Whispers (33 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Whispers
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“Look, I didn't mean to jump down your throat. I know your father died, and I'm sorry.”
“He's better off,” Kane said, as the softness of her fingers stroked the back of his hand.
As if she realized what she was doing, she pulled away. “Sorry.”
“Don't be. He was a miserable son of a bitch while he was alive. Maybe he's found some peace now.” But he didn't believe it. Hampton Moran's soul would be as tormented and angry in the afterlife as it was when he'd walked this earth. He'd been a furious man with a chip on his shoulder before the accident that had crippled him, and afterward he'd let his dissatisfaction and jealousy eat a hole in his heart and poison his system so that his wife had left him and his son slowly lost all respect and love for the shell of a man he'd become.
“I won't be used, you know,” she said softly.
“Used?”
“By you. For your book. I know you've been snooping around, poking your nose into the past, but if you came here because you thought I'd tell you some great secrets about the night Harley died, then you're wrong.”
“I came here because I wanted to see you,” he said, surprised at his own honesty. “I was going to come by earlier, try and talk to you about the past, but I was too tired, then I saw the torchlights and—” he caught himself before he said too much, but then he looked into her eyes and his soul clutched. Before he could stop himself, he reached upward and cupped the back of her head, drawing her face to his.
“Kane—no—” she said breathlessly, his tongue brushing those perfect lips. “I can't—”
But it was too late. His mouth claimed hers and memories of what it felt like to be with her, to touch her, to take her supple body with his own, washed over him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Her breathing was as erratic as his own, he could feel the flutter of her heartbeat against his chest. “Claire,” he whispered. “Claire—”
She moaned, opening her mouth, offering him access to the inside of her. His tongue touched her teeth and the ridges of the roof of her mouth before finding its mate and dancing in a sensual and moist intimacy that caused his erection to grow and ache.
He felt her shudder and he reached upward, scaling her ribs with his thumbs, reaching inside the shiny wrap with his fingers, unfastening the tiny buttons of her nightgown.
“Kane—oooh.” His fingers delved beneath the soft layers and found her breast, full and hot, the nipple erect and waiting. “Please—” With one hand he clutched her hair, with the other he stroked her breast and opened her robe, exposing more of her white skin to the night, watching in fascination as one glorious globe spilled out of the fabric and the slit opened farther, giving him a glimpse of the firm tight muscles of her abdomen, the erotic impression of her navel, and a glimpse of her reddish curls where her legs joined.
With a groan, he lowered himself until he could kiss her breast. She arched upward and he licked at the nipple, feeling her heat, knowing she was as eager as he.
Encircling his head with her arms, she held him close, writhing against him as he opened his mouth and sucked hungrily. She began to pant, to breathe in short sharp breaths, and she didn't fight him, but moved closer, as if she, too, couldn't resist. Her hips ground against his, and he slid one hand through the fabric of her robe, touching her abdomen and reaching farther downward until he grazed the juncture of her legs with his fingers. She cried out as his hand cupped her thigh before touching that warm soft haven deep within her. She shuddered and moved with him, tossing her head back, losing herself. “Kane,” she cried, as he delved deeper still and then, as if realizing she was at the point of no return, she grabbed his arm with her hands. “Oh, no,” she whispered, as if suddenly realizing where she was and with whom. “No, no, no!”
He froze, his fingers still deep in that sacred warm center of her.
“Oh, God. Oh, no.” She moved away from him and then moaned as if in agony. “Kane, please—we can't just . . . Oh, God, I'm a mother . . . I'm too old to—”
“Shh.” He hushed her by gathering her close, wrapping both arms around her and fastening his lips over hers. His crotch was on fire, his manhood throbbing to join with her, but he forced himself to slow down, to quiet his breathing, to realize that she was right. They couldn't finish this act. Not now. Not ever. “I'm sorry,” he said when at last he could speak.
She trembled in his arms. “Don't be.”
