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Knowing he was making a mistake of gargantuan proportions, he sighed and folded her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Kendall,” he said against her hair. “I really am.”
“Just love me, Harley. Is that too much to ask?” She lifted her face and blinked, then kissed him with a passion that surprised him. The kiss was hot, wanting, and tasting of the salt of her tears. For a second he surrendered, his bones beginning to melt before he stepped back quickly, his arms dropping to his sides.
“I’m sorry.” He meant it. He’d never meant to hurt her or lead her on; it was just so damned hard to make up his mind. Now that he had, he felt like a bastard.
“This is all because of Claire Holland,” she said around a hiccup, as a flimsy cloud blocked the sun before floating slowly inland.
“What happened between us had nothing to do with Claire.”
“Like hell.” Swiping at her eyes with her fingertips, smearing mascara already beginning to run, she inched her chin up a notch or two. “If I have to fight for you, I will.”
“This isn’t a battle.”
“Not to you, maybe, but to me.”
“Kendall?” Paige’s voice echoed through the canyon, and, squinting upward, Harley caught a view of his sister sitting on the seat of her open window. Stringy brown hair hung down, and her eyes, when she glanced at her brother, were murderous. She’d probably heard the whole argument, witnessed the entire ugly scene. Great! Just what he needed. More pressure, this time from his kid sister.
“I’ll—I’ll be up in a minute,” Kendall said, smiling brightly though her eyes were red, her face streaked, her shoulders slumped. As Paige disappeared into the room, Kendall whispered, “That kid should keep her nose in her own business.”
For once Harley agreed and wondered how many other pairs of eyes had watched his exchange with Kendall through the three stories of windows that looked over this ravine and were cracked open for ventilation. He thought he caught sight of another image lurking behind a pane of glass that reflected the sunlight, then told himself he was jumping at shadows.
“Just give me one more chance,” Kendall pleaded, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the stairs at the north side of the deck where a clematis trailed, huge purple blossoms nodding in the heat. Still looking over his shoulder, he descended, Kendall in the lead, and told himself that this was dangerous. She was taking him along the path that cut through the forest, following the course of the river, and she was sure to stop where they had a dozen times before—at a shady glen where sunlight stabbed through the trees and tall, sun-bleached grass bent with the breeze.
“I think you’d better go, Kendall,” he said, but his heart began to pound, a
nd when she threw her arms around his neck to kiss him, male instinct overcame rational thought. “Don’t,” he whispered, without much conviction, as her fingers reached under his sweater. “No, Kendall . . .” He gripped her shoulders as his belt clinked open and her deft fingers slid down the zipper. Then she slithered down his body to kneel before him and he was lost, his fingers twining in her blond hair, his mind screaming that he was surely damned.
Seven
Paige opened the window a little wider and bit her lower lip until it hurt. Harley and Kendall had been gone for half an hour, and she was getting anxious. The good news was that Kendall must be convincing Harley that she was the only girl for him; the bad news was she probably wouldn’t so much as glance Paige’s way when they returned.
Sighing, Paige doodled on the notepad resting on her lap and frowned when a yellow jacket swept in through the window, buzzed loudly, and bounced against the glass in its failed attempts at freedom.
Paige wrote Kendall’s name over and over again, practicing a signature that could never be hers and silently wished she was more like the older girl. Kendall, thin to the point of seeming fragile, had grace, natural beauty, and knew how to flirt. She had a way of turning boys’ heads without trying.
So why was Kendall so stuck on Harley? Jeez, he was a wimp. And what did he see in Claire Holland? She’d rather ride a horse than shop for designer clothes. Kendall Forsythe, with an hourglass figure, to-die-for straight hair, and a face right out of Seventeen, lived in Portland, went to a private school with other rich kids, and drove her own Triumph. She’d been a cheerleader and actually modeled.
Sighing, Paige crossed the room and opened her scrapbook to the section she’d reserved for Kendall. There, in grainy black and white, was her idol, dressed in a lacy half-slip and bra that were half-price because of an anniversary sale. Paige closed her eyes and wished for a minute that she was Kendall Forsythe even though she knew it would never happen. All the diets, braces, and nose jobs in the world would never give her a bit of Kendall’s grace or sophistication.
She’d caught a glimpse of Kendall naked once, when the older girl had changed into a swimsuit, and Paige had walked into the bathroom just as Kendall had stepped into the one-piece. Her skin was white above and below her tan lines, her navel an “innie,” her waist so small it couldn’t possibly hold all her insides—liver, spleen, kidneys, and all the other things Mr. Minke had tried to teach them about in biology—but what was the most astounding aspect of Kendall’s incredible body was her boobs. Perched high on a rib cage that showed her bones a bit, two white globes with big disklike nipples swung free for a second before they were quickly hidden by red-and-white spandex.
Paige had blushed and apologized all over herself, but Kendall had only laughed and waved off her embarrassment as if she were used to people seeing her in a state of undress. Even now, Paige’s cheeks turned hot at the thought of Kendall’s beautiful breasts.
Harley was so stupid.
Paige’s own boobs were dismal creations. Small, with tiny nipples that were too dark for the rest of her skin. Those breasts, if you could call them that, weren’t her only bad feature. For some reason she’d lost out when it came to the Taggert good looks. She took after heavy Aunt Ida, with her hooked nose and beady eyes. But Paige was smart—probably smarter than Weston because he was such a jerk, and a lot smarter than Harley—which wasn’t such a great feat in itself.
Weston, the oldest Taggert child, was nearly a god he was so good-looking. Wavy brown hair, eyes as blue as Delft china, a jawline Harrison Ford would envy, and a body sculpted by lifting weights and boxing. Harley, he was an idiot—but handsome in his own way, Paige thought grudgingly. His hair was straight and black, his eyes, fringed by straight dark lashes that Paige would die for, were a hazel hue that was close to green and sparkled easily. His skin was clear, without a single zit, and often dark with a beard shadow.
By the time Neal and Mikki Taggert had gotten around to having their third child, all the good genes seemed to have been used up on their sons. Mikki had often complained that her last pregnancy had nearly killed her. Maybe the fact that she was just plain worn-out chasing two active boys had robbed her daughter of the looks and energy that were Taggert trademarks.
Paige didn’t even want to glance in the mirror to see the evidence that her parents shouldn’t have had her. She was dorky and dumpy and nothing worked. Expensive clothes and makeup looked all wrong on her. Whenever she tried anything new with her lank brown hair, it turned into a mortifying disaster. If only she could be like Kendall . . .
She heard voices and dashed to the window again. Harley and Kendall were climbing up the stairs to the back deck. Both were red-faced, and Harley looked as if he could spit nails. Kendall had been crying. Tears streaked her cheeks and she was clinging to Harley as if she were desperate.
Shit a brick, was Harley blind as well as dumb as stone? What did he see in Claire Holland that wasn’t ten times better in Kendall?
“But I love you,” Kendall was saying while vainly trying to hold back tears. Her blond hair was mussed, her skirt grass-stained.
