Revenge (17 page)

“I—I'm not sure about anything anymore,” she admitted, staring up at him, his masculine body all muscle and sinew and tanned skin. She felt a void, hot and dusky, deep within her, a void only he could fill.

“Neither am I.” He gently prodded her knees apart, thrust into her and fused with her body in a sensual rhythm that stole the breath from her lungs. She clung to him as he moved, his tempo quickening with each stroke. Her blood pounded in her temples, the heat within her building until she cried out in final release. She felt as if her soul had fled her body. Again the heavens shattered.

“Skye!” he yelled hoarsely, as if afraid of losing her. “Skye! Skye! Skye!” He collapsed against her, his weight crushing her breasts, his muscles gleaming with sweat.

She curled up against him as he held her close. Shutting her eyes, she felt safer and more secure than she had in a long, long while. He tossed the coverlet over their bodies and wound her in his arms. Skye sighed happily, drinking in the musky scent of him.

She didn't think about right or wrong or the consequences the morning would bring. For now, she was content to be held by the only man she'd ever loved and the only man who had broken her heart.

 

He awoke to the smell of baking bread and perking coffee. Opening one eye, he glanced around Skye's bedroom and sighed contentedly. It hadn't been a dream. She'd been here and willing and warm and they'd made love long into the night before Max had drifted into a sleep more sound than he'd experienced in years.

Rubbing a hand over his beard-roughened chin, he climbed out of bed and stepped into his jeans. He found his shirt, wrinkled from being tossed recklessly into a corner, and slipped his arms through the sleeves. Shoving stiff fingers through his unruly hair, he walked through the tangle of rooms until he found her in the kitchen, humming softly, her hair piled on top of her head, though damp tendrils from her recent shower curled around her face and nape. She'd put on a red skirt and oatmeal-colored top. A black jacket was hanging at the ready over the back of a chair, and a cat, green eyes watching him suspiciously, was lurking over a saucer of milk near the back door.

Sensing him watching her, Skye slid him a sexy glance that couldn't help but arouse him. “So Sleeping Beauty finally awakens.”

He ran a hand around his neck, stretched and listened as his spine popped. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven.” She poured a cup of coffee from the glass carafe warming on the stove.

“I suppose you've been up for hours,” he drawled, crossing the room and drawing her into the circle of his arms. After last night he thought he'd be sated, but already, just being around her, he felt as excited as a damned high school kid.

She smiled up at him. “Long enough to run for twenty minutes and shower.”

“Sorry I missed that,” he drawled, his gaze lowering to the collar of her blouse and those gorgeous breasts hidden by the silky fabric. He raised his hand and cupped one soft globe. Skye sucked in her breath.

“I don't think this is a good idea.”

“You've been wrong before.”

“But I've got to be at the clinic by eight—” He lifted her into his arms once again and carried her back to bed. The blouse and skirt were discarded quickly to collect in a pool by the bed.

“You've got a short commute. Besides, I'll be quick,” he promised. She closed her eyes as her slip slid to the floor.

Later, she had to hurry to get to the clinic on time. She offered him a cup of coffee and a couple of slices of warm bread from the breadmaker she'd inherited from a college roommate who'd insisted the damn machine was responsible for her ten-pound weight gain. Then she ran out the door, coffee cup in hand.

“Didn't you forget something?” he asked, and when she turned to ask him what, he folded her into his arms again and kissed her full on the lips. The kiss was warm and sensual and filled with memories of making love. Her heart beat a crazy tattoo and her legs nearly gave way. Coffee sloshed onto the porch as she stumbled backward.

“You're dangerous to have around, McKee,” she said, drawing in a deep breath.

“So are you, Doc.”

“Don't forget to lock up when you leave.” She knew her face was flushed with color as she hurried between the laurel hedges on her way to the clinic. Surely the heat would leave her cheeks by the time the rest of the staff showed up. She forced herself to concentrate on the day ahead of her as she unlocked the clinic to be greeted by the familiar smells of antiseptic and perking coffee. The coffee had been on a timer and she refilled her cup in the small room designated as the employee lounge before exchanging her jacket for a white lab coat and settling in at her desk.

