Whispers

  “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.

  “Mr. Taggert?” His secretary’s voice broke into his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Forsythe on line two.”

  Weston felt a warm sense of satisfaction. Time to break it off with Kendall. What a shame. “I’ll be right with her,” he said, then set the alarm on his watch for two minutes. Kendall, that cold, lifeless bitch, could damn well wait.

  Eighteen

  Miranda’s fingers closed around the bottle of prenatal vitamins she’d gotten at the clinic. She was pregnant, there was no doubt, the doctor and a pregnancy test confirming what she’d already suspected. Now she had to tell Hunter. Oh, God. What if he didn’t want the baby? Tears threatened her vision as she climbed into her car. What would she say to him? To her parents? Claire and Tessa?

  She, who had always been in control.

  She, who had mapped her life out at the age of twelve.

  She, who had tried so hard to be a source of pride to her family.

  Pregnant.

  “Remember: It’s not the end of the world, but the beginning,” she told herself again as she flipped on the radio and rolled down the window. Pushing on buttons until she found a station that was playing a bluesy Bonnie Raitt tune, she drove toward Stone Illahee. Warm air blew through her hair and on impulse, she pulled off the road near a beach turnout, kicked off her shoes, left the vitamins in the car and walked barefoot onto the sand. The dunes gave way to flat, deserted beach, and soon she was near the ocean, feeling the icy water of the tide wash over her feet as she stepped around clear pieces of jellyfish and the jagged edges of eviscerated crabs and clams. Marauding gray seagulls kept watch, hoping for another scrap of food, and on the horizon a few fishing boats drifted on the sea.

  She found a log wedged into the dry beach. One side was blackened from campfires, the other nearly buried from the drifting sand. Would she come here with her son or daughter, build sand castles, chase the waves, throw a Frisbee for a rambunctious pup?

  Would she marry Hunter?

  Sitting on the log, she clasped her hands together and was so lost in her own thoughts, she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until a shadow fell over her shoulders.

  Startled, she turned quickly and nearly died.

  “Thought that was your car,” Weston Taggert said, squatting so that he was on eye level with her.

  “What do you want?” The last person she needed to deal with was Tag
gert.

  “Company.”

  “Buy a dog.”

  Weston’s eyebrows quirked up. “Bad day?”

  “That just got worse.” She started to rise, but he caught her hand. “What’s got into you?”

  “Common sense.” Yanking her hand away, she picked up her sandals and let them swing from her fingers as she walked to her car.

  “What have I ever done to you?”

  Her back stiffened, and though she knew she shouldn’t be baited by him, she whirled, sand fleas skipping out of her path. “I’ve seen the way you look at me and I think it’s disgusting,” she said, remembering the leers he’d cast in her direction while they were both still in high school. “I heard some jokes you started at my expense, and, worst of all, you’ve been two-timing my sister as well as my friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Crystal. You remember her?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Miranda saw red. “Leave them both alone.”

  “Is that a threat?” he asked, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

  “Take it any way you want, Weston, but why don’t you do everyone a favor and go back to college early?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like the way you treat Tessa, okay?”

  “Maybe I’d treat you better.”

  Stunned, she lost her voice for a second, then, when she realized what he was suggesting, she felt sick inside. “Go to hell.”

  “You’d rather I’d continue seeing Tessa.”

  “I’d rather you drop dead.” She started for the car again, hot sand squishing through her bare toes. The nerve of that guy! He had the morals of a street dog.

  “Miranda?”

  She didn’t turn, wouldn’t give him the time of day.

  “I think these are yours.”

  “What?” She glanced over her shoulder and he tossed a bottle into the air. With a sickening feeling she realized before she whirled around and her fingers curled over the plastic that he’d found her vitamins, that he knew she was pregnant.

  “Congratulations.”

  Bile rose in her throat.

  “You know, if Riley doesn’t take the news well, you can always come and see me.” His smile was pure evil. “I’d make an honest woman out of you.”

  “I’d die first.” She reached the car, threw the bottle of pills through the open window and onto the driver’s seat, then scooted behind the wheel. Her stomach was in knots, her mouth filled with saliva, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her vomit. No way. She took off with a squeal of tires, turned onto the highway while gunning the engine, and didn’t stop until she rounded the corner and turned into a private lane where she threw open the car door and lost the contents of her stomach in a dry ditch filled with bleached weeds and empty beer bottles.

