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.
Weston cringed as Riley, sweating like a pig, fell upon her, holding her close, crushing those magnificent breasts. He whispered something into her ear then lifted his head for a second, and his eyes, dark in the night, seemed to stare straight at Weston. That was impossible, of course, he couldn’t be seen in the shadows of the fir trees, and yet Hunter seemed to have Weston in his sights.
Weston’s breath stilled in his lungs. Sweat trickled down his neck. He slid his hand out of his pants.
Miranda said something and Hunter turned his attention back to the long-legged, beautiful woman lying beneath him. Desire thudded through Weston’s brain as he slowly picked his way back up the path. He stumbled once, his shoe crashing into a tangle of roots, his face slapped by fine-needled branches, but eventually he found his way to the dock.
His heart nearly stopped when he spied Tessa on the edge of the pier, her feet dragging through the water less than two hundred yards from where her sister was lying naked on the beach.
She turned as he approached and he noticed the tracks of tears drizzling from her eyes. “Enjoy the show?” she asked, her voice a harsh whisper that probably echoed over the lake.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“What is it with you?” she demanded. “Why do you keep seeing me when you really want her?”
“Who?”
She shoved her hair away from her face. “Don’t be stupid. I have eyes, you know. I can tell that you want Miranda. I only wished I understood your fascination with her.”
He didn’t argue, and she didn’t break down.
“She’s in love with Hunter, you know.” Struggling to her feet, Tessa dusted her hands and sniffed back any trace of tears. She had pride, if nothing else. “I don’t know why, but Miranda thinks the earth, moon, and stars revolve around him.” She wiped the back of her hand under her nose and squared her small shoulders. When Weston tried to touch her, she backed away quickly, nearly slipping off the pier. “Who would have thought? The ice princess—hot for the caretaker’s son.” Her smile was cold and direct as she stared into Weston’s eyes. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Tessa,” he said, reaching for her wrist.
She yanked her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she snapped, drawing back and slapping him. Smack. The sound echoed over the water. “I won’t be used like a two-dollar whore. Go back to Crystal if all you want is a quick fuck.”
Weston’s temper flared. “Hey—wait a minute,” he ordered, grabbing her around her small waist. What was going on here? Tessa, who had always been so willing to please, was suddenly turning on him, showing him more fire than he’d seen in weeks. She was fighting him as he dragged her along the shore of the lake, down a path far from Miranda, away from the lodge.
“Let me go, you bastard!” Her heels dug into the dirt and caught on exposed roots. With a sickening rip, her blouse caught on a branch and tore.
“Why?”
“Because it’s over!” She struggled and he held tighter, feeling a heat in his groin that was sparked by the fight.
“It’s over when I say so.”
“Leave me alone, Weston, or I swear—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and felt her teeth sink into his palm. But he didn’t so much as flinch. Let her struggle all she wanted. Right now she was his. Anger fueled his passion, fury caused his dick to rise and heat. She was scared now, he could feel the change in her body, the tension. The smell of fear reached his nostrils and he thought he could easily come in his jeans. “Don’t you know that no one messes with me, Tessa? Haven’t you figured that one out yet?”
Her body coiled and she struck out, twisting so that her knee connected with his groin. Pain exploded in his crotch. His breath expelled in a rush.
“You bitch,” he wheezed, shaking her. “You goddamned bitch! Now you’re going to pay!” Doubled over, he dragged her over stones, past berry vines that clung and clawed, over fallen logs to a clearing where his car was parked. He was sweating and breathing hard, but they were far enough away from Dutch’s house that even if she was stupid enough to scream, no one would hear her. She wouldn’t win. No matter what.
With one hand he reached into his pocket and found Jack Songbird’s knife. With a click it was open, and he held it in front of her eyes. “Don’t do something stupid and you won’t get hurt.”
He let go and she spit on him as she tried to stumble away. “You’re asking for trouble,” she hissed.
“Me? Looks like you’re the one who needs help.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Weston,” she said with enough bravado to almost convince him. But her voice shook a bit and she couldn’t take her eyes off his newfound weapon. “In fact I—I think you’re pathetic!” She was sweating, and her perfume teased his nostrils. She turned as if to walk away, and he lunged. Her scream, before he held the knife to her throat, was a tiny squeak.
“Let me go, you cocksucker.”
