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“Then I wish she had the same kind of accident that Jack had.”
“Jack Songbird?” A chill as cold as death itself climbed up Kendall’s spine. Sometimes Harley’s little sister was downright creepy.
“Yeah.” Paige lifted her eyes to meet Kendall’s horrified gaze in the mirror. “He died.”
“I know.”
“So he won’t bother anybody anymore.”
“I didn’t think . . . I mean I don’t think he bothered anyone.”
“He stole from the mill.”
“What?” Kendall’s throat was suddenly tight. She had hoped to steer the conversation to Claire and suggest that Paige do a little spying on her or talking with that nitwit of a younger sister of Claire’s to dig up some dirt. No one could be as lily-white as Claire Holland pretended to be, but somehow the discussion had taken a new and decidedly dangerous turn. Anxiously, she licked her lips and wondered how she could make a quick exit. Paige wasn’t just weird, she was borderline psychotic.
“So God punished Jack for taking money from Daddy.”
“Surely you don’t believe that.” Kendall was horrified.
“Why not? It’s what they teach in Sunday school and everybody dies someday anyway.” Paige tilted her head and studied the ceiling. “Yeah, I think it would be a good idea if Claire died.”
“She’s not going to die. She’s seventeen, for crying out loud. People don’t just keel over at that age.”
“Jack did,” Paige said philosophically as she stretched and reached for her favorite stuffed animal, a huge panda bear with sad eyes. “Well, he was a little older, but not much.” She looked at the shiny cat with eyes that made Kendall shiver as Paige stroked the bear’s wide head. “Claire could die, too, you know.” She nodded to herself. “You just have to want it bad enough and pray real hard.”
Seventeen
With a click of his lighter, Weston lit a cigarette and wondered why he’d agreed to meet Tessa here, only a stone’s throw away from her house, in the middle of the night. It was almost as if she love
d tempting fate, becoming bolder with each of their clandestine meetings. He should break it off with her, she was a little too offbeat for him, but he liked the idea of screwing one of Dutch’s daughters—even if it was the wrong one.
He paced along the shore of the lake, screened only by a hedge of arborvitae that ran from one end of the garage to the dock, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, as if he was being watched by unseen eyes.
Gossamer clouds drifted over the moon, allowing only a weak light, but still he could see the outline of the lodge nestled in the trees, the garage, gardens, and stone paths and steps leading in different directions through the fir and pine. The lake was smooth, and mirror-dark. Overhead he heard the rustle of bats’ wings. He checked his watch. She was late. Christ, this was a mistake.
Just then he heard light, hurried footsteps and squashed his cigarette. Peering through the lacy branches of the arborvitae, he watched as a woman ran toward him, her bare feet skimming the stones. He nearly called out, only to open his mouth and remain silent. It wasn’t Tessa who was racing through the night but her older sister Miranda.
Long dark hair caught by a white ribbon streamed behind and she was breathing heavily.
Weston’s heart pounded and his mouth felt as if it had turned to cotton. She was wearing a gauzy white dress, maybe her nightgown, that billowed and showed off her slim legs.
A low whistle caused her steps to falter, and then she sped down a path toward the lake.
Weston couldn’t help himself. He followed. Darting between the trees, watching her gauzy dress flash in the darkness, he kept a short distance behind her and tried to quiet the desire that thudded in his temples. God, she was beautiful. She paused at the beach, moonlight playing upon her face.
Weston stopped behind a Douglas fir and swallowed hard as a man appeared—a tall muscular man, who, without a word, took Miranda into his arms and kissed her long and hard. She moaned, and Weston’s blood thundered.
He recognized the guy. Hunter Riley. Son of the goddamned caretaker. Wearing only low-slung jeans, he kissed Miranda until her knees gave way and they tumbled into the sand. “Randa,” Riley growled, his fingers plucking at the buttons on the front of her dress. “My beautiful Miranda.” As the dress parted, exposing her lush, bare breasts, Weston felt his erection stiffen, and it was all he could do not to touch himself.
Like a sicko voyeur, he watched Hunter caress and kiss those breasts, sucking with deep, satisfied grunts.
Bastard! Who was he—a nobody, and yet he was touching the one woman Weston couldn’t possess.
Riley yanked down the dress and Weston clamped hard on his teeth to suppress a groan. Her supple long legs were slowly exposed and that glorious nest of black curls at the juncture of her thighs caught in the moonlight. Riley buried his head in her abdomen and her fingers tangled in his hair as he moved ever lower, tasting and touching. Weston’s breathing became shallow. He should look away, take his eyes off the erotic picture before him, but he couldn’t, and his hands slipped the zipper of his fly downward to delve into his pants where he stroked his own throbbing erection, wishing he was riding that warm piece of flesh that was Miranda Holland.
Hunter kicked off his jeans and parted her legs. Weston bit down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out.
Her sounds were soft and eager, she was clinging to her lover, arching up against him, making love to him like the pure, sexual animal Weston had always thought her to be. His fingers moved ever faster as Hunter threw back his head and let out a long cry of triumph.