“But—”
“Please.” She kissed him lightly on the lips and cradled his head between her hands. “I know what you're feeling. God, do I, but . . . there's too much between us. Too much time. Too many memories. Too many mistakes.” She blinked rapidly as if fighting tears and then, as he held her, she slipped out of his grasp. “I . . . I just can't do this . . . not yet. I don't even know you.”
“You know me,” he said. “You remember.”
“Yes.” Tears tracked down her cheeks. “I do.” She licked her lips nervously, as if there was something she wanted to tell him, some dark and painful secret, but she suddenly shook her head, and then she was on her feet, running away from him as fast as her bare feet would carry her.
Twenty-five
“I'm tellin' ya, the man's got no past,” Petrillo said as he plopped himself into the one chair pushed up against Miranda's desk. After more than a week off, she was back on the job, determined to keep her equilibrium, refusing to let her father or one of his henchmen, particularly Styles, run her life. “It's as if Denver Styles doesn't exist. No police records, nothing through the computers or Social Security or the IRS or the DMV.” He reached into the pocket of his too-tight sport coat and found a pack of Juicy Fruit. “My guess is his name is a phony; he's got an alias.”
Miranda, seated behind neat stacks of mail and files on current cases the department was prosecuting, shuddered. She touched the scar on her neck, and refused to let her mind wander toward the murky depths of that time in her life. Instead she wondered about her father's latest employee.
“How did your old man get in touch with him?”
“He wouldn't say.”
“Humph. Probably didn't go through the Yellow Pages.” Petrillo unwrapped a stick of gum, then folded it neatly before plopping the wad into his mouth. His pager went off and he glanced at the readout, then scowled as he turned it off.
“No, I don't think so.”
“Styles could be connected to the underworld.”
“I don't think he's a mobster, if that's what you're getting at,” Miranda said, conjuring up a picture of Denver Styles in her mind. Handsome, cold, arrogant, and something else, yes, persistent. She didn't doubt that once Styles set his mind to do something, it was done. No pussyfooting around. She bit her lip nervously. He bothered her. He bothered her a lot.
“Well, if he ain't connected with the Mafia, then he's connected to somethin' else, and I'll bet ya dollars to doughnuts that it ain't on the up and up, if ya know what I mean. Upstandin' citizens have addresses, phone numbers, licenses for their cars and dogs, and are registered with the military and the government. This guy—Styles—it's like he's a ghost.” He snapped his gum and rubbed one jowl. “But I ain't givin' up,” Petrillo promised. “I'll find out who he is and what he's doin' connected with your old man one way or another.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
“Tail him, if I have to.” His brown eyes twinkled at the prospect of a challenge. “I want to find out just what this guy's story is.”
“So do I,” Miranda thought aloud. She picked up a pencil and tapped it lightly on the blotter covering the middle of her desk. Just who was Denver Styles? How had he linked up with her father? Was he a political ally or some kind of shady private investigator, kind of a soldier of fortune, a man who would do anything for the right amount of cash? Her pencil tapped out a rhythm as she glanced up at Frank and saw him staring at her. “I don't mean to take up a lot of your time on this guy. You've got to have other work for the department.”
“I'll squeeze Styles in,” Petrillo said, turning on his pager again. “It could be fun.”
And it could be dangerous,
Miranda thought as she remembered Denver Styles's intense gray eyes, determined set of chin, and general aura that when he set out to do something, it got done.
Well, not this time.
 
 
Claire's hands shook as she poured herself a cup of coffee. What had she been thinking? Kissing Kane Moran. Touching him. Letting him touch her. Even now, in the kitchen, with the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, she tingled between her legs when she thought of his hands, mouth, and tongue and the wonderful ministrations that had turned her inside out. She'd nearly made love to him. As if all the years, all the lies, all the pain didn't exist.
As if he wasn't Sean's father.
For the love of God, what was she going to do?