“No way, Tessa. We had a date, remember?” Holding her firmly against him with both arms, he felt her spine against his chest, her round butt wriggling against his fly as she struggled. Her breasts heaved against his arm, and her breath was hot as dragon’s fire.
“Let me go, damn it.”
He smelled her fear and it turned him on. She was a hellcat. He licked the skin at her hairline and she flung her head back, hoping to wound him. Silly bitch. “Careful, darling.” He nipped at her salty skin.
Tessa cried out.
“That was for the slap.” She trembled, and he loved the feeling of power it gave him, the feeling that he could control her, use her as his personal slave. “Now, you’re going to do exactly what I want, bitch, and you’re not going to stop until I say it’s time. Get down on your knees.”
He shoved her to the ground and held the knife up as if he could throw it at any second. “Now, beautiful, unzip my pants.”
“No—”
He grabbed a handful of her hair and sliced it off.
“Ahhh!”
Yellow strands fell to the ground. “Now. Unzip my pants and go down on me like a good little girl.”
“Go find Miranda. She’s the one you want,” she said bravely though her eyes were round with fear, her lips trembling.
“She’s busy.”
“What do you care? You like making it with more than one girl at a time.”
“She’ll have her turn.”
Suddenly she leapt upward and swung at him, her fingernails raking down his cheek.
“Shit!” His entire face stung. He shoved her back to the ground. “No more games, bitch,” he said, as blood dripped to his shoulder. “Open my pants and—”
“I loathe you.”
“Do you? Too bad. Now, you’ve got no choice and if you so much as touch me with your teeth . . . I’ll retaliate.”
/>
“No you won’t,” she said, with sudden insight as she stood in front of him. “You’re not going to kill me, or even wound me,” she said, “because you’d get caught. Even without a trace of evidence my father would hunt you down like a dog. People have seen us together and now—” she wiggled her fingers with their dirtied, bloodied nails in front of his eyes, “—there’ll be traces of your blood on my hands.”
His heart stopped for a second.
Tessa’s smile was pure evil. “If you make me do anything I don’t want to do, and I mean anything, I’ll tell my father and swear out a complaint at the police department. You’ll be arrested for . . . for trespassing, and . . . and assault and statutory rape.”
He didn’t believe her. “You wouldn’t—”
“You bastard, I’d kill you before I ever let you touch me again.”
He reached forward and she slapped his hand away. “You’ll go to jail, Weston. My father will see to it.” She looked at him with her jaw set and anger burning in her eyes. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her blouse torn, and she stared at him as if she’d like nothing better than to shred him to ribbons with her bare hands.
“Jesus, you wouldn’t.”
“Watch me,” she warned, her eyes glinting like those of a wounded animal. Weston remembered a possum he’d trapped and how the beast had snarled, showing off razor-sharp teeth before Weston put him out of his misery.
“Leave,” she ordered. She wasn’t joking.
Every muscle in his body screamed to lunge at her, to throw her on the ground and tear off her clothes, but he wasn’t stupid enough to make that kind of a mistake. Not now. She was, whether he liked it or not, jailbait.
Later, he told himself, he’d deal with her later. “When it was safer, and she didn’t have the upper hand. He clicked the knife shut and climbed into his car. In a squeal of wheels, he roared off, bouncing onto the old rutted road that led to this stretch of nowhere. He saw Tessa in his rearview mirror, her back rigid with pride, her torn clothes worn like a goddamned badge of honor.
His hands were sweaty on the wheel as he rounded the corner and shifted into second. His blood pounded in his veins, throbbing at his temples. If that little bitch thought she’d somehow gotten the upper hand, she was wrong. Dead wrong.
“I’m telling you, son, I’m counting on you.” Neal poked a thick finger in Weston’s direction as the ancient air conditioner in Weston’s office at the sawmill rattled in the vents overhead. “Someone’s got to talk some sense into your brother. No one, and I mean no one in this family, is going to hook up with a Holland! Jesus H. Christ, doesn’t that boy see that she’s only after his inheritance?” Pacing from one end of Weston’s office to the other, he dabbed at his balding pate with a handkerchief. His ruddy face was more florid than usual, his nostrils flared in indignation, his gold tooth glinting as he talked. Sweat stood in small droplets on his forehead and stained his sleeves. “What the hell happened to your face?”
Weston managed a smile, though the thought of Tessa’s fingernails made him see red. “A local whore and I got into a disagreement.” Not exactly a lie.
