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“You’re home early.” Kendall’s voice surprised him, and he turned to find her, as was her custom, balancing a pitcher of martinis and two glasses on a slim tray. She placed the tray on the table under the oversize umbrella and poured them each a glass.
“I’m meeting someone tonight.”
“Here?” Kendall was surprised.
“No.” He never discussed business with her, and she never asked. It was their own unwritten agreement.
“Paige was going to stop by.”
The thought of his sister turned his stomach. She was still a pathetic, overweight, sneaky bitch. And she hated him. She’d never even tried to hide her animosity. Weston’s back teeth clenched as he took the drink from Kendall’s slim fingers. She was a beautiful woman with her pale hair and big blue eyes. She kept herself in shape, hadn’t gained a pound in all the years that they’d been married, and dressed with flair. Even after Stephanie had been born, Kendall had been careful, losing the few pounds she’d gained, refusing to breast-feed as she was concerned that her breasts would flatten, and exercising with a personal trainer until she was her usual size four. He couldn’t complain. Except that she was boring as hell.
Not like the Holland women.
“Isn’t Paige taking care of Dad?”
“Not tonight. The caregiver’s there. So, I thought we could barbecue and watch a movie.” Kendall’s slim fingers wrapped over his wrist. “Come on, Weston, you haven’t seen much of Stephanie lately.”
He felt a tiny prick of guilt. His daughter was special, no doubt about it. Regardless of the fact that his plan for Kendall to trap Harley had worked all too well and she’d ended up pregnant, and that had Harley lived, she would have passed the kid off as his, Weston loved Stephanie. More than he loved anything on the earth. He should have slapped Kendall around when she told him she was pregnant and that since Harley was dead, he would have to step up to the plate and claim his child. He should have insisted that she get an abortion. He should have told her to fuck off. But he hadn’t. And the one thing in his life he didn’t regret was his kid. The trouble was, Kendall knew it and used it to her advantage.
“I’ll see Steph tomorrow. We’ll go looking for a car for her,” Weston offered.
Kendall laughed. “She’s only fifteen.”
“Sixteen soon enough.” He ground out his cigarette and took a long sip from his martini glass. The drink was always just right. Kendall took special care. He should love her, he supposed, but decided he was incapable. Besides, love and all romantic notions were for idealists and had nothing to do with reality. Weston’s feet were firmly planted on the ground.
“But—”
“Don’t argue, dear,” he warned, and she closed her mouth immediately. Over the course of their marriage there had been a few times when he’d had to get a little rough with her, just a couple of slaps across the buttocks or face when she’d opposed him. Afterward, when she was contrite and willing to prove her love for him, he had come up with intricate sexual maneuvers for her to perform to show just how much she appreciated being Mrs. Weston Taggert.
She’d always been so willing to please. It was strange really. He’d once thought her cold as ice, her pussy tight and impenetrable. He’d learned differently. When she realized that he was her meal ticket, her entrance into the royalty that was the family Taggert, she’d become a hot little love machine, giving eagerly of her favors. No wonder Harley, that wimp, had never been able to break it off with her. But outside the bedroom, she bored him.
“Just don’t disappoint Stephanie tomorrow,” she said and Weston clinked his glass to hers.
“I won’t. Promise.” But that was tomorrow. First he had to get through the rest of the evening. Tonight he was going to meet with Denver Styles and offer Dutch Holland’s newest employee a deal too sweet to pass up.
He sipped his martini slowly and grinned.
Twenty-six
“So you didn’t get any correspondence from Riley at all. No phone calls. Nothing?” Denver, seated in one of the cane-backed chairs that surrounded Miranda’s small kitchen table, was settled low on his back, the heel of one boot hooked over the base of another chair. Throughout their conversation, he regarded her with eyes as sharp as an eagle’s, eyes that missed nothing, eyes that made her want to squirm away. But she wouldn’t. She’d faced murderers, rapists, wife beaters, and worked hard to put them behind bars. She’d been cool against big-league defense lawyers and even survived Ronnie Klug’s knife attack. She’d even managed to lie and put that God-awful night sixteen years ago to rest. As intimidating as Styles was, he still couldn’t get to her.
“I didn’t hear from Hunter. No letters, no phone calls. Nothing.” Sunlight streamed through the bay windows, warming Miranda’s back. The Metro section of this morning’s copy of The Oregonian was lying open by a basket of fruit. Styles’s beat-up jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of another chair and looked as if it belonged there.
Coffee, unwanted by either of them, cooled in ceramic mugs and scented the air. Styles’s cell phone chirped. He ignored it.
“Didn’t you think that was odd?”
“Yes, but . . . I assumed it was because of the charges that were going to be brought against him.”
“Statutory rape and grand theft auto?” he asked, obviously having done his homework.
“Yeah.”
“No charges were ever filed.”
“I know, but I thought it was because he left the country.”
“There are extradition proceedings, you know.”
