Page 66 of Whispers

He hesitated.

“What?”

His willpower fled on the salty wind blowing in from the ocean. “Christ, Claire, what do you think?”

“I don’t know—”

“Sure you do.”

“No, Kane—”

“Think about it.” His gaze held hers, then flicked to her lips. Heat burned through his blood and desire, smoky with want, controlled his muscles. He reached forward and his hands surrounded the soft skin of her bare arms. Her lips parted and his cock sprang to attention. His thoughts raced like the swift current of the Chinook River through deep mountain chasms. “Whatever you think I want, you’re probably right.”

“Just say it,” she said, her voice breathless.

He considered and decided what the hell. It didn’t matter what she thought. “Okay, Claire,” he said, fingers tightening over her arms. “The truth of the matter is I’d like to do anything and everything I could with you. I’d like to kiss you and touch you and sleep with you in my arms until morning. I’d like to run my tongue over your bare skin until you quiver with want, and, more than anything in the world, I’d like to bury myself in you and make love to you for the rest of my life!”

She tried to pull away, but he grinned and held fast.

“You wanted to know.”

“Oh, God.”

“And, believe me, I would never, never treat you like that bastard Taggert does.” Then he let go. His own stupid words ringing through his ears, he walked back to his bike, hooked the heel of his boot over the kick-start, and jumped down hard. The machine roared to life, and Kane rode away, knowing she was standing just where he’d left her, on the edge of the porch, probably laughing at him and his sick romantic fantasies.

“Fool,” he ground out as the bike whipped through the gates of her father’s estate. “Goddamned idiot fool.”

He roared toward town, hoping to outrun the feeling that he’d made the worst mistake of his life when he noticed the first cop car, coming up behind him fast. Lights—red, blue, and white—strafed the night, sirens screamed.

Glancing at his speedometer he knew the police had nailed him. At seventy-five he was twenty miles over the speed limit. He pulled off at a wide spot in the road and the police cruiser sped by, the officer never turning his head in Kane’s direction. A second later an ambulance blew by and then another cop car appeared over the rise, bearing down on him with a fury, only to race past.

Heart hammering, Kane pulled onto the highway again and was relieved for a few minutes as he drove over the final hill into town. As bad as the night had been, at least he didn’t have another ticket . . . then he saw them, the stream of cars turning off on Third Street near the old feed mill. Cop cars were parked at odd angles, policemen were guiding traffic and pedestrians past the fifth house on the left, the neat cottage owned by Ruby and Hank Songbird.

Kane’s first thought was Jack. The law was always crawling up Jack’s shorts. He was sure to be in the thick of it. What now? He’d already been arrested for a car theft when he was sixteen, minor in possession of alcohol at seventeen, shooting mailboxes and lampposts just before he turned eighteen, but now things would be worse. He would be looked upon as an adult—a serious criminal—rather than a juvenile delinquent who was just full of piss and vinegar.

Kane drove down the clogged street, over the railroad tracks that sliced through this part of town, and cut the engine of the bike while a policeman, Officer Tooley, whom Kane had the pleasure of knowing personally, waved him on. “Let’s go, people, let’s go. Nothin’ to see here. Move along.”

“What happened?” Kane demanded.

“It’s the boy. He was hurt. Fell off the cliffs at Stone Illahee,” one of the bystanders, a withered-looking man in a hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants said.

Kane didn’t move. His heart stopped beating for a second. “Jack?” he hardly dared ask. For the love of God what had happened? Kane thought of him as he’d last seen his friend, cocky, half-drunk, and running off with a rifle strapped across his back.

“Come on, people, let’s move,” Tooley was intoning as he waved his flashlight and cars clogged the narrow street.

From in the house a keening wail, the kind of grief-stricken cry only a woman in the throes of deep despair could utter, erupted.

“Oh, dear God,” a woman behind him whispered as she made the sign of the cross over her bosom with deft, well-practiced fingers. “Dear Lord in heaven, please listen to our prayers—”

Kane couldn’t stand it a second longer, and, ignoring the cops, he ran to the front door just as it was thrown open and silhouetted by the dim light of the house, Crystal raced outside. Without a word she flung herself into Kane’s arms and began sobbing hysterically. Deep, heart-rending gasps racked her small body and scraped his soul as rain began to fall.

“Jack!” she cried. “Jack! Oh, God, Jack!”

“Shh,” Kane whispered, despair clawing at his soul. He was holding her, stroking her hair, trying to calm her when his own mind was screaming denials.

“For the love of God, no!” she cried.

“Crystal, please. Honey, it’s gonna be all right.”