Page 87 of Whispers

“Why?”

“I imagine because he thought I wouldn’t be as judgmental as his father or as wounded as you might be . . . considering your condition and all.” He finished his drink and reached into his bottom desk drawer, from which he drew out a half-empty fifth of Dewar’s Scotch.

“Leave my ‘condition’ out of it.”

He shrugged and lifted the bottle. “Have one?”

“No—”

“Because of the baby?”

“Because I don’t usually drink with jackasses.”

He smiled. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“Not at all.”

“But you want information from me.”

“As I said,” she said with surprising calm, “it’s the only reason I’m here.”

“A woman with a purpose.”

“And not a lot of time,” she said, wanting to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. But Weston might have information about Hunter—information no one, not even the police—had discovered.

He tapped his front teeth with the end of his finger as if he were lost in thought, but his gaze hadn’t changed. There was still the promise of passion lurking in his eyes, and she wondered just how full the bottle hidden in his drawer had been at the beginning of the day.

Inwardly she shivered. She shouldn’t have come here. But she had to.

“Hunter figured that I—well, Dad, really—could give him what he wanted.”

“And that was—?” She heard a secretary’s voice calling ‘good night’ through the pebbled-glass door, and every muscle in her body tensed, ready to spring as she realized she was alone with him. There was no one else in the building, and the men working across the street in the mill might as well have been a hundred miles away. If anything should happen, they could never hear her screams over the whir of saws, smack of lumber being tossed on the green chain, and the rumble of trucks. But nothing was going to happen. Her imagination was running wild because she didn’t trust Weston, and Tessa had clawed him.

“Hunter needed sanctuary.”

“No way.”

One brown brow rose over pitying blue eyes, as if he understood what she was going through and felt sorry for her. He sipped at his drink, then cradled it. “I know this is hard for you, especially since—” His eyes slid to her abdomen and she held her purse over it, as if to protect the baby. It was insanity to be here alone with him and yet she couldn’t budge. He was the only person in Chinook who seemed to have any kind of information about Hunter—be it truth or lies—and was willing to share it. She gritted her teeth and stayed planted in the uncomfortable chair.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but it looks like Hunter got himself into trouble down here. Something about a fourteen-year-old girl.”

“The one without a name.”

“Oh, she’s got one. Cindy Edwards. Lives near Arch Cape. If she files charges, he’ll have to come back to the States and face them.” Absently he touched the wounds on his face.

“I don’t believe you.” But Miranda made a mental note of the girl’s name.

Outside a shrill whistle announced a change of shift or dinner break.

Weston shook his head and ran stiff fingers through his hair. “When are you going to figure out that Hunter isn’t a saint?”

“You don’t know anything about him,” she countered, but felt as if she’d stepped square into the middle of a well-set trap.

“No?” Another swallow from his glass, and when he set it back on the desk, some of the scotch splashed onto the desk. “He worked for the company already, you know. Had a decent enough job history. I read his personnel file along with his new résumé, and I talked to him. Believe me, Miranda, I know more about Hunter Riley than you do.” Weston’s smile was cold as ice. “He got involved with Cindy about six months ago, when he was still doing community service for some little disagreement over a car he claimed was borrowed, though the woman who owned it said it was stolen. Anyway, the community service and probation were part of his sentence.”

“I know that much,” she admitted, as sweat collected under her arms and around her hairline.

“I think this all happened before he got involved with you, or so he said.”