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Over the scream of saws, shouts of foremen, and rumble of trucks arriving with raw timber or leaving with stacked lumber, men in clean flannel shirts and dungarees put on hard hats and replaced their counterparts who were covered with sawdust and grime.
Harley unlocked the door of his pride and joy—a forest green Jag XKE that c
ould go from zero to sixty in less time than it took to catch your breath. Parked between a beat-up Dodge pickup and a dusty station wagon with the words “Wash me” scribbled on the back window, the Jag sparkled like an emerald cast in gravel. He slid behind the wheel and flicked on the engine.
Packed with horsepower, his car was ready to roar down the road. For the next few minutes as the sleek car’s tires sang against the asphalt, Harley would be in control of his destiny, his own man.
Then, damn it, he’d have to meet Kendall.
Ten
“God help me,” Kendall muttered, holding her abdomen and pacing on the deck of her father’s beach house. Why couldn’t she just let Harley go? What was this obsession with him? Paige was right, she could have had nearly any boy she wanted, but the only one worth having was Harley Taggert.
It wasn’t just that he was a Taggert, but he was kind and sweet—well, he had been. Until he’d met Claire, that mousy, useless Holland girl. What, what did he see in her?
Kendall, when she realized that he was going to break up with her, had become desperate. She wanted to marry Harley Taggert and wasn’t used to not getting her way.
Her stomach churned, tears threatened her eyes, and she placed her hands against the rail to stare past the shifting dunes with their clumps of beach grass to the darkening waters of the Pacific. This view of the sea, stretching for miles to the horizon, had always had a calming effect upon her, had helped her put her life into perspective. But not this evening. Not when everything was so out of control. A couple walked by, holding hands, laughing, their bare feet making impressions on the wet sand as the frothy tide eddied and swirled around their ankles. Their dog—a rangy, red Irish setter—frolicked in the surf, chasing after sticks that the man threw, then bounding back.
The lovers seemed so happy. As she and Harley had been. Before Claire. Her throat closed in on itself, and she fought the urge to break down and cry. Never in her life had she felt so helpless, never had she wanted anything so badly.
She heard a car stop in front of the cottage and opened the sliding door when she heard footsteps on the stairs to the deck. Her heart leapt. He’d come. He still cared.
“Harley—” she cried, only to have his name lodge in her throat as Weston appeared, big as life, an easygoing grin stretching over his square jaw. “Oh.” Disappointment lodged deep in her soul.
“Thought you might be here.”
“Did—did Harley send you?”
Weston’s smile, one that had melted more female hearts than it should have, curved easily upward. “Nope. Came on my own.”
“But how did you know that I—”
He leaned a hip against the railing of the deck and folded his arms over his chest. “When you leave a message at the office, word gets around.”
“I didn’t leave—”
He waved off her explanation. “Doesn’t matter. I just came by with some advice.”
The muscles in her back tightened. “I don’t remember asking for any.”
“Believe me, you need it.” Weston glanced at her and sighed. “You know, Kendall, I’m surprised at you. I always thought you were a smart girl, one who knew what she wanted and figured out how to get it.”
“With Harley it’s different.”
“Why?”
“It’s just not so simple.”
“Sure it is.”
She ran frustrated fingers through her hair. “How?”
“Well, take advantage of the fact that he’s not all that smart—don’t argue the point, okay,” he said, holding up a palm when she tried to protest. “We both know his limits.” Weston’s grin bordered on evil.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Trap him.”
