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ow, I doubt the insurance company will balk. We throw too much money their way, but it’s not enough. I want Taggert Milling to do something more for the family, you know, kind of a PR thing.”
“It’s not as if he was killed in an on-the-job accident,” Weston argued, galled that his father would stoop to such theatrics. “Jack Songbird was a less than stellar employee—check his personnel records. Every supervisor he ever had gave him low marks. He was always late, never wore the safety equipment, took long breaks, flirted with the secretaries, even broke into the Coke machine, I think. You name it; Songbird did it.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“But—”
“Look, I know you fired the stupid son of a bitch, but for Christ’s sake, Weston, think for a minute about the good press we can get out of this. The company will donate five thousand dollars, which I’ll match personally, and we’ll start a trust fund for his family and the tribe—wasn’t he a Chinook?”
“Clatskanie or some damned thing,” Weston muttered, galled. Who the hell gave a rat’s ass about Jack Songbird? The kid was a punk, penny-ante thief, and vandal. The world, especially Chinook, Oregon, was better off without him. Weston laced his fingers together, popping his knuckles. “If you were so worried about appearances, you should have gone to his funeral.”
“No, you should have. I was at the convention in Baton Rouge.”
“With Dutch Holland.”
Neal grimaced. “Yeah, the old fart was there, still trying to steal my accounts. It makes me sick to think that one of his daughters has her hooks in my boy.” Sighing loudly, his eyes met those of his oldest son. “Harley’s always been a problem.”
“Dad—”
“Can it, Weston. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I was hoping that he’d grow up and become stronger—but I guess it’s not going to happen.” Disappointment clouded his father’s gaze. “You know, you were a hard act to follow. I keep trying to remind myself of that. I suppose I should have had more.”
“With Mom?”
Neal’s eyes thinned a fraction. “Of course with your mother. Who else?”
“You tell me.”
“You’re still buying into the gossip that I’ve got me a passel of bastards running around somewhere, don’t you?”
“Just one.”
“Forget it, Weston. You’re my favorite. Firstborn. That’s special, you know.” Rapping his knuckles on Weston’s desk, he headed for the door and appeared suddenly old. “Don’t forget to give Harley my message. Maybe if it comes from you, he’ll believe it.”
“And maybe he won’t.”
“Then he doesn’t have the brains I think he has.” Neal hesitated a second. “You know, when you have a son—a newborn son—you have all this hope and pride bubbling up inside. You know that he’s gonna be the best damned man to ever walk this earth and then, as the years tick by, and the disappointments and worries pile up, you just hope that he’ll get by. With Harley . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Neal swung the door shut behind him, and Weston, smiling inwardly, leaned back in his chair until the old springs creaked. He’d been going about this all wrong, he realized, and cursed himself for being such a fool. He’d been actually trying to help Harley when, in truth, the kid was his biggest rival.
True, Weston was set to inherit the lion’s share of his father’s wealth, but there were provisions in the will for Mikki, Harley, Paige, and any other children sired by Neal Taggert, whether they were legitimate or not.
If Harley married Claire, then he’d give up his share of the fortune, most of which would fall to Weston. Neal had already made it clear that his sons were to run the company and inherit the business. If Harley conveniently cut himself out of the picture, then Weston would be in charge of everything—the resorts, lumber mill, logging operation. An eager smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Why the hell was he trying so hard to help his brother out by getting Kendall pregnant? It would be better if Harley did marry Claire. When his old man kicked off, he’d be left with everything other than the house and monthly pittance for his mother and Paige. He cringed a little as he thought about his little sister. Paige the ugly. Paige the weird. Paige, who was just odd enough to end up in some friendly mental institution painted with serene pastel walls. All Weston had to do was to find some enterprising psychologist who needed a little extra cash, and then Paige would spend her days wandering down well-worn paths that wound through stately trees and past calming ponds filled with lily pads. She would be locked away forever behind steel gates.
Of course his father had to die first, but that was just a matter of time. Neal Taggert was a walking heart attack; his doctor had warned him time and time again. All Weston had to do was be patient. And quit seeing Kendall. That part wouldn’t be difficult.
Avoiding the Holland girls wouldn’t be quite so easy. Though Tessa had thrown him over and wouldn’t return his calls, he didn’t much care. But the more he saw of Miranda, the more he wanted her, which was just plain stupid. She was trouble, a woman to avoid at all costs, and she’d never hidden the fact that she loathed him. Even Tessa had admitted that Miranda had gone off the deep end when she’d figured out that her kid sister was seeing him.
What did she care? Had she really objected to Tessa being with him, or was she, at some level she didn’t even consciously recognize, jealous? His blood heated just a bit. Perhaps Miranda had a wanton streak that she couldn’t control, a lust for that which was forbidden. God, the way she ground her hips into the sand that night! He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
But why Riley? He was a nobody, a bum, the stepson of their goddamned caretaker. For some reason she enjoyed slumming and wasn’t afraid to take a walk on the wild side.
Then there was Tessa. He still had to figure out how to handle her. If she began mouthing off—making good on any of her threats, his life, as he knew it, would be over.
If he was smart, he’d forget all the Holland girls and go back to college before he made any mistakes. His violence was escalating. He felt the adrenaline rush, the anticipation of his next encounter and he knew he was walking a dangerous line. He should stop. Now. But the thought of giving up on Miranda was too much. Just one night—that’s all he wanted, one night to show her what it was like to have passionate, animal, hedonistic sex—the kind that numbed the mind for hours and lingered on the wrinkled sheets for days.
Clicking his pen nervously as the air-conditioning gave up with a final wheeze, Weston considered Riley, a man who, whether he knew it or not, was his rival, a man who’d better watch his step. Ten to one, Riley’s motives weren’t all that pure. The guy had a checkered past—he wasn’t even the caretaker’s real son. Who had fathered the bastard, Weston wondered as he swiveled in his chair and stared through the blinds. A thought as cold as death entered his heart and he wondered if Hunter could be his father’s long-lost bastard. But that was crazy, wasn’t it? His old paranoia crept through his blood.
It wouldn’t take long to uncover the truth because, for the past few weeks, ever since his fascination with Miranda had developed into a more than passing interest, Weston had done some digging on his own and discovered that Riley had more than his share of skeletons in his closet. It was only a matter of time before he was able to expose the son of a bitch as a fraud.
Weston was content to be patient. He believed in the old adage that good things come to those who wait. Well, he was willing to wait for a long, long time, as long as he knew that, in the end, he’d get his own little taste of Miranda Holland.
