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“What about me?” Samantha asked.
“You’re next,” Kane promised, and Claire had the distinct feeling that she was being manipulated.
Sean walked around the machine, his eyes taking in every detail of the shiny bike. “This is really kickin’!”
“Come on.” Kane cocked his head toward the boy, and Sean needed no more encouragement. Despite his earlier vows to hate “the prick,” he climbed on the bike behind Kane, strapped the helmet in place, then, rather than circle Kane’s waist with his arms, grabbed hold of the belt that wrapped around the long seat.
Kane revved the engine, and the bike flew forward.
“Be careful,” Claire called, but it was only to the wind as the motorcycle raced forward, winding through three gears before they hit the first corner and disappeared through the trees.
“I thought Sean hated that guy,” Samantha observed as she tossed her hair off her shoulders.
“So did I.”
“One look at the motorcycle and he changed his mind.” Sam shook her head. “Men,” she muttered under her breath.
“Amen,” her mother agreed. Far in the distance they heard the motorcycle whining through the gears again, and Claire felt the weight of the moment. Father and son were together alone. Though neither understood the heart-wrenching significance of their solitary ride, Claire felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. Her throat clogged, and she blinked rather than break down in front of Samantha. Somehow, some way, she had to find the words to tell Kane the truth, that he was a father, but she couldn’t bear to ruin everything just yet. Too many emotions, too many hearts were at stake. When he found out, Kane would surely hate her for her lies, for passing off his son as another man’s child, for never mentioning to anyone, including Sean, that his real father had left her for the army and gone on to become a semifamous journalist turned writer determined to ruin Sean’s grandfather’s life. God help us, she silently prayed as the sound of the big bike’s engine approached. Her hands clenched into fists of frustration as the motorcycle, catching a few last rays of sunlight, rounded the bend to slide to a stop near the garage.
“Your turn,” Kane said to Samantha as Sean reluctantly dragged himself from the bike. Though she feigned coolness and seemed unaffected by riding the Harley, Sam couldn’t hide the twinkle in her eyes as she strapped on the helmet and they took off.
“Don’t know why she needs a ride,” Sean grumbled. “She likes horses and dogs an
d junk.”
“Maybe, this’ll change her mind.”
“Nah!” But he seemed worried and shot free throws until the motorcycle and Sam were back.
“Awesome,” she said, as she climbed off and dusted her hands.
“That it is.”
“We went up to the Illahee Cliffs!”
“Did you?” Claire asked.
Kane twisted his head to the side and his eyes, shaded though they were, found Claire’s in a look that caused her breath to stop somewhere in her throat. She had to look away, to distract herself, because his gaze was filled with a sexual promise she couldn’t ignore. “How about you?” Kane asked in a husky voice that caused goose bumps to rise on her skin.
She hesitated a second before Sam said, “Go on, Mom. Have a little fun.”
“I don’t know—”
“I’m next,” Sean insisted.
“Next time,” Kane told him.
Claire, knowing she was flirting with emotional danger, couldn’t resist. Though she realized she was making a big mistake and remembered her response when they were alone on the dock in the middle of the night, she felt compelled to be with him again. Alone with him as the wind raced past and the coming night flew by. She swung a leg over the back of the cycle, wrapped her arms around Kane’s waist, and felt a surge of power as the bike took off down the driveway.
In the paddock the painted gelding let out a high-pitched whistle and, tail aloft, ran to the far gate. Fir trees covered with moss and ivy sped by in a blur, and Claire rested her head between Kane’s shoulders as she had as a teenager. Be careful, an annoying inner voice warned, but she lost herself in the feel of his muscles moving as he shifted through the gears. Her heart thudded deep in her chest, and she sensed the tension in his body as she clung to him.
God, it was good to hold him and for a few glorious minutes she forgot the past, ignored the fact that they could never be lovers again. As the sun hovered just above the horizon, she let her fertile mind conjure scenes of kissing him and touching him, and making love to him over and over again.
A wet breeze rolled in off the ocean, mussing Weston’s hair as he waited on the deck of his pride and joy, the Stephanie, a racing yacht he’d bought for himself just this past year. He glanced at his watch. Eight-fifteen and no sign of Denver Styles. Shit, the guy was probably going to stand him up. Who was the bastard, and why had Dutch Holland hired him? For what purpose? Dutch always had a reason. But what was it?
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Weston found his pack of Marlboros and lit up.
Who the hell was Styles, a man on whom there seemed to be no record whatsoever? It was as if the guy had appeared out of thin air. And to do what? Christ, it was maddening.