  “You’re sure?” Hunter’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the crackle of the fire. They lay together after making love, and Miranda’s announcement that she was pregnant hung between them in the rustic cottage.

  “I went to the doctor today.”

  “Jesus,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling where the golden shadows of the flames played upon the old plaster. “A baby.”

  Miranda’s chest constricted. “Yes. In March.”

  He rolled off the bed stark naked and shoved both hands through his hair. “A baby.”

  Refusing to let the tears clogging her throat free, Miranda sat up and drew the old sheet over her breasts. “I know it’s unexpected . . . and inconvenient.”

  “Unexpected?” he repeated. “Inconvenient?” His shoulders sagged, and with the fire as his backdrop, his body, tall and lean, was silhouetted against the shifting flames. “It’s a damned sight more than that.”

  “Oh, God, you don’t want it.”

  “No . . . Yes . . . Hell, I don’t know.” Letting out a long breath, he walked back to the bed and stared down at her with eyes that were dark with concern. “I can’t think straight. A baby?”

  She nodded, her throat so thick she could barely breathe.

  “And I take it from your reaction that you want to have it.”

  “Oh, God, yes.”

  “You won’t consider an—”

  “Don’t even say it.” She grabbed his forearms, her fingers tightening in desperation. “Please, Hunter, I always thought I could make that kind of decision easily, but I can’t. Not when it’s my baby. Not when it’s yours.”

  His lower lip rolled over his teeth, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. “This is gonna be tough.”

  “Everything worth having is.”

  “So now you’re a philosopher.”

  “No,” she said, lifting up her chin. “What I am—or will be—is a mother.” She took his big hand in hers and said, her voice shaking, “Like it or not, Hunter Riley, you’re going to be a father.”

  “Christ.”

  “In my opinion, you’ll be the best.”

  His fingers, callused and strong, tightened over hers. “What I am, Miranda, is a nobody. I haven’t had time to be somebody yet.”

  “You’re somebody to me and to this little person.” Slowly she tugged and placed his hand over her flat abdomen. His face was so close to hers, she kissed his cheek. “I believe that you and I can take on the world, Hunter.”

  “I believe you can. I’m not so sure about me.”

  “Have faith.” She kissed his cheek again. “Together, Riley, we’re a terrific team.”

  “You think so?” One side of his mouth lifted and his hand flattened possessively over her belly. His ring rubbed against her bare skin.

  “I know it.”

  “Okay.” His voice cracked as he slid beneath the sheet and took her into his arms as he settled next to her. “Let’s . . . Let’s think this through. You know that I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Her heart soared. “Would you?”

  “And I’d always hoped that someday, if I could finish school, buy a place and, you know, establish myself, that there was a chance for us.”

  “There is.”

  He looked into her eyes and sighed. “This—the baby—wasn’t part of my plan.”

  “Nor mine.”

  “What about your career?”

  “A baby won’t stop it. Just put it on hold.”

  He thought a minute. “It would be hard.”

  “I know, but it’s not like I don’t have some money—”

  “Forget it. If we’re going to make this work—I mean get married and start a family, we have to do it on our own. No help from your father. No tapping into money you’ve saved for college.”

  “It’s my trust fund,” she said, “and it’s not that much.”

  “We’re not using it.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m enough of a chauvinist to want to support my own wife and children. Oh, God, would you listen to that? My children!” He laughed and squeezed her, one strong leg pinning hers against the mattress. “This is insane.”

  “I know.”

  “But I love you.”

  “And I love you.” She blinked back those damned tears that kept threatening her eyes.

  “That does it,” he said with a half smile. “I guess there’s no getting around it now.” Sliding out of the bed, he bent one knee and, while the firelight played upon his nude body, asked her the question she’d hoped she’d hear. “Miranda Holland, will you be my wife?”

  So it was true.

  In the privacy of the sauna off the recreation room in his parents’ house, Weston read the private investigator’s report for the third time. His fingers shook and he wanted to scream. The old man had another kid—a bastard son. One who, if and when he found out the truth, would claim his inheritance.

  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.