Page 107 of Whispers

“I’m just looking for the truth.”

“Are you?” She shook her head and sighed. “No way, Kane. This is some kind of vendetta with you.”

He wanted to argue, but bit his tongue. No more lies. There could be no more lies.

“What is it? Why do you hate us so much?”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Don’t you?” She whirled, dragging her feet out of the water, sending a spray of drops over the dock and his shoulders so that she, too, was facing away from the lake, her shoulder brushing against his. “Then why don’t you just leave us all alone?”

“I have a deal—”

“You said yourself this isn’t about money, so what is it?” she demanded, her teeth flashing as brightly as the fire in her eyes.

“Something that needs to be done.”

“Just to derail my father from his bid for the governorship?” she asked, frowning into the darkness. “I don’t think so. Why would you care?”

“We go way back, me and your dad.”

“To your father’s accident?” she asked, and when he didn’t answer immediately, she looked over her shoulder to the lake. “I’m not standing up for Dutch,” she admitted. “He . . . he’s never been perfect, and what happened to your father was unforgivable.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Don’t I?” She glanced at him with her wide, furious eyes, and he was undone. Her cheekbones, more pronounced as she turned, her lips, moist and shining, her eyebrows lifted in skeptical disbelief, all worked against his hard-fought promise to himself that he wouldn’t touch her again, would never step across that painful barrier. But as he watched her, his determination began to crumble, and the images that had kept him awake at nights, of her lying naked in his arms, became more real, more attainable. He smelled her skin, freshened by the scent of perfume, and the fire between his legs became a furnace. “I know that your father paid an ex-con to haul him over here years ago. The man helped Hampton break into the house, and then the two of them took chain saws to the stairs, decapitating the posts of their art.”

Stunned, Kane didn’t move. “What?”

“That’s right, Moran. Your old man came into the house and trashed the place. The only reason Dutch didn’t press charges is because he was afraid of the bad press. It would’ve made your father, a poor unfortunate cripple, the underdog. A victim. So it was all hushed up and forgotten.” She sighed and blew her bangs from her eyes. “Not that it matters now,” she said. “Dad’s fixing the railing now that we’re here and . . . well, I guess I understand why your father was angry. Why he hated us.”

“Not you. Just Dutch.”

“As you do.”

A muscle leapt in Kane’s jaw, but it relaxed when Claire placed her hand over his.

“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—”