraping topsoil, debris, brush, and small trees, the machines rolled over the ground on their huge cat tracks. Ever digging. Finding things that were better left buried. His cell phone rang and he answered it, eager for a distraction, forcing Tessa and the excavation at Stone Illahee from his mind.
“You know, I think our family’s kind of a sideshow,” Tessa said as she plucked a grape from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter in the house where she’d grown up. Claire poured them each a glass of iced tea. Sam was outside splashing in the pool, and Sean had taken the boat into the lake. It was a lazy afternoon, and Claire had finished filling out some applications for the local school district in the hope of being able to substitute teach in the fall.
“A sideshow?”
“Yep. Dad into his own personal power trip. Governor, for God’s sake. Can you imagine?” She tossed the grape into the air and caught it deftly in her mouth. “Dutch Holland with that much power is a pretty scary thought.”
“He hasn’t been elected yet. Not even by his own party.”
“Good point.” Tessa sat on a bar stool near the counter and twirled on her rear. “You know, I’ve been calling Weston again.”
Claire froze. “Calling him? Why?”
“Oh, you know, just teasing him. Talking dirty, that kind of thing.”
“Are you out of your mind? He’s not the kind of guy you tease and get away with it.”
“Why not? I think he should sweat a little.”
“Sweat a little? For what? I don’t understand.” Blind panic took hold of Claire, though she didn’t really understand why. Weston couldn’t hurt any of them. Or could he?
“Trust me, you don’t need to. But I think Weston needs to be put in his place. He’s had things his way for too long.”
“And you’re going to straighten him out?” Claire laughed, but she felt uneasy, the same kind of sensation that swept over her just before an electrical storm broke and lightning ripped through the sky.
“Weston’s beyond being straightened out. What I’m going to do is bother him.”
Claire shook her head. “Leave him alone. He’s not worth the trouble.”
Tessa’s eyes narrowed, and she looked over Claire’s shoulder to a middle distance that only she could see. Her face twisted in pain and tears, real and fresh, filled her eyes. “Yeah, well, what did he ever do to deserve his perfect little family, huh? He’s not exactly a paragon of virtue.”
“Life’s generally not fair.”
“I know, I know, but it galls me that he’s got this . . . fake side . . . you know the epitome of the American dream—faithful, loving husband to Kendall Forsythe, spoiled-rotten daughter, even one of those yappy purebred toy poodles.” She sniffed and cleared her throat. “It’s enough to make me sick.”
“It’s nothing to you.”
Tessa blinked rapidly, fought the damned tears that came at her in uneven rushes when she least expected them. She drummed her fingers on the counter and decided against arguing with Claire any further. What good would it do? “I suppose you’re right, but it bugs the hell out of me.”
“Let it alone.”
She should. Claire was making sense, but Tessa wanted to throw up to think that Weston was on the city council, that he was considered a pillar of the community, that he was a fucking icon to the men and women who were employed by Taggert Industries. The man was pure evil. Lower than a rattlesnake’s belly. How she’d love to expose that ugly side of Weston Taggert to the world. Besides, though no one but she knew it, Weston Taggert had single-handedly devastated her life.
Maybe now it was time to ruin his.
Claire was lying. Kane could sense it. As he lay with her in the pool house, one hand caressing the cleft of her bare buttocks, the other stroking her spine, he tried to figure out what it was that she was keeping fro
m him.
He knew that her story about the night that Harley Taggert died didn’t hold water, and that scared the living hell out of him. What if she’d accidentally killed Harley? Was he, with his exposé, going to send her to jail? His guts twisted as she sighed sleepily on the old bed where they’d made love. The smell of chlorine from the pool seeped through the open windows, and a breeze sighed through the trees, rustling the fir needles and oak leaves.
Claire wouldn’t allow him in her bedroom, not with the kids in the house, so they met here, like teenagers sneaking to a private lovers’ tryst, in the pool house, where she was close enough to know that her children were safe, but private enough that they could lose themselves in each other.
And lose himself he had. No other woman had ever touched him like Claire Holland St. John. She had a way of turning him inside out and upside down. His feelings for her, so close to love it scared the hell out of him, made him question everything he believed in, everything he’d planned for all his life. He’d been so hell-bent on baring all of Dutch Holland’s sins to the world that he’d lost sight of anything other than his own personal need for revenge.
She moaned in her sleep, and he kissed the skin between her shoulder blades.
“Kane,” she whispered, still not awake, but reaching for him. His heart swelled in his chest. God she was beautiful. Moonlight filtered through the blinds to stripe her white skin in silvery bars. Her waist was small, her ribs visible, and as she rolled over and he saw her breasts, he began to get hard again. With her he couldn’t get enough, with her he was never sated for long. Her nipples were soft and round, but as he breathed across them they tightened, and even in sleep she responded.
“Beautiful, beautiful Princess,” he said, wishing things were different between them, that he wasn’t going to use her for his own private revenge, that he could come to her with his conscience clear and his heart pure. Instead he had an ulterior motive for getting closer to her.