Kira Sinclair - Whispers in the Dark

Ripples of lines bracketed the man’s drawn lips. Deep furrows creased his forehead and the healthy glow he’d radiated vanished to a pale shadow of what it had been before.

“Fine. You’re an adult now—”

Like the man had ever known him as a child.

“The bitch I was with threw me out without a cent. No warning, no nothing, just changed the locks. I don’t even have a spare set of clothes. I just need enough to get back on my feet, to get a place to stay, some clothes to wear. Ten thousand should do it.”

Chris’s body flushed hot, and a shot of adrenaline coursed into his veins. He’d been waiting for this day all his life. He’d often railed at God and fate for what had happened to his mother. She’d worked so hard, spent every moment of her life paying for a mistake no one had loved her enough to forgive.

He’d carried the weight of knowing that mistake had been him. And that no matter how perfect a child he’d been, how excellent a student, he couldn’t save her. In the end he’d watched as cancer had eaten her from the inside out, knowing that if she’d had a better, easier life—some insurance—that life might have lasted longer.

Now the man who could have helped them and had refused was standing with his own hand out. Life was cruel. But fate had a sense of humor.

A harsh laugh that Chris didn’t recognize as his own echoed through the falling night. “Let me get this straight—I watched that night as you denied I was your son, as you told my mother she was an idiot for not aborting me and that any messes she’d made were hers to clean up. You refused to give us even $500 and here you are asking for twenty times that. You’re joking, right?”

Darrell’s face turned deep red beneath his too-perfect tan. “I know you have it. I didn’t have five hundred to spare.”

“You mean your sugar mama wouldn’t give money to the mother of your bastard son. You make me sick. You’re not getting a penny from me.”

Chris turned to leave, rubbing at his chest to ease the tight band there. Somehow that hadn’t felt as good as he’d always assumed it would.

Staccato steps on the empty sidewalk alerted Chris that the moment wasn’t over just yet.

“Don’t you walk away from me, boy.”

Darrell grabbed at his arm, but Chris was too quick. He spun around, stepping into the man to stop him short.

His father’s blue eyes glowed with an ominous heat. “Your mother should have taught you manners, son.”

“Don’t you mention her to me, you bastard. Ever. You don’t know anything about her, about what you sentenced her to that night you refused to help.”

The familiar anger and helpless fear rolled through Chris’s blood. His fists clenched against the hunger for retribution. It would be so easy to inflict a tiny slice of the pain his mother had experienced. The pull of vengeance was almost hypnotic. But the man before him wouldn’t pay the price; Chris would. Dr. Desire would. And it wouldn’t bring his mother back.

Taking a deliberate step back, Chris put enough space between them to make physical contact impossible.

“Let me give you some advice. Go back to whatever dimwitted divorcée you were conning this time, get down on your hands and knees and beg her for forgiveness. You have a better chance with her than you do with me.” Chris smiled, his muscles no longer numb, each and every one aching in protest. He kept the facade anyway.

“Aren’t we all high-and-mighty, Dr. Desire. You’re no better than I am.”

“The hell I’m not.”

“We both make our living off seducing women. The only difference is they pay me direct. You have that nice corporation cutting you the check. The end result’s the same, boy.” He smiled a perfect smile that sent ripples of unease across Chris’s body. “Sex sells.”

Chris stared, speechless. His brain swirled on the words, but he couldn’t form a coherent response.

“I’ll let you think about that awhile. See you around.”

His father was halfway down the block before Chris had his mouth open and a logical argument ready. Too late. People streamed from the club he’d just left as his father passed by the front door. Yelling at the man now would draw attention he’d rather not have.

Out of the crowd Michael appeared, grabbed his elbow and steered him across the street to his waiting Porsche.

“Who was that you were talking to?”

“No one important.”

It wasn’t true. He was nothing like his father.

DARRELL SAT IN HIS CAR and fought down the rage. The candy-apple-red Jag was about the only thing of value he owned, and he only owned that because he’d sweet-talked Virginia into putting the title in his name. It was amazing what women would do if you gave them a mind-blowing orgasm.

Selling the car wasn’t an option, he wasn’t ready to part with it just yet. It was sleek and red and young, and it reminded him of the youth he’d squandered bowing and scraping to women in order to get by.

He’d deserved so much more.

There was another way back to the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to, the lifestyle he deserved. But it required start-up capital, something he didn’t have. But his son did.

Taking a deep breath, he unclenched his hands and laid them over the leather-wrapped steering wheel. He stroked the soft curve up and down. The feel of it always reminded him of a woman’s skin, that smooth, silky place just on the underside of a ripe breast.

It wasn’t just the money he missed. His sexual appetites were huge, which was why having only one woman never satisfied him. Or rather had never satisfied him. Just one more item on the list of things old age had taken…right along with his looks, his boyish charm, his charisma—everything he needed to function in the high society world of wealthy divorcées.

Damn it! He needed that money and he needed it fast.

Down the street he watched his son speed away in a sports car that strikingly resembled the one he sat in. A small smirk tugged at his lips. They were the same.

He wasn’t ready to give up just yet. He hadn’t spent almost forty years of his life manipulating people into giving him whatever he wanted for nothing. He’d find an in with his son.

Or a weakness he could exploit.

His parting shot had certainly hit home. Darrell hadn’t missed the disbelief and utter denial that had skated across Chris’s face. So the boy didn’t like the idea that he was the apple to his tree.

Well, it was certainly a start.

Maybe tomorrow he’d pay a visit to his famous son’s place of employment and see what he could shake out of those branches.

WHY HAD SHE AGREED to this?

Karyn’s foot tapped up and down against the polished hardwood floor beneath the table as she waited for Dr. Desire to show up. Her heel clicked in a rhythm that, coming from anyone else, would have annoyed the hell out of her.

She couldn’t stop.

At least there wasn’t anyone to bother. She sat alone in the quiet room he had reserved for them. Her eyes swept across the cozy space. The dim lighting, flickering candles and mood music all set her nerves on edge. Apparently Dr. Desire hadn’t told the restaurant this wasn’t a real date.

Karyn tried desperately not to fidget. Or admit that a part of her really wished it were a date. A mixture of anxiety and anticipation churned at the bottom of her stomach. She had no idea what to expect, from Dr. Desire or herself.

“Karyn.”

His voice reached her first as he entered the room, melting down her spine in that familiar trail, turning her bones to liquid mush.

He was tall and broad and his presence shrank the already-intimate space. The sheer force of him seemed to consume the excess oxygen in the room, to condense the surroundings to nothing more than a block of space too tiny for them both to occupy—without her brain going fuzzy and her skin flushing hot.