Page 118 of Whispers

She didn’t want to be close to him. She was afraid of how she would respond if he touched her. “If you think I’m going to come up with some confession, or some kind of alternative story to what I’ve told the police, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Claire—” He was so close. Too close.

“For the love of God, Kane, I’ve told you and the whole world over and over again what happened that night! Check the police reports.” She stumbled on a rock and nearly fell to her knees, but he caught her, one large hand around her arm and holding her upright.

“I have.”

“And the newspaper accounts.”

“Them, too.” He didn’t let go of her, and his hand where he touched her burned through her sleeve.

She stood stock still. “Then ask anyone who was here or was with Harley that night.”

“I’m asking you.” His fingers tightened possessively. An unwanted thrill skittered down her spine.

“So that I’ll tell you something else that you can use to print and destroy my family?”

“Harley Taggert died. We owe it to him to—”

“You didn’t care about him at all. That’s what’s so crazy about all this,” she said, her heart pumping wildly, her flesh suddenly on fire as his fingers rubbed the inside of her arm. Why wouldn?

?t he let her be, accept her lies, drop his warm hand, and take her home? Before she said something that would hurt her family. Before she blurted out that Sean was his son.

“I cared about you.”

“Oh, God.” His confession seemed to fill the evening. As the first stars began to blink and twilight swirled around them, she fought the urge to tilt her face up and kiss him, to tell him that she’d never stopped loving him, that if not for fate, she would have waited for him forever.

“You’re carrying around a burden that you shouldn’t.”

“I—I think we should let Harley rest in peace.”

“Is that what you want, Claire? For me to back off?”

“Yes,” she said, but her throat closed.

“Liar.”

“No, I—”

“That’s the problem, don’t you know? You’ve always been a lousy liar.”

If you only knew. Oh, Kane we have a son. A wonderful boy, one to be proud of and . . .

He tugged on her arm, dragging her closer to him, and as she felt heat spread through her limbs, his strong arms surrounded her, wrapping around her body as if she were the only woman on earth and he the only man.

“Kane, I don’t think—oh.”

His lips found hers in a kiss that was hot and fierce and hungry.

Her knees threatened to give way.

“Claire,” he whispered, his voice cracking over her name. “Sweet, sweet Claire.”

She closed her eyes and told herself to fight him, to push him away, that getting close to him was playing with fire, but as his kiss deepened and his tongue forced its way past her teeth, she melted inside, and all the reasons to deny him fled. She opened to him, like a flower to the sun, wanting more, feeling her breasts fill with a need to be touched and stroked and loved. Desire curled lazily inside her, stretching and moving, heating her blood and causing a moist warmth to form deep in the center of her womanhood—a warm ache that she hadn’t felt in years. She wanted him. How she wanted him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let his weight push them to the ground.

He buried his face between her breasts, his mouth open, his tongue stroking her blouse, the fabric wet as he reached behind her and pulled her buttocks closer so that she fit against him, felt the firm rod of his erection through his jeans press against her, knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

His fingers were at the buttons of her blouse, opening it quickly while she breathed in shallow gasps against his neck. He skimmed her bra, brushing the lace with his fingertips before yanking hard on the cup so that one breast, nipple erect, was free. His breath was warm and moist, and she curved against him, cradling his head, allowing him to kiss and tease the hard little bud, his teeth and tongue exploring and causing wanton ripples of need to whisper through her body.