“You're a fool,” she muttered under her breath as she poured pancake flour into a mixing bowl. Cracking two eggs with a vengeance and adding milk, she tried to concentrate on the task at hand rather than the wickedly delicious sensations Kane had created in her body.
It had been a long time since she'd been with a man. Years. She'd probably just reacted out of desperation, nothing more. As she stirred the pancake batter, she stared out the window and across the lake to Kane's cabin. She had to forget what they had once shared—because he was a changed man, a man with a vendetta against her family.
Don't trust him. He's only using you to get information for his damned book. Remember that.
And yet her body still tingled at the memories.
Pouring batter onto the hot griddle, she heard Samantha's light tread on the stairs. If Paul hadn't done anything else right in his miserable life, at least he'd blessed her with their daughter.
Sam burst into the room. Already dressed in her swimsuit and slathered with tanning oil, she carried a beach basket which she plopped onto the counter. “Where's Sean?”
“Asleep, I think. Why don't you wake him up and tell him breakfast's about ready?”
“He's not in his bed. I already checked.”
“No?” That was odd. Sean was known to sleep until two in the afternoon. “Maybe he went horseback riding,” she said, though her heart was suddenly heavy.
Sam pulled a face. “He hates horses. He's into computer games and skateboarding.”
That much was true, and through the French doors Claire saw all three horses, heads lowered to the ground as they plucked at a few blades of grass and switched their ears and tails against bothersome flies.
“Then a hike.”
“Early in the morning? With who?”
“Whom,” Claire responded out of habit.
“Okay, whom? He doesn't have any friends up here. He's always e-mailing or instant-messaging kids back in Colorado.”
“He'll make some new friends when school starts.”
Sam rolled her eyes. “Sure—oh, Mom, the pancakes?”
Smoke was rolling from the griddle, and Claire tossed the first batch of burned hotcakes into the disposal. “Why don't you take over for a second?” she asked her daughter. “I'll track down Sean.”
“Sure.”
She had already opened the door when she saw a Jeep wheel into the drive. Her heart sank. Kane was driving and Sean, jaw jutted forward rebelliously, eyes downcast, sat in the passenger seat. She could barely move for a second. Couldn't Kane see it—how much Sean resembled him? Straight nose, blade-thin lips, broad shoulders, and bad attitude, all rolled up into a hellion of a boy. Though Sean had yet to develop into the lawless, arrogant son of a gun Kane had been, he was on the right track. Her fingers were suddenly sweaty and she felt as if the earth was shifting beneath her feet. How could she tell either of them? Sean would condemn her for her loose morals. Not only had she sheltered him from the truth, but she'd lied as well. He'd never forgive her.
Nor would Kane. When he discovered that Sean was his natural son, what would he do? Demand custody? Call her a cheap tramp? Or open his arms and heart to his son? She cleared her throat of all emotion and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand. “What in the world—?”
Before the Jeep had come to a full stop, Sean bolted from the vehicle and strode toward the front door. He wore black jeans and a ripped black T-shirt along with a pair of dilapidated running shoes. Claire met him on the porch. “What's going on?” she asked. “Where've you been?”
“In town.” He tried to brush past her, but she caught hold of his arm. His nostrils flared and he jerked away.
“What happened?” From the corner of her eye she saw Kane approach at a leisurely pace, as if willing to let her grill her son before being part of the argument that was brewing in Sean's stormy eyes. Battered leather jacket, white T-shirt, disreputable jeans and boots in sore need of polish were his companions and only served to remind Claire of the boy he'd once been, the hoodlum to whom she'd lost her heart sixteen years before. She'd been such a simpleton, such a stupid romantic.
Right now she had to deal with her boy. “Sean?”
“I got in trouble, okay?” Sean started for the door again, but Claire planted herself in his path.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, her heart pounding. Sean was so volatile these days, always on the edge, ready to explode. “And no, it's definitely not okay.”