She didn't think about the fact that she was involved with Max again, didn't dwell on the consequences of falling in love with him. She was older now and wiser; she wouldn't give her heart so recklessly this time. She couldn't.

“L
ooks like Stone means business.” Jenner slapped a copy of
The Rimrock Review
onto the surface of Max's desk—his father's old desk—in the corner office of the McKee Enterprises office building. Bold black headlines announced that the sheriffs department was looking into the death of Jonah McKee as a possible homicide.

Suddenly cold inside, Max skimmed the article. The sheriff, Hammond Polk, was quoted as saying that the investigation was taking a new direction in light of new evidence. A five-year-old picture of Jonah, retrieved from the archives of
The Rimrock Review,
accompanied the piece. Max stared at the grainy black-and-white photo and frowned. His father was looking straight into the camera, his snowy hair combed, his smile as phony as a three-dollar bill. “Son of a bitch.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Jenner said, tossing the offending paper into a trash can near the credenza. “But as mean a bastard as the old man was, he didn't deserve to die. If someone actually did kill him, I think the culprit should be strung up.”

“You don't believe it, do you?” Max asked, surprised at his younger brother's attitude.

“Looks like we don't have much choice.”

That much was true. Hammond Polk wasn't perhaps overly zealous, but he knew his duty. He wouldn't have reopened the investigation without evidence. Max glanced at the files stacked on the corner of his desk—files of deals that weren't exactly on the up-and-up and files Max was going over because, in many cases, he wanted to renegotiate the deals into fairer terms for the other parties. “Dad sure made his share of enemies,” he observed.

“Yeah, but who hated the old man enough to run him off the road?” Jenner rubbed his jaw.

“That won't be easy to find out,” Max allowed. “A lot of people borrowed from him during the recession, hoping to get back on their feet. When things didn't turn around right away and they defaulted, McKee Enterprises had the right to demand their assets.”

Jenner's eyes darkened a shade and the corners of his mouth twisted into an unhappy smile. “So you finally figured out he wasn't a saint.”

“I've known it for a long time,” Max admitted as he leaned back in the old molded-oak chair, making it creak. His father's chair. “Not when I was first hired. Hell, I trusted him completely. But it didn't take long to discover that everything wasn't exactly on the up-and-up. Some of the deals didn't smell so good.”

“But you went along with them.”

Max shook his head and remembered the furious argument he'd had with his father. Jonah had been in a rage that his son, an “upstart” in the business, would dare question his authority. “Not once I found out what was going on. I raised holy hell and Jonah, believe it or not, agreed to change his tactics. He didn't, of course, but as far as I can tell, Dad never did anything illegal. Although there were a few cases that weren't ethical. At least not in my book.”

“Such as?”

“The Donner water rights.” Max's guts twisted a little as he remembered Fred Donner's ashen face when the wiry rancher had come to Max, explaining the circumstances, calling Jonah every name in the book because he'd been forced to sell the family homestead at a fraction of its value. Without significant amounts of water, the arid land had become useless. But Donner was only one. “Ned Jansen's copper mine. Slim Purcell's racehorse. Betty Landsburg's rooming house. The town's full of buildings that Dad bought for a song when the owners hit upon hard times. Usually Dad—well, McKee Enterprises—would lend them enough money to fix up the place or pay the back taxes, but then, soon as they were delinquent in their payments, he'd snap up the property and lease it back to the original owners, making a profit for the company.

“In some cases—Len Marchant's old bakery is a good example—the land and buildings were close to being condemned and the owners were glad to get out from under heavy mortgages, but more often than not, the owners thought that McKee Enterprises, and Jonah in particular, had fleeced them.”

“That's only the half of it.” Restless, Jenner walked to the window and stared through the glass, past the slow-paced traffic on the streets of Rimrock to the Blue Mountains in the distance. “No tellin' how many husbands and fathers would have liked to strangle him for foolin' around with their wives and daughters.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if he was trying to erase a particularly painful memory. “It's a wonder to me why Ma even cares. He stepped out on her so often I bet she lost track.” Squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, he added, “You know, I don't blame Stone with startin' with the family. We all had a bone to pick with Jonah.”

