Page 42 of Whispers

“I’m not married.”

“Coulda fooled me.” He drained his glass, and she wiped the beads of moisture from the outside of hers. If only he’d quit staring at her with those narrowed golden eyes. “Anyway, it’s just a matter of time.”

“How would you know?”

“You’ve made up your mind—right or wrong.”

She rolled her lips over her teeth. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Is that right?” Snorting in amusement, he rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “I know more than you think, Princess. Probably more than I should.” It was his turn to lean closer to her, to pin her in his gaze as he studied every inch of her face. “You’re the kind of woman who makes up her mind and does what she wants. Loyal and true-blue to a fault, you won’t believe a bad word about anyone you care about even if it’s as obvious as the nose on your face that you’re being used.”

She wanted to slap him. “I’m not—”

“Wake up, Claire. You’re way too clever for this.” Quick as a tiger pouncing, he reached across the table and his fingers curled over her wrists—warm, possessive manacles surrounding her skin. “So where is he?”

“Who? Harley? Working late.” The excuse sounded so trite.

“Taggert hasn’t done an honest day’s labor in his life. Try again.”

“He’s . . . he’s doing something for his father. Business.”

“Harley Taggert involved in some big business deal? You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

Her chin lifted a bit. “He wouldn’t lie.”

“Of course he would, Claire,” Kane said, his fingertips warm against the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist. His face, so near, was etched by far more years than he’d lived. “Any man would.”

“He called me and—” Why did she have to justify herself to Kane Moran? He wasn’t even her friend, not really. He was just a near-grown man with a chip the size of Stone Illahee permanently attached to his shoulder.

“And he canceled.”

“I’m meeting him later.”

&

nbsp; A flicker of emotion flared in his eyes for a heartbeat, only to fade so quickly she was certain she’d only imagined that tiny glimpse of raw pain and suffering. Moran was hard as nails, tough as rawhide, impervious to any emotional scarring, a mixed-up kid destined to become a criminal. Or so she’d heard from her father and some of the other men who gathered in the den for poker every Tuesday night. But this boy seated on the other side of the table, the one clamping her wrists in his warm, callused hands, the would-be man who knew so much about her, was no more a bad seed than she. Her heart clutched as she wondered what it would be like to kiss lips that were blade-thin and forever cynical. Slowly, embarrassed at the wayward turn of her thoughts, she withdrew her hands.

“I think I’d better go.” She was too aware of him, too darkly fascinated.

“Pizza to go for Brown,” a server called over the mike. The cash register dinged, conversation buzzed, and beneath it all the strains of an old Buddy Holly classic poured from hidden speakers attached to the jukebox and struggled to be heard over the din, yet Claire barely heard anything but the erratic beat of her own stupid heart.

He stood, took a final drag from his cigarette, and stubbed it out in the tray. “Want to go for a ride?” he asked in a cloud of smoke and unspoken innuendo.

“No, I should leave—”

“And go where? Wait by the phone for Taggert to call?”

“No, but—”

“It’s just a ride, Claire.”

“I know.”

His eyes, beneath thick brows, flickered with a challenge.

“I don’t think—”

“It’s up to you.” He slid his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket and turned up the collar. “What’s it gonna be?”