Page 65 of Whispers

And he wanted to see Claire. Badly. Even though he knew it was a mistake.

Firing up his motorcycle, he left the house of pain behind and flew down the night-dark strip of highway. He put the bike through its paces, needing to hear the whine of gears and feel the rush of salty air against his face as he huddled over the handlebars and leaned into a tight curve. The Harley shimmied for a second, caught hold, and skimmed over the highway again. Faster and faster, as if the devil himself were on his tail, Kane maneuvered the bike around the lake. Through the trees and across the moonlit water he caught glimpses of her house, the warm patches of the dozens of windows and, barely visible, smoke curling from the chimney. Just like some damned Currier and Ives painting.

The gate was open and he didn’t hesitate, just boldly drove through, the headlight of his bike guiding him on. Sliding to a stop near the garage, he gritted his teeth as he marched up the stairs of the porch and nearly rang the bell. But she was there, curled into a corner of a porch swing, her long legs tucked beneath her, her eyes, luminous in the moonlight, staring up at him.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” He didn’t move, just watched the play of starlight in her hair.

“For me?”

“I heard you’re getting married.”

Her smile was stiff and forced. “Don’t tell me, you’re going to try and talk me out of it.”

“Not if it’s what you want.”

“It is.” She tucked her knees under her chin.

He felt suddenly hot, and he imagined taking hold of her hand and running, as fast and as far as his legs would carry him, holding her close. If she couldn’t keep up with him, then he’d carry her. But they couldn’t stay here, not with the presence of doom huddling in the surrounding forest, glaring at them with hungry possessive eyes, as if there was no way out of this desperate, hateful situation. “Then I hope you’re happy.”

“You don’t mean it.” She unwrapped those long legs. “You didn’t come here to wish me ‘good luck’ or ‘congratulations. ’” She crossed the short space that separated them, and he imagined she’d been crying, that there was just the hint of moisture in her eyes. Tilting her face to meet the questions in his gaze, she stood toe to toe with him. “What is it you want from me, Kane Moran?”

“More than I can have,” he admitted, and he saw her lips twist downward a second. An owl hooted softly from a nearby tree, and farther away, from the other side of the lake, a dog, probably his dad’s sorry old hound, gave a soulful bark.

“I’m in love with Harley Taggert.”

“And that son of a bitch doesn’t deserve you.”

“Why not?” she asked, so close he felt her breath, saw the anger in the sudden spots of color in her cheeks. “Why does everyone in this damned town think he’s no good?”

“He’s weak, Claire. You need someone strong.”

“Like you?” she challenged.

He eyed her for a second as a night bird let out a long, lonely cry and a faraway train rattled on its tracks. “Yep,” he admitted. “Like me.”

“You’re leaving.

”

“Not quite yet.”

Her sigh blew her bangs from her eyes, and it was all Kane could do to keep his hands where they were, plastered around his chest, holding on for dear life. He imagined taking her into his arms and kissing her, of cradling her so long and close that she couldn’t move, of bending her back so that her hair brushed the floorboards as he kissed her, but he didn’t move, didn’t dare. Instead he sweated and closed his mind to each and every erotic image that burned through his brain.

“What do you want to do?” she asked suddenly, her voice softer.

He barked out a laugh. “You don’t want to know.”

“Sure I do.”

“No—”

“You came here for a reason, Kane.”

“I just wanted to see you again.”

“And nothing more?”