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Then they were naked, blissfully kissing, rubbing against each other, aching and wanting. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t object when he rolled her onto her back, parted her legs with his knees, and, in one quick thrust, stole the virginity she’d so valiantly guarded for seventeen years.
There had been pain, yes, and a few tears, but he’d kissed them away after three quick thrusts and his release. He’d fallen against her and, gasping in ecstasy, sworn he would love her until his dying day.
They hadn’t planned on going all the way, she thought now, as she ran a hand along the weathered railing and a skinny black cat darted into the shadows. They had discussed the possibility, of course, as they’d experimented with making out and petting, but had agreed to wait until they were married for the ultimate act of consummation.
But that afternoon with the hot sun urging them on and the wine clouding their judgment, they’d made love.
Her fingers curled over the rail, and when she closed her eyes, she still remembered him, sweating hard, his muscles straining, his face set in a look of triumph as he’d entered her. She’d been blind with desire, hot with a yearning she was certain only he could fill. She’d been blissfully, foolishly in love.
They’d sworn then to always be together, to marry, to have children, to heal the scars that existed between their families, but lately Harley had changed. He didn’t smile as easily and he wanted to have sex all the time. Whenever they were together, which wasn’t often in the past few weeks, he expected her to make love to him. It seemed that since that day at the lake all he wanted from her was her body.
Which was crazy. He loved her. Or did he?
She heard his car and her heart leapt because a part of her had wondered if he’d stand her up again. Footsteps clattered on the dock and she smiled when she saw him running toward her.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he swept her into his arms and buried his face in the bend of her neck. “God, I’ve missed you!” His hands tangled in her hair, and he sighed more loudly than the wind chasing over the bay. Her heart kicked over and she forgave him. This was her dear, sweet Harley, the boy she loved with all her body and soul.
Closing her eyes, she held him close, ignoring the doubts, the fears, the worries that had tried to undermine their love.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she said, her voice husky, tears burning in her eyes.
“Forgive me.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “I don’t need to forgive you.”
“Oh, Claire, if you only knew.” The despair in his voice echoed in her soul.
“Knew what?”
His entire body clenched, and he held her so tightly she could barely breathe.
“Knew what, Harley?”
He hesitated a beat too long. “That I love you. No matter what happens, please believe that I love you.”
“Harley . . . nothing’s going to happen,” she whispered, but even as she clung to him, she felt a chill as cold as the sea in winter burrow deep in her heart.
“I hope you’re right,” he said, lifting his head to stare into her eyes. “I hope to God you’re right.”
Twelve
Checking her watch, Miranda felt her heartbeat quicken. It was nearly time to meet Hunter at the cottage, just as they’d planned. Her mouth went dry at the thought.
For the first time in her life, she was in love, and though she knew it was crazy, that she and Hunter Riley had no future together, she couldn’t ignore the attraction she felt for him, the conviction in her soul that he was, at least for the moment, the man for her.
She’d seen enough of Claire’s heartache to realize that she, too, was walking a dangerous path, a thin tightrope guaranteed to snap and only bring her pain, but for over eighteen years she’d trod carefully, never straying from the straight and narrow, hell-bent to prove herself as worthy as any son, any male heir, Dutch Holland might have spawned.
But for all her efforts, her father hadn’t been impressed, nor had he even noticed, and soon she’d be off to college. She snatched a sweater from the foot of her bed and tucked her purse under her arm as she headed down the back stairs.
Hunter was older, and though he’d dropped out of high school, he’d gained his equivalency diploma and was taking classes at the local community college while working part-time logging for the Taggerts, and helping his aging father with odd jobs around the Holland estate.
Miranda had first noticed him—really noticed him—late in the spring when he and his dad had been clearing brush from one of the picnic spots on the shore of the lake. She’d been sitting on the back porch, reading as clouds had stolen over the sky and fat raindrops had begun to fall.
Beneath the roof of the porch, she’d been dry, but Hunter and his father had worked on, even when the sky had opened and the spring shower had come down in earnest, curtains of water soaking the already wet ground. Throughout the downpour, Hunter had continued to slice away the scrub oak and hazel brush, uncaring that rain ran down his chin and plastered his T-shirt to his back. Miranda saw through the thin cotton, watched in throat-dry fascination as his smooth muscles worked rhythmically, in a fluid motion that caused butterflies to flutter wildly in the pit of her stomach.
Sandy blond hair turned dark in the rain, and when he looked over his shoulder to pin her with eyes as gray as a winter storm, she had to look away. Heat climbed up the back of her neck and some new feeling, a mind-stripping sexual awareness found its way to a spot low in her belly.
She hadn’t said a word to him that day, nor the next when, as the sun warmed the damp ground, creating steam and a sultry heat, she’d sat on the porch again, pretending interest in her book, while never taking her eyes off a man she’d known all her life but had never really seen.