“It's no big deal.” He shot a look at Kane, then rolled his eyes and swore under his breath. “Oh, hell, I got caught shoplifting.”
“Shoplifting.” She froze.
Stealing?
This was worse than anything he'd done in Colorado—well, worse than anything she knew about. She turned to Kane and hoped she'd get the straight story. “What happened?”
Sean shifted from one foot to the other and chewed on a thumbnail that hardly existed as it was.
Leaning against one of the rough-finished posts supporting the roof, Kane crossed his arms on his chest. With a nod to Sean, he said, “I think you'd better fill your mother in on all the details.”
“Who cares what you think?” Sean shot back, his words spiced with hate.
“Sean!” Claire pointed a finger at her son's chest, and one of the horses nickered softly. “Don't be rude. Let's just get to the bottom of this.”
“I tried to jack a pack of smokes.”
“Cigarettes? You were shoplifting cigarettes?” Her heart sank. They'd been in town less than two weeks, and already Sean was looking for and finding trouble. Big trouble.
“Yeah and a bottle of Thunderbird.”
“Thunderbird?”
“Wine,” Kane supplied and received a “drop dead” stare from Sean.
“Oh, God, now what?”
Sean nodded toward Kane. “He caught me. Made me put everything back and apologize to the store owner.” Sean's face was a deep shade of purple, his gaze still stonily rebellious, cast to the floorboards.
“Chinook's a small town,” Kane explained. “Everybody's got his nose in everybody else's business. You don't want to get yourself a reputation, 'cause it's hell to live down. Trust me, I know.”
“What? You were some kind of crook or somethin'?” Sean asked.
“Or somethin'.” Kane's eyes found Claire's, and in the short span of a heartbeat she remembered him as he was, the roughneck of a boy with a crippled father. Always in trouble. Always outrunning the law. Smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and riding his motorcycle hell-bent for leather. And she'd loved him. With all her fickle heart. Now, as she looked into his golden eyes, she experienced the same rush of adrenaline that she'd always felt around him, the acceleration of her heartbeat, the sudden shortness of her breath. All the might-have-beens chased through her mind.
“I can't believe you did this,” she said to her son.
“I didn't take anything!”
“Because you got caught.”
“So?”
“So you're grounded. For two weeks.”
“Big effin' deal,” he muttered. “There's nothin' to do in this place anyway. Who gives a shit?”
“Don't—”
Angry and embarrassed, he flung open the door and strode inside. Claire wanted to collapse on the front steps. At times like this one, she regretted not having a husband to count on, a man to back her up in her decisions.
“He's angry,” Kane observed, his eyes finding hers.
She swallowed hard. “About a lot of things.”
“Including his father?”
She nearly stopped breathing. Seconds slipped by, counted by the rapid beat of her heart. Why hadn't Kane seen the similarities—the resemblance to his own features? “Paul let us all down.”
“He was a shit.”
She wanted to argue, to tell him it was none of his business, but she couldn't. “He's . . . he's still the kids' father. I don't think it's necessary to put him down.”
“Just callin' 'em as I see 'em.” Kane's smile, enigmatic and crooked, touched her heart. “Tell me about Sean.”
She licked her lips.
He's asking, so tell him the truth. Tell him he's a father!
“You've got your hands full with that one,” he observed, his eyebrows slamming together as he glanced at the screen door, where Sean had made his gruff exit.
“He'll be all right.”
“Not unless you sit on him hard.”
“So now you're Dear Abby?” she asked, slightly irritated and fighting all the conflicting emotions running through her veins.
Tell him,
her mind screamed.
Tell him that he's Sean's father!
And what then? How would he react? And what about Sean? How would her son feel to know that his mother had lied to him for all these years? Her stomach twisted into a raw knot of anxiety and she avoided Kane's eyes, focusing instead upon a bumblebee as it flitted from one rosebush to the next.

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