Page 127 of Whispers

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.

Guilt gnawed at his pride, but he took her into his arms and kissed her. She sighed, her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled, that sexy naive little grin that was always his undoing. “Again?” she asked, yawning, her tousled hair spilling over his arm.

He kissed her and her lips fit perfectly to his. Her tongue slid into his mouth, her nipples hardened, and within seconds her drowsy body was awake and alive, her blood as hot as his own.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and he buried his face in the hollow of her breasts before he swept her legs apart with his knees and drove into her as hot and randy as any nineteen-year-old.

“Kane,” she whispered into his ear as he began to pant. Perspiration broke out on her skin, and she arched up to meet each of his thrusts with her own hungry desire. Faster and faster he moved, holding her close, his eyes squeezed shut as his guilt pounded through his brain. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t betray her, couldn’t love her so much it hurt, only to devastate her and her family.

And then he came. With a lusty cry and a final thrust, he fell against her, his body melding to hers in a union that was meant to be and cursed by all the demons of hell.

Tortured, he kissed her forehead, tasting the salt of her sweat, feeling her shudder as her own climax slowed. “I never want to hurt you,” he said, brushing her hair off her face with his lips.

“You won’t,” she replied, smiling and trusting as she gazed up at him.

He kissed her again, long and hard, and knew that he had no choice. Despite all his vows to himself, he was destined to betray her, and then, no matter what else happened, she would hate him for the rest of her life.

Thirty

“Stop it, you’re making me crazy. What’s the matter with you anyway?” Paige asked, glaring up at Weston from her game of bridge. She grabbed a handful of mixed nuts and plopped an almond into her mouth.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Weston lied and gave himself a mental shake for allowing his emotions to show. He’d been pacing again, back and forth through the kitchen and den where Paige, Stephanie, Kendall, and his father were playing cards. Neal’s wheelchair was pushed into position, and though he couldn’t walk and had little use of his right side since the stroke, he was able to talk and use his left hand effectively enough to handle a weekly game of bridge.

“Something’s up,” Neal said, one eye narrowing on his son. “You’re always restless when something’s bothering you.”

“Daddy’s fine,” Stephanie interrupted, and Weston felt a warmth inside him. She was always in his corner, defending him against the world. With her wheat blond hair and sparkling blue eyes, she’d inherited the right combination of genes to make her drop-dead gorgeous. “Leave him alone. Mom, it’s your bid.” Daddy’s little girl. But the others were right. He was going out of his fucking mind.

Paige, still overweight and forever jangling that irritating bracelet, could see straight to his soul, and it scared the living shit out of him. Sometimes she smiled at him in an eerie way that suggested she had something on him—something life-threatening, something that kept him from crossing her. She’d made hints about it as well. “I’d better never end up dead from an ‘accident’ or something, Wes, because it won’t work. If I have an unexpected early death, the police will come looking for you.” He’d laughed and asked her to explain herself, but she’d only smiled that creepy little grin and said, “I’m not bluffing.”

“You’re making it hard to concentrate.” Paige sent him a drop-dead look and turned her attention back to the cards. “Either sit down or leave.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere, Daddy.” Good girl, Stephanie. You tell ’em.

“You are fidgety,” Kendall said, disapproval edging the corners of her mouth as the dog trotted through the kitchen and stopped at his water bowl.

Weston couldn’t stand to be cooped up another minute. “I’ve got to run to the office,” he said, and Kendall’s eyes followed him. She’d never trusted him, believed that he chased anything in a skirt. Not completely true, but he had fallen into his share of relationships, bad and good.

“New business?” Neal asked, always interested in what was happening at Taggert Industries.

“No, just tying up a few loose ends.” Weston grabbed his keys and walked out the back door. The wind had picked up, tossing the branches of the trees near the garage, and the scent of smoke, riding on the back of a salt-laden breeze, drifted up from a few campfires on the beach.

He drove away from the house and tried to calm down. His sister was right. He was in knots. For several reasons. First and foremost, Denver Styles had been on his payroll for nearly a week, and so far he’d come up with nothing new on Dutch or any of the other Hollands.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. The man just wasn’t doing his job or he was holding out on Weston, probably for more money, which would be a mistake. A big mistake.

Second, there was the excavation at the most recent phase of Stone Illahee. His stomach cramped and bile rose in his throat. To top things off, Dutch was going to officially announce his candidacy for next year’s governor’s race at a party the following weekend, and the thought of Benedict Holland even having a shot at a position of power anywhere in the state made him physically ill. No, it couldn’t happen.

He drove like a madman, pushing the speed limit, squirreling around corners until his office came into view. He was supposed to meet with Styles tonight, and he couldn’t wait. Somehow he had to get his money’s worth from the man. In the back of his mind he wondered if he’d been conned. What was preventing Denver Styles from pocketing the cash Weston had given him and reporting nothing? Weston was ready. Either Styles came up with some information, important information, or there would be hell to pay.

His jaw tightened and his lips flattened hard against his teeth. Weston had never liked being bested, and he’d worked long and hard to prevent just that. So if Styles was going to double-cross him, he’d pay. He’d pay with his goddamned life. Just like those who’d tried to cheat him before.

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