Max, conjuring up Skye's image, couldn't argue with that.

“He screwed you over royal,” Jenner said, then picked up his hat from the couch. As he shoved it over his forehead, he admitted, “Did the same to me, you know.”

“Beth,” Max said, remembering the one time Jenner had been rumored to have fallen for a woman. Max had been in San Francisco at the time, but he'd heard from Casey that Jenner had finally fallen in love. Soon thereafter, Beth, like Skye, had disappeared. To this day, Jenner rarely spoke of her.

“I can't prove it, but I think he found a way to get her out of town. Not that it matters.” Jenner's eyes flashed with malice and a deeper, more difficult to define emotion. “Face it, Max, the old man was a first-class bastard. No two ways about it. He did things his way and to hell with anyone else.”

Max didn't argue. Ever since taking over the business and reviewing files that prior to Jonah's death had been off-limits to him, Max had found case after case of his father's larceny.

“I think I'll head over to the Black Anvil,” Jenner said. “Want to join me?”

“Another time.”

As his brother closed the door of the office behind him, Max was left with a bad taste in his mouth. True, Jonah had manipulated people and, in many cases, shown no empathy for anyone who didn't see things the way he did. But murder? In this sleepy little farming community? It seemed like blasphemy.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in meetings with lawyers and accountants and specialists who assured him that the company, McKee Enterprises, was doing well despite the loss of its figurehead and president. Cattle prices were on the upswing, and most of the rents were more than enough to cover the mortgages and maintenance on the buildings that were leased by McKee Enterprises. More copper had been found in the old Jansen mine, timber sales were up and the Wagner sawmill that Jonah had acquired two months before his death in a desperation sale, was already breaking even. With the layoffs Jonah had insisted upon, the old mill would be turning a profit by the end of the year.

“What about the men who lost their jobs?” Max asked the skinny accountant with gold-rimmed reading glasses. Bill Renfield had been a few years ahead of Max in school—a scrawny, pimply-faced kid who was a math whiz. Now he was a number cruncher for the company.

“What about them?”

“Will they be rehired?” Max paced nervously between the window and his desk. All hell seemed to have broken out. The murder investigation, his ongoing battle with Colleen over Hillary and all the problems surrounding the business. The only bright spot was his one night with Skye. But even that little bit of heaven was complicated. Too complicated.

“I don't see how we can put anyone back on the payroll. At least not yet. Most of the men are collecting unemployment and Wagner had some kind of retirement setup for a couple of the guys who'd worked for him for thirty years or so, but the rest... well, they'll just have to retrain or find jobs in another mill.”

“What other mill?” Max asked.

“Peterkin was hiring in Dawson City and over in the valley.”

“These men don't live in the Willamette Valley,” Max growled. “They live here.”

“I know, Mr. McKee, but there are lots of changes all over the timber industry. What with the government ban on old growth, imported lumber taking away jobs from our mills and the trend to other kinds of building materials, times are tough for everyone. People—workers and executives both—will have to be a little more flexible.”

“Except McKee Enterprises.” Max's voice was laced with sarcasm. “Our mill is going to make a profit.”

“And if things turn around, then we'll rehire.” Renfield gathered up his notes. “That's the bottom line.”

He left and Max kicked a metal trash can so hard it went reeling across the room to bang against the wall. His muscles were tight, his fists clenched in frustration. He wasn't a bleeding-heart liberal. Hell, he'd gone to law school and knew the score. Men and women were thrown out of work every day. He'd grown up with the dim realization that his father had power over other people's lives. But he didn't like being in command; he couldn't stomach hardworking people becoming desperate.

Just before five, Louise, his father's secretary whom Max had inherited when Jonah had died, brought in the old accounting printouts and checking-account statements that he'd asked for—statements that were seven years old. Louise Jones was a pleasant woman with a sharp mind. She had always liked Max and, despite being distraught over his father's death, had helped him ease into his newfound role as head of the company.

