Page 29 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

“Maybe I should be the judge of that.”

His jaw tightened and he studied her, as if weighing her reaction. “Okay, Marla, since you asked, I’ll give it to you straight.” His lips flattened over his teeth. “You and I, we were lovers.”

“What?” she gasped. No, no, no . . . this wasn’t right. It couldn’t be. She’d had an affair with her husband’s brother? And yet, deep inside she realized that a part of her found him attractive . . . even sexy.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s ancient history,” Nick added. “You threw me over for Alex.”

She felt the blood drain from her face and heard her heart thudding. She wanted to argue but the look in his eyes, the dare she saw in their smoky depths, convinced her that he was telling the truth. She sank back on the pillows and felt sick inside. “How long ago?”

“Fifteen years.”

“And in the interim?” she asked, bracing herself.

“Nothing.”

She let out a slow breath.

“You asked,” he reminded her.

“Yes, I . . . I know.” She was sick inside. What kind of a person was she?

For the first time since she’d woken from the coma, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“You said a hundred grand.” He was irritated and jittery as he spoke into the pay phone. The streets were wet, shimmering under the streetlights near the waterfront. The smell of salt water mingled with the fresh scent of rain. “Twenty-five doesn’t cut it.”

“She didn’t die,” was the cold response. “The deal was an accident that killed her.”

“The deal was that there wasn’t supposed to be another person in the car,” he reminded the man on the other end of the connection. “I want the rest.” Traffic shot past, tires humming along the waterfront. Someone flicked a cigarette butt out of a window of an old Nova. Heavy metal music screamed through the wet night, the thump of bass cranked to the max.

“You’ll get your money. But she has to die. And it has to be an accident.”

“I could go to the police.”

“Try it.”

“I will.”

“Not with your record.”

Shit. There wasn’t even the tiniest bit of concern in the bastard’s voice. A police cruiser rounded the corner, splashing through the puddles, easing along the curb. He turned away instinctively, hid his face as the dampness of the city invaded his bones.

“You’ll get your money, once the job’s done and done right. No fuck-ups. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” For the time being he had to go along. He was in too deep not to go through with the hit. And he had his own, personal axe to grind in this one. The woman goddamned deserved to die. “I need a number where I can reach you.” His nose was beginning to run. He swiped at it with his sleeve and sniffed.

“No. I’ll contact you.”

“But—”

Click.

The connection was severed.

“You son of a bitch. You goddamned rich son of a bitch.” Jaw clenched, he slammed the receiver down. He checked the coin return slot out of habit, then shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked against the rain as he jaywalked to his Jeep. His ankle, the one he’d ripped up still ached, but he felt a moment’s satisfaction that the cocksucker would get his and get it soon.

A neon Budweiser sign glowed in the windows of a seedy tavern one block up and he hesitated, then decided he deserved a drink. And a woman—any whore would do.

Dealing with rich bastards usually made him thirsty.

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