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Through sheer curtains, he saw Kendall’s mother seated in a leather recliner, smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee as she read the morning paper. If she had the least bit of interest in what was going on between her daughter and the boy who had dated her for nearly a year, she didn’t show it.
Thank God.
Harley wanted to comfort Kendall, to tell her she’d get over him, to help her through this pain, but how could he when he’d been the cause of it? Her breath, wet from the wash of tears, was hot against his neck and he felt like a heel. Whereas Weston triumphed in breaking girls’ hearts, Harley hated it. “Look, I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”
“But what—what if I’m pregnant?” she choked out and fear, real and dark, clawed at his sense of decency.
“You’re not.”
“I—I don’t know.” She sniffed, tried to pull herself together, but, giving up, flung herself against him. His arms, of their own volition, surrounded her. He moved slightly so that the umbrella of the deck table, flapping in the stiff breeze, partially hid them from the bank of windows, just in case Kendall’s mother looked their way.
“We’ll take care of it. I told you—”
“And I told you I’d never have an abortion,” she vowed with so much passion it scared him. “My father will kill me.” She sagged against him and he smelled her skin and the scent of the elusive perfume she wore, some fragrance that her aunt sent her from Paris each Christmas.
“Things will work out.”
“How?”
“I—I don’t know,” he admitted, feeling too young to deal with all this. He didn’t really believe that Kendall was pregnant. It was too convenient, suited her purposes too well and yet how would he know? “I’ll go to the doctor with you,” he offered.
“Would you?”
Damn! She sounded hopeful when he’d intended to call her bluff. Could it really be true? Was he going to be a father? Oh, shit. “Of course.”
“The appointment’s in three weeks.”
“Three weeks?”
“It’s the first I could get with Dr. Spanner in Vancouver. I tried one of those in-home pregnancy tests and . . . and it looks like . . . like I’m pregnant, but I want to check with a doctor.”
“Oh, God.” So it was true. Harley felt a noose tightening around his throat. She smiled up at him. “Please, until we go check this out, don’t make any rash announcements about getting married to Claire.” She nestled her head against his chest and he knew in his heart he couldn’t say no. Just as he never had. Christ, why was he such a baby?
“Harley?” she said, and her voice was so small he could barely hear it over the roar of the surf. Salty air clung to his skin.
“Yeah.” Harley had never been so scared in his life.
“I love you.” She sighed against his shirt. “No matter what, I’ll always love you.”
“Don’t. Please, Kendall—”
“I’d do anything not to lose you.”
“This is crazy talk.”
“Maybe.” She looked up, her face innocent, her lips, long bleached of any lipstick, beckoning. “I’m serious. Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure that you love me again.”
And she meant it.
Weston lit a cigarette, then let it burn in the ashtray by his bathroom sink as he soaked his beard and smoothed on shaving cream. He felt the edge of a hangover burning his eyes and pounding in his brain. His mouth tasted like shit and his muscles ached a little, but he was one who believed in the old adage that if you soared with the eagles at night, you had to rise with the sparrows in the morning.
With practiced hands he shaved off a day’s worth of stubble and saw the dark spots on his neck—hickeys of all things—where Tessa Holland had pressed her hot little lips against his skin and sucked like no one he’d ever been with. Hell, he got hard just thinking of her.
Who would have thought she was a virgin, the way she’d been strutting her stuff around town for the past couple of years? She’d been hot and willing when he’d driven her to the cabin he kept for just such times; she hadn’t shown any fear. She’d kissed and touched like a woman of the world instead of a naive schoolgirl. Instead of jailbait.
He nicked himself, swore, dabbed at the wound, and rammed his Marlboro into the corner of his mouth as he continued scraping his beard away. He should have been more careful, at least used a damned rubber, but he’d been swept off his feet by the thought that he was actually scoring on one of Dutch Holland’s daughters.
Tessa wouldn’t have been his first choice, of course. That particular obsession belonged to Miranda, but he hadn’t been too choosy last night. Tessa had sighed when he’d kissed her, mewed when he’d stroked her breasts, cried out as he’d nipped at those glorious globes with his teeth and teased her with his tongue. She’d gone down on him as if she’d done it regularly, so it was a shock to him when he’d spread her willing legs, thrust into her wet cunt, and felt resistance.