“Here you go,” she said, blowing at the dust on the old ledgers. “Is there anything else?”

Max thumbed through the statements and old checks. “This should do it.”

“Would you like me to stay?” she asked.

“Naw. I'll just be here a little while,” he said with a forced smile. He couldn't tell her that his future rested upon what he found in the old records.

“All right then. I'll see you tomorrow.” Her eyes clouded a little. “I hope that Sheriff Polk is wrong. I can't believe that anyone would want to kill your father.”

“I guess we'll find out.”

She made a quick sign of the cross over her frail chest and said a hasty goodbye.

Once he was completely alone, Max found a glass and an old bottle of Scotch in the bar, poured himself a stiff drink and began going through the old ledgers. As the smoky flavor of the liquor warmed the pit of his stomach, he began to read through the old pages and he hoped to high heaven that his father had been lying. Max hadn't believed that Skye would take money to leave and he didn't believe it now, seven years later.

He took another swallow of liquor when he saw the notation, made the day before she left, of a payment of twenty-five thousand dollars made payable to Skye Donahue. His jaw clenched and he felt a tic developing beneath his eye as he made a mental note of the check number, then began going through the old boxes of canceled checks.

It didn't take long. His heart nearly stopped when he found it—a check issued in Jonah's harsh script. The payee was Skye Donahue; the amount twenty-five thousand dollars. So Jonah hadn't been bluffing, hadn't shown him a fake check all those years ago. A part of him had wanted to believe that the old manipulator had taken advantage of Max's emotional state and shown him a fake payoff. “Hell.” Max, his guts twisting at her deceit, flipped the damned piece of paper over. Oddly enough, Skye's signature didn't appear, but a stamp indicating she'd put the funds into her checking account convinced him that, as his father had so calmly attested, she'd sold out for twenty-five grand.

He felt like he might throw up. Bile rose in his throat and something deep inside him—faith, he supposed—seemed to wither and die. Hell, what kind of a fool was he to get involved with her all over again?

And involved he was. He hardly spent a waking moment without her image flitting through his mind. Closing his eyes, he silently condemned himself for being a fool of the highest order.

“Damn it all,” he muttered, stuffing the check in his pocket, then finishing his drink in one quick swallow. The liquor burned a hot, angry trail down his throat and his fingers clenched hard over the glass. In a sudden burst of fury, he flung the glass against the wall and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.

On his feet and striding to the door, he decided he'd give her a chance to explain, but this time, damn it, she'd better tell the truth. All of it.

 

“I can't believe you didn't give the letter to Max,” Skye said as she rushed through the front door of Irene's little bungalow.

“What letter?”

“The one you gave to Jonah McKee. The one addressed to his son. The one Max never saw until his father died.”

Irene, adding water to a vase of wilting flowers, stiffened and some of the water dripped onto the table. “Oh, Lordy,” she whispered nervously and wiped up the spill with the cuff of her sleeve. “I had no idea—”

“Mom,” Skye insisted, standing in the doorway and trying to quiet the rage that had been with her ever since she'd found out the truth. “Why didn't you see that Max got it?”

“I worked for Jonah, remember?” Irene said stubbornly, though her eyes had darkened with a private pain. “I never did anything behind his back.”

Skye tried to hold on to her temper. Her fists tightened and she stuffed them into the pockets of her skirt. “You didn't have to tell him about the letter. It was personal and had nothing to do with the company.”

“He would've found out and then what would I have said?”

“That it was none of his damned business!”

Irene bit down on her lip. “I honestly believed that he'd give the letter to Max. He said he would and then later when I asked him about it, he told me Max had torn the envelope up without even reading the contents. I was shattered and thought I should call you, but Jonah told me it was out of my hands. That I should let things run their natural course.” Irene sighed loudly. “You don't remember him, do you? How he was always in charge? How he made every decision and never once changed his mind? How the world seemed to revolve around him?”