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Sweat dripped down Weston’s body and he closed his eyes as he sat on the bench and added water to the coals. More steam clouded the room. Breathing was difficult. His heart was pumping wildly, and he wadded the documents, a computer printout and a
copy of a birth certificate, in his fists.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. You dumb old bastard.”
This wasn’t a complete disaster. Not yet. No one but his father, Weston, and the slimy private investigator he’d hired knew the truth.
So there was time to make adjustments. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He just had to think. He considered burning the papers here, in the sauna, but decided someone might notice the ash, so he found his lighter in the pair of shorts he’d draped on a hanger near the door and strode through the rec room with a towel slung low on his hips. He lit the damning papers, tossed them into the brick fireplace, and decided he needed a smoke, a drink, and a woman, not necessarily in that order.
Why the hell was everyone, including his old man, always fucking up? He walked back to the sauna and found his cigarettes. By the time he’d slid into his shorts and T-shirt and returned to the rec room, his little fire had extinguished itself, leaving no evidence in the sooty grate that it had ever existed.
He’d pay off the PI which was no problem; the guy was a greedy snake who could keep his mouth shut. Then, he’d take care of his half brother. His pulse quickened at the thought, and he hated himself for the excitement he felt charging through his blood.
He had to be careful, but a plan was forming in his head as he climbed the stairs and rubbed vaguely at a powdery black smudge on the wall, the only mar on the otherwise freshly painted surface, but he couldn’t think about anything other than the problem at hand. Once that was handled, he’d find an expensive bottle of booze and a woman—the only woman he really wanted.
Bitch!
Randa was such a snotty, holier-than-thou bitch.
Tessa, hiding in her mother’s forgotten studio, sat on the window ledge and watched sunlight play on the water of the swimming pool. A half dozen partially finished canvases were scattered around the room, and a potter’s wheel was silently collecting dust as she picked at a tune on her guitar and tried to quiet the rage that had eaten at her insides ever since she’d seen Weston watching Miranda and Hunter go at it by the lake.
“Damn it all to hell.” What was it that Miranda had that Tessa didn’t? So she was taller, more sophisticated, older and . . . oh, what did it matter? Weston was a sicko—the way he had held that knife to her throat, the cool blade pressed against her skin, as if he’d wanted, really wanted to draw blood. She’d never been so scared in her life.
“I hope you rot in hell,” she said, her fingers shaking a little at the horrid memory. She was glad to be done with him. Glad. Glad. Glad. Let him take out his perverted fantasies on someone else.
Like Miranda?
She hit the wrong chord. “Shit!” Tessa had never liked losing, especially not to one of her sisters, and for Randa not only to have been right about Weston, but to also be the object of his obsession, galled Tessa and fed the rage that burned deep in her gut.
If she had the nerve, she should stick it to Weston, the way he did to her. Hold a knife or gun on him and make him sweat, watch while he stripped himself bare and was forced into some humiliation, maybe to jack off in front of her.
“Forget it,” she told herself. “Forget him.” But the beast of fury within her continued to grow. She wasn’t satisfied letting things sit as they were. Weston would have to pay.
She didn’t hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs and was surprised by a quiet tap on the door before it was pushed open, and Miranda stepped inside.
Great! The last person she wanted to see.
“I’m practicing,” she said, barely looking up.
“I know. I heard you.”
“I like to do it alone.”
Randa didn’t take the hint, just walked barefooted and long-legged into the middle of the room. Beautiful as their mother, but more statuesque, Miranda had spent years down-playing her looks and avoiding boys, but, as Tessa so painfully knew, in Weston’s eyes she was a goddess.
“I think we should talk.” Miranda folded her legs beneath her as she sat on the edge of an old ottoman.
“What about?” She continued picking out a tune on her guitar, slowly plucking the strings, ignoring the fact that her oldest sister was obviously worried. Who cared? Miranda was a sanctimonious bitch most of the time and a worrywart the rest.
“Weston.”
Tessa hit the strings so hard, she felt the taut metal cut into her fingertips. “Jesus,” she swore. “Now look what you made me do.” Resentment burned bright in her heart. Compressing her lips, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and sucked on her bleeding fingers. “For the record, I don’t give a shit about Weston. Now, is there something else you wanted?”
“Yeah. I’d like to know that you’re okay,” Randa shot back.
“As you can see I’m just fine.”
“As I can see you’re up here with these dusty relics hiding.”
