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He slung his jacket over one shoulder, and touched her lightly on the back of the neck with his free hand. “Think about it, Miranda,” he said softly as her skin heated beneath his fingertips. “I’ll show myself out.”
As she heard his footsteps retreat, her skin still was warm where he’d touched her. A second later the latch of the front door opened, then softly closed again. He was gone. She let out her breath and sighed. It was all falling apart. All the lies that she’d so carefully fabricated. Biting her lower lip, she dropped her forehead into her hands. “God help me,” she whispered because she knew the end was near. Come hell or high water, Denver Styles wouldn’t rest until his job was done.
Tessa felt the breath of salty breeze against her face and wished she could find some peace of mind, the kind that was supposed to come when a person stared out at the vastness of the ocean, the serenity that people felt just walking on the sand, but as she ambled along the edge of the sea, feeling the frothy tide nibbling at her toes only to ebb away again, she only felt restless and distracted.
She should never have come back to Oregon, should have stayed away, but one of her shrinks, the bald one with the red beard—Doctor Terry, was his name—had told her she would have to face her demons someday. She’d have to return to this hellhole of a spot in Oregon and confront those who had used and abused her.
The sand was squishy under her feet, and here and there she spied round razor clam holes or the soft spoonlike impressions indicating a crab was just below the surface. Kelp and broken sand dollars, the shells of eviscerated crabs and clams and pieces of clear jellyfish littered the white sand of the beach that curved close to Stone Illahee, where Tessa was now living in a private suite. Complete with Jacuzzi, sauna, two king-size beds and a spectacular view of the ocean, the suite was hers for as long as she needed it. Dutch wanted her to be comfortable.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said, picking up her pace to a slow jog. She’d come back to Oregon with a single purpose in mind and now as she splashed along the edge of the sand, she couldn’t help but savor her own sweet revenge. She’d waited sixteen years, hoping that the need to get back at those who had wronged her would disappear with years of counseling. But she’d been wrong. As long as she was in California, away from her sisters and the memories of that one hellish, pain-riddled night, she’d been able to push all thoughts of vengeance aside, but now that she was back in Oregon, faced with all the torments of her youth, she could only think of one thing. She needed to get a little of hers back, and those who had hurt her would pay. Big-time.
From the attic over the garage where she and Samantha were refurbishing the studio, Claire heard the sound of a motorcycle engine. She poked her head out the window and her heart clutched.
Astride a huge black Harley-Davidson, Kane Moran wheeled down the drive. Reflective aviator glasses shaded his eyes, dusty jeans and his battle-scarred leather jacket covered his body. Old memories of riding with the wind racing through her hair, her arms wrapped around Kane’s leather-draped torso, the smell of leather and smoke drifting to her nostrils assailed her. She thought of the days of longing for him and the nights wanting nothing more than to hold him close.
His hair was burnished by the sun’s final rays this late afternoon, and she couldn’t help but remember how much she’d loved him, how much she’d cared. “Oh, God,” she whispered.
“What? What is it?” Samantha demanded while standing on her tiptoes and peering over her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, wow!” she said on the heels of a gasp.
Sean had been shooting hoops at the old backboard he’d mounted over the third bay of the garage, but at the sound and sight of the motorcycle, he’d stopped, tucked his basketball between his wrist and hip, and stared in awe as Kane slowed the bike to park not five feet from him.
“Is this yours?” Sean asked as Kane climbed off the bike.
“As of today.”
Unaware his mother was watching, Sean let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. “Holy shit.”
“Sean!” Claire said from the window.
“But Mom, look, a Harley!”
Harley. This was all about him.
“Big deal,” Samantha muttered under her breath.
Kane wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Like it?”
“Like it?” Sean repeated. “What’s not to like?”
“Want a ride?”
“You mean like I get to drive it?”
“Wait a minute!” Claire dashed across the room and hurried down the stairs. She was through the garage and outside within seconds. Samantha was right on her heels. “Sean doesn’t have a driver’s license or even a permit in Oregon.”
“Aw, Mom, come on.” Sean dribbled the ball, but his eyes never left the big shiny bike.
“No way. Don’t you have to have a special license to drive one of these?”
“Legally,” Kane agreed, balancing the machine between his legs.
“I’m only interested in legally.”
“But, Mom—”
“Sean, please.” She shot Kane a look that could cut through steel and saw again the resemblance between father and son. The square jaw, thick eyebrows, long straight nose. How could they not?
“I’ll tell you what, hop on and I’ll give you a ride,” Kane said to the boy he didn’t know was his son. He reached behind him to find a helmet and tossed it to Sean, who caught the headgear and let his basketball drop. The neglected orange ball bounced toward the garage.
