Page 41 of Whispers

“Good. Look, we should go sailing—at night.”

“I’d . . . I’d like that.”

“Meet me at the yacht club at ten—no ten-thirty. You know which berth.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m sorry that I can’t see you sooner. I . . . I love you. You know that.”

“I love you, too,” she said, but the words sounded hollow and false, said on cue because they were expected.

Fighting a headache, she stared out the window and watched as the sun sank behind the western ridge of mountains. Where had Harley been when he’d called? Who was with him? Why had he canceled again?

He doesn’t love you, not really. That thought was a bitter pill to swallow, one that would take gallons of self-esteem to wash down. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and pressed the cool tumbler to her forehead.

The house was hot and empty. With summer temperatures soaring and Dutch’s steadfast refusal to add air-conditioning to the old lodge, the kitchen had collected a week of ninety-plus days’ heat and trapped it. Even with the windows open it was hard to breathe.

Aside from the ticking of the grandfather clock in the front hall, the gentle hum of the refrigerator, and an occasional creak of ancient timbers, the rooms were silent. Miranda had left earlier without an explanation, as she often did these days. Dominique had insisted that Dutch spend the weekend with her in Portland, catching up with old friends, taking in a play, and enjoying the city. Tessa had escaped earlier with some friends who claimed they were going to see a movie, but it was probably all just a lie—everything was these days.

Shadows of the oncoming night stretched through the windows. Claire walked outside to sit in an old rocker that swayed on the back porch. As the sunset gave way to the purple of twilight, a few bats skimmed the lake’s surface and fish jumped noisily in the water. One at a time the stars began to reveal themselves, and Claire wondered again what Harley was doing and with whom. His excuses were far too many and she was beginning to think that he was involved with another girl—probably Kendall Forsythe.

“Idiot,” she muttered, loathing her romantic tendencies as she pushed against the floorboards with her toe. Hadn’t everyone told her she was being stupid? Hadn’t her father and sisters warned her not to get mixed up with Harley? But she’d been stubborn and intended to prove them all wrong.

She’d been played for a fool.

The old rocker creaked as it moved. Left alone, she might be maudlin enough to cry and feel sorry for herself, but she wasn’t in the mood for tears and didn’t like the scene it painted in her mind. She loved Harley, she was sure of it, but she wasn’t going to be his—or any boy’s—doormat.

She climbed out of the chair, walked through the kitchen to the hook by the back door where the keys were kept, and found the extra ring. Her father owned a bevy of vehicles, so she chose a Jeep painted army green, climbed inside, and headed into Chinook. It was a small town, hardly more than a stoplight, two taverns, a couple of restaurants, a few motels, and a grocery store, but it was more interesting than sitting around home and moping about a boy who couldn’t seem to make any time for her.

Pushing the speed limit, she drove past the Methodist church—the only one in town with a spire—and discovered a group of kids hanging out at the local pizza parlor. Motorcycles and old pickup trucks were scattered throughout the parking lot, and, as she pocketed her keys and walked into the establishment, the scents of baking bread, garlic, tomato sauce, and cigarette smoke greeted her.

Families were clustered around tables, groups of teenagers claimed spots near the fake fireplace, but the first person her gaze landed upon was Kane Moran. Seated in the corner, long jean-clad legs stretched in front of him, torn black T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, he rested on the small of his back and studied the door. As if he’d been expecting her.

Great! The one guy she wanted to avoid. To her horror, her pulse quickened.

Self-conscious, she ordered a Coke at the bar, then, gathering her rapidly shredding bravado, walked up to him.

Within a day’s growth of beard, his lips curved into a dark, dangerously welcoming smile. A half-drunk glass of cola sweated on the table and a cigarette, as if forgotten, burned in a tin ashtray. “If it isn’t the princess,” he drawled, nudging out a chair with the toe of a battle-scarred boot. “Slumming?”

“That’s me. Princess Claire.” She took the seat he offered and eyed him over the rim of her glass, hoping the cola would wet her suddenly parched throat. Leaning across the table, she asked, “But no, I’m not slumming any more than you are.”

“This is my crowd.”

“Is it?” she countered. “The way I hear it you run with the local hoodlums and thugs.”

His sexy grin stretched a little. “Touché, Ms. Holland.” With a wink, he added, “But I think it’s the other way around, they run with me.”

At least he had some kind of twisted sense of humor. “So why do you seem to think it’s your personal mission to try and bother me?”

“Is that what I do?” He took a drag from his cigarette and washed it down with a swallow from his drink. “Bother you?” His gaze drilled into hers and she felt as if the room had suddenly shrunk, the air sucked out, and she was alone with him though the restaurant was filled with patrons and employees. The way he was looking at her—as if she were the last woman on earth and he’d been forced into celibacy for years. A trickle of sweat slid between her breasts.

“I, uh, just dropped by for a drink.”

“Alone?”

She lifted a shoulder and fought a wave of embarrassment.

“Where’s your better half?”