“Hell, it wasn’t that Songbird girl, was it?”
“Crystal? No.”
“Good. We can’t afford to rile anyone associated with the local tribe, you know. They own some valuable land around here, land we might want to buy for another resort, one to rival old Dutch’s. Even though you and I know that Jack Songbird was a screw-off, his parents might start yammering about discrimination and such. The whole damned tribe could get involved.”
“I don’t think they’re putting together a war party,” Weston sneered. “Relax.”
Neal let out his breath in a world-weary sigh. “Maybe you’re right. But we still have problems, starting with your brother and his stupid-ass plan to marry one of the Holland girls. Shit, what a mess.”
“Don’t you think Claire Holland will inherit enough money from her father? Do you really think she’s after ours, too?”
“Of course she is. They all are. Greedy, like their son of a bitch of a father. He’s never forgiven me for outbidding him for that piece of land just north of Seaside.”
“And building Sea Breeze.”
“Yep. That was a real bug up old Dutch’s butt.” Neal chuckled, his gold tooth flashing as he smiled. “Makes Stone Illahee look cheap. The bastard had it coming.”
“But that was years ago.”
“Well, the old fart knows how to hold a grudge.”
“Maybe it’s time to get over this.”
“No way. Not until Dutch makes the first move.”
“Why?”
Neal’s eyes flashed darkly. “This goes beyond business, son. It’s personal.”
You bet it is, Weston thought, and wondered if the old man knew that his wife had been bedded by his worst enemy. In his mind’s eye, Weston saw Dutch’s freckled back and the shattered mirror in the guest house. Since that fateful day, he and his mother hadn’t gotten along. The lies had simmered between them. Always.
Neal loosened his tie. “So, don’t play devil’s advocate with me. I told Harley I’d cut him off rather than let any Holland bitch get her grubby fingers on my money, and I meant it. Same goes for you.” He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief. “Christ, it’s hot.”
“I’m not the one planning on marrying into the Holland family,” Weston pointed out, still in a foul mood from the other night, when he’d caught Miranda with Riley. And Tessa. Just wait until he got her alone. She’d be sorry she’d ever pushed him so far.
“I know, but Harley . . . oh, he never did have a lick of sense. Always a whining crybaby. When I first heard that he was dating one of Dutch’s daughters, I figured it was just a fling, kind of a rebellion thing, nothing to worry about, but, then he didn’t stop, just kept seeing her.” Neal pinched the bridge of his nose as if he could forestall a headache. “What was wrong with Kendall, that’s what I’d like to know. She’s a damned sight prettier than all three of those Holland girls put together, and her father and I get along, do business together. Why the hell doesn’t Harley want to marry her?”
“Don’t ask me.” Weston played the innocent to the hilt and his old man was so intent on his own need to vent his anger that he didn’t notice.
“We’ll find out how our boy likes it without a dime. I’m giving him one more chance to see things clearly, and then, if this whole Claire Holland thing hasn’t blown over within the week, I’m going to yank his job out from under him, repo that damned Jag, and kick him out of the house. Then we’ll discover just what the Holland girl’s made of. Ten to one, she runs in the other direction.”
Weston wasn’t about to take that bet, though he thought Claire had more grit than his old man gave her credit for.
“Maybe she’s a great lay,” Weston offered, his thoughts again wandering to Miranda.
“Fine. So he can fuck her from here to kingdom come, but he can’t marry her!”
“What’s the difference?”
Neal stared at his son as if Weston had just announced he wanted to build their newest resort on Jupiter. “The difference is that if he just sleeps with her and uses her as a whore, he’s the victor. If, however, she manages to get her claws into him and he marries her, then she wins. Christ, I shouldn’t have to explain this to you.”
“So it’s a matter of respect.”
“Bingo.” Neal rubbed his face, grumbled under his breath, then waved in the air, as if to shoo away a bothersome fly. “Just make sure he understands what’s at stake. Now, there’s a couple of other things we need to discuss. I want an internal audit of the books, a meeting with Jerry Best of Best Lumber to see why he pulled his account and . . . some kind of payment to the Songbird family—you know, because of the death of their son.”
Weston’s head snapped up. His muscles froze. “Jack had insurance through the company. I think it was still in effect even though he was fired that same day he died.”
“I know, I kn
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.”