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He flicked ash into the water and watched the sun inch its way into the Pacific. For the past few years Weston had enjoyed hiring Dutch’s key employees away from him. Better yet, a few of Dutch’s men were still employed with Holland International, still kissing up to old Dutch, but were secretly on the take and reporting everything that went on at the company headquarters in Portland to Weston. No one knew a thing about Denver Styles, so Weston decided it had something to do with Dutch’s bid for the governorship. Or maybe that nasty little book Kane Moran was writing. The book bothered Weston. Though he liked the idea of an exposé of sorts, spilling all the dirty little Holland secrets, this one might just backfire. Too many of the Taggert skeletons were locked in the same closets as those belonging to the Hollands. Too many of Weston’s own personal evils might be unearthed.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, glancing up the dock to the parking lot of the marina. Where the hell was Styles?
His cell phone rang, and he flicked the butt of his cigarette over the side of the railing before walking back to the main cabin.
“Weston Taggert,” he said curtly, checking his watch again. Was this Styles giving him the brush-off?
“Well, Weston, how’re you doing?” a sexy female voice asked. Weston’s heart nearly stopped. He should recognize the woman, but there had been so many over the years. From the sultry tone of his caller, though, he should be able to conjure up her face.
“Who’s calling?”
“Don’t you remember me?”
“Should I?” Anxiety began to nip at his brain.
“Mmmm. I think so.”
Christ, who was it? The bitch was getting to him. “I’m not into playing games.”
“Aren’t you? That’s not the way I remember it. Oh, Weston, don’t tell me you’ve changed now that you’ve become an honest, upstanding family man.”
Who? Who? Who? A dozen faces flashed before his eyes and were quickly discarded. “Who is this?” he demanded.
“You don’t remember?” she asked as if disappointed. Weston sensed she was only toying with him. “I’m sooo hurt.” A breathy sigh rushed over the wires, and then she hung up.
“Wait!”
But she was gone. He stared at the phone for more than a minute, willing for her to call back, but she didn’t, and as he thought about the conversation he began to put two and two together. It was someone from his past, someone he’d been involved with before he’d taken a wife and started a family. Shit, the list was still long.
He heard the sound of footsteps on the dock and looked out a porthole to spy Denver Styles walking toward the Stephanie. Though unnerved by the caller, he managed to drag his thoughts back to the present problem with Dutch Holland.
Holland. That was it! His lips curved into a hard grin. The woman on the phone had been involved with him before, involved to her pretty eyes. “Just you wait,” he said under his breath and started planning a way to see Tessa Holland again. She’d been a hot little virgin sixteen years ago. Now, with a little age and maturity, she was probably even more of a hot-blooded woman. He grinned. She had nerve, to call him up and tease him like some twenty-dollar whore. Well, he’d play her little game, whatever it was. His groin tightened at the thought.
So she thought she had him at a disadvantage, did she? Wouldn’t she be surprised? The tables were about to turn on Dutch’s youngest daughter. Weston couldn’t wait.
Twenty-seven
The sun was setting in a blaze of peach and amber, high clouds reflecting the brilliant colors and tossing them back to the sea. Claire told herself that he was using her, getting close to her because of his damned book, but she couldn’t resist the feeling that she was falling in love with him all over again. That notion was silly, she knew, but it was a quiet little fantasy that was hers alone—one she didn’t dare examine too closely.
On the far side of Chinook, past the Taggert sawmill, Kane angled the bike inland, driving north along the county road that led back to Lake Arrowhead. Instead of turning back toward the lodge, he pushed the bike onward, ever faster, the asphalt beneath the Harley’s tires slipping away.
“Where are we going?” she called loudly, but her words were stripped away by the wind.
“You’ll see.”
She laughed for a second, lighthearted, before she realized what was happening. Dear God, no! Her heart sank and she shuddered slightly when she felt the bike slow and saw the stand of oak and fir give way. He turned off the road, onto the sandy banks of Lake Arrowhead, the beam of the cycle’s headlight bobbing through the long grass to land upon the still waters of the lake, dark and glassy and forbidding.
A shudder slid down her spine. She couldn’t be here, not in the very spot where Miranda had driven off the road and into the lake sixteen years ago. Claire’s arms slackened around him. Her stomach kicked over, and she didn’t know how she could find the strength to face the questions he was sure to ask her.
The bike flew over a final short dune before skidding to a stop, throwing sand in its wake. Kane cut the engine. His voice was still low, but instead of teasing, it was deadly serious. “I think we need to talk.”
“You tricked me,” she said, releasing him and sliding off the motorcycle. In her mind’s eye she saw herself and her sisters in the interior of Miranda’s Camaro, black, frigid water swirling around them, panic banging through her body. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She rubbed her arms as if cold to the marrow of her bones when the summer night was still warm. “You brought me here on purpose,” she said, all her dreams crumbling before her eyes.
He didn’t bother denying it. “Guilty as charged.” He slid his sunglasses off his nose and she was staring into gold eyes that didn’t look away—just stared at her as if he could see into her soul.
She was having none of it. “Why?”
“I think it’s time for everyone to come clean about that night.” He got off the bike and walked toward her, but she backed up to the far side of the dune and an outcropping of rocks and brush.
