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His mother was watching him. She lifted a dark skeptical brow. “They don’t scare you. Good. But what I really hope is that you’ll prove to be the smart boy I’ve always thought you were. The good, intelligent, loving son.” Straightening, she crossed her arms under her breasts and he blocked out the image of her nipples and white skin and Dutch Holland’s thick fingers touching her.
He had no choice. The Coke bottles slipped from his fingers and rolled across the hardwood floor. “Okay,” he whispered, rubbing the side of his face.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I won’t say anything about Mr. Holland.”
“You mean you won’t lie about me.”
His eyes looked up and caught the cold determination in hers. “I’ll say what you want.”
“I only want the truth, Weston,” she said. “Now, run upstairs and clean up. Throw those awful clothes and your slingshot into the trash. You’ll have to be punished, of course, but it’ll only be a little grounding, a week or so, and I’ll tell your father how sorry you are. How’s that?” Her smile was bright and false as fool’s gold.
“I won’t forget,” he said sullenly.
“Forget what?”
“I won’t forget ever,” he said, and took off up the stairs. His relationship with his mother had never been the same and his feelings for all people bearing the name of Holland had been colored forever.
So he couldn’t feel too badly about taking Tessa’s virtue. She’d practically served it up to him on a silver platter. As far as he could see, it was tit for tat. Or maybe tit for tit. Dutch Holland had bedded his mother, and now Weston had returned the favor by making it with daughter number three. It felt good. As if he was getting a little of the Taggert pride back.
He’d learned from his mother. For the first decade of his life he’d thought his father was the shrewd one in their marriage, but Mikki Taggert had talents even her husband didn’t appreciate.
Weston dried his face, picked off the toilet paper he’d dabbed on his wounds, and told himself to savor Tessa Holland for as long as possible. Then, maybe, he’d get lucky enough to have his way with Miranda. Stepping into slacks, he thought about the eldest Holland daughter. Statuesque and dark-haired, with intelligent eyes and a biting tongue, she was a challenge. Oh, how he’d love to seduce her.
With Tessa there had been no seduction. It was almost as if she’d decided that he was going to be the one. Miranda would prove more difficult. Smiling as he buckled his belt, he didn’t let it bother him that maybe, just maybe, Tessa Holland had manipulated him instead of the other way around.
He reached for his jacket and walked out of the bathroom to find Kendall Forsythe, looking for all the world like a rag doll who’d lost half her stuffing, seated on the corner of his bed.
“What are you doing here?” He glanced to the doorway. Christ, he hoped no one had seen her.
“Paige let me in.”
“She knows you’re in my room?”
“I—I had no choice.” She ran a shaky hand over her mouth, glanced at him, then looked quickly away. “I know this is awkward. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
“Doing what?” He was mystified, but an inkling of what was going on in that gorgeous head of hers began to reach him.
Fists clenched, she rose and walked to the open window. “I—uh—I think I want to take you up on your offer,” she said so quietly he barely heard the words.
“My offer?” Then he remembered. “Oh.”
“That’s right.” She stiffened and turned to face him, her smooth skin the color of chalk. “I need to get pregnant and fast.”
He couldn’t help the smile that inched up one side of his mouth. Thoughts of Miranda and Tessa Holland slipped away. “You know me, Kendall,” he said, walking slowly across the room, sizing her up as a predator might a wounded bird. “I’m always willing to oblige.”
Fourteen
“So it’s finally official, the two richest families in the whole goddamned state are going to merge.” Jack Songbird lifted his rifle to his shoulder, narrowed an eye, and pulled the trigger. A tin can hopped off the bale of hay he’d set on the far side of a field of bent beach grass. Overhead the sky was cloudy, dark with the promise of a storm. “Harley Taggert’s gonna marry Claire Holland.”
The news settled like lead in Kane’s stomach, and he closed his mind to the thought of Claire spending the rest of her life with a spineless dishrag like Taggert. Hell, what did the guy have besides money and more money? “It’ll only happen if the families allow it.” He’d heard the local gossip, running like a prairie fire through the beauty shops, groceries, Bible study groups, taverns, cafés, diners, and liquor stores from one small town to another up and down the coast.
“What can they do?”
“Claire’s too young. She’ll need Daddy’s signature.”
“Unless they wait until she turns eighteen.”
