Page 86 of Whispers

“Why?”

“Because we have unfinished business.”

“Oh, Christ, I don’t think . . . Sure, what the hell? I’ll meet you tonight. At the boat. Around midnight.”

Click.

The line went dead and Paige just stared at the receiver. Was the woman Kendall, or someone else. But who? Crystal? Or someone else he’d been seeing—Paige had seen him in town with Tessa Holland . . . or was it someone she didn’t know about.

What, she wondered, was Weston up to?

As Tessa stripped off her cover-up and tossed the terry cloth onto a lounge chair, she wished to God she could scream or hit or do some kind of damage. To someone. Anyone. No, that wasn’t quite right. She only wanted to hurt Weston and Miranda because she knew, could sense instinctively, that they were attracted to each other. Now that Hunter was out of the picture, Weston would make his move, and Miranda, despite her protests to the contrary, would fall for him. Everyone did. Damn but it was hot and sticky. Not a breath of air. A few sinister-looking clouds hovered on the horizon, as if waiting for a Pacific squall to blow them inland.

She held her hair off the back of her neck and snapped a rubber band around the clump. She had to do something to shake this feeling that she wanted to climb out of her skin.

She stepped onto the diving board and slowly counted, trying to calm herself by concentrating on nothing but swimming, as if she were in competition. With lithe footsteps she ran the length of the board, sprang into the air, and knifed into the cool water. Surfacing, she started swimming laps, one at a time over and over, trying not to feel dirty and used, attempting to ignore the need for revenge that burned through her blood and crept into her dreams.

Stroke. One. Two. Breathe.

Who did Weston think she was to treat her like a common whore? Ever since that last night, when he’d threatened to cut her if she didn’t do what he wanted, she’d been seething and scared to death.

Stroke. One. Two. One. No! Breathe. Stroke. One. Two. Breathe. That’s it.

Never before had she thought anyone would hurt her.

Never before had she been unable to sleep even with the door to her bedroom locked and her windows closed tight.

Never before had she looked over her shoulder at every turn and jumped at shadows. Even now, when she remembered the blade of his knife pressed cold and deadly against her skin and the look in his eyes, as if he’d love to slit her throat, she w

anted to propel herself from the pool and scream bloody murder.

Or get even. What was the old saying? Don’t get mad, get even. How could she ever possibly even the score? Weston had taken away her pride, her self-worth, her joy in being a woman.

Bastard. Shitty cock-sucking bastard!

Stroke. One. Two. Turn at the end of the pool and stroke again. Over and over. Beat this need to slice out Weston’s faithless heart. Three. Four.

Oh, God, he had no right, no damned right to make her feel this way. No one did.

Don’t get mad. Get even.

Tonight.

Stroke. One. Two.

“All I want to know is if you hired Hunter Riley.” Miranda’s voice was firm as she sat in the single chair in Weston’s office. The windows were closed, and the temperature was hovering near ninety despite the irregular hum of what she assumed was an overloaded and dysfunctional air-conditioning unit.

Most of the office staff had already gone home for the evening, but through the window she saw the yard of the sawmill. The lights were coming up and beneath their eerie glow, timber was still being stripped of bark, loaded into sheds, and sliced into lumber. Stiff as a board, she held her purse in clammy fingers and wished she was anywhere else on earth. But she had to uncover the truth about Hunter no matter what.

Weston leaned back in his desk chair, his hands tented in front of him, his eyes a hot, appraising blue, the scratches on his cheek nearly healed but still visible—a reminder of his affair with Tessa. “And I thought you came to see me.”

“Guess again.”

Screwing up one side of his face, he yanked on his tie, loosening the once-crisp knot, then reached for a tumbler of liquor that was sweating on a corner of his otherwise tidy desk. “Hunter was in a jam. Needed to get out of town. Out of the country and fast. Our operation in B.C. needs people, so I talked to Dad and we relocated him.” He reached for his drink and took a long swallow.

“Just like that? And he came to you rather than his father or me?” She didn’t bother softening the skeptical edge to her voice.

“Yeah.”