Page 5 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

Alex’s intense eyes, more gray than blue, flashed. “So you’re still an irreverent bastard.”

“I keep workin’ at it.” Nick didn’t bother to smile. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

“Shit, Nick, that’s all you’ve ever done.”

“Probably.”

In a heartbea

t Nick decided his mother must’ve died. For no other reason would Alex be inconvenienced enough to wear out some of the tread on his three-hundred-dollar tires. But the thought was hard to believe. Eugenia Haversmith Cahill was the toughest woman who’d ever trod across this planet on four-inch heels. Nope. He changed his mind. His mother couldn’t be dead. Eugenia would outlive both her sons.

He kept walking to his truck and slung his bucket into the bed with his toolbox and spare tire. Around the parking lot, a once-painted fence and fir trees contorted by years of battering wind and rain formed a frail barricade that separated the marina from a boarded-up antiques shop that hadn’t been in business in the five years Nick had lived in Devil’s Cove.

Alex jammed his hands deep into the pockets of a coat that probably sported a fancy designer label, not that Nick would know. Or care. But something was up.

“Look, Nick, I came here because I need your help.”

“You need my help?” he repeated with a skeptical grin. “Maybe I should be flattered.”

“This is serious.”

“I suspect.”

“It’s Marla.”

Son of a bitch. Beneath the rawhide of his jacket, Nick’s shoulders hunched. No matter what, he wasn’t going to be sucked in.

Not by Marla.

Not ever again.

“She’s been in an accident.”

His gut clenched. “What kind of accident?” Nick’s jaw was so tight it ached. He’d never trusted his older brother. And for good reason. For as long as Nick could remember, Alex Cahill had bowed at the altar of the dollar, genuflected whenever he heard a NASDAQ quote and paid fervent homage to the patron saints of San Francisco, the elite who were so often referred to as “old money.” That went double for his beautiful, socialclimbing wife, Marla.

His brother was nothing but a bitter reminder of Nick’s own dalliance with the Almighty Buck. And with Marla.

“It’s bad, Nick—” Alex said, kicking at a pebble with the toe of his polished wingtip.

“But she’s alive.” He needed to know that much.

“Barely. In a coma. She . . . well, she might not make it.”

Nick’s stomach clenched even harder. “Then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with her?”

“Yes. I have been. But . . . I didn’t know how else to reach you. You don’t return my calls and . . . well . . .”

“I’m not all that into e-mail.”

“That’s one of the problems.”

“Just one.” Nick leaned against the Dodge’s muddy fender, telling himself not to be taken in. His brother was nothing if not a smooth-talking bastard, a man who could with a seemingly sincere and even smile, firm handshake and just the right amount of eye contact, talk a life jacket off a drowning man. Older than Nick by three years, Alex was polished, refined and Stanford educated. His graduate work, where he’d learned the ins and outs of the law, had been accomplished at Harvard.

Nick hadn’t bothered. “What happened?” he asked, trying to remain calm.

“Car accident.” To Alex’s credit he paled beneath his tan. Reaching into his jacket, he found a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Nick, who shook his head, though he’d love to feel smoke curl through his lungs, could use the buzz of nicotine.

Alex flicked his lighter and drew deep. “Marla was driving another woman’s car. Over six weeks ago now. In the mountains near Santa Cruz, a miserable stretch of road. The woman who owned the Mercedes, Pamela Delacroix, was with her.” There was a long pause. A heavy, smoky sigh. Just the right amount of hesitation to indicate more bad news. Nick steeled himself as a Jeep with a dirty ragtop sped into the parking lot, bouncing through the puddles before sliding to a stop near the railing. Two loud men in their twenties climbed out and opened the back to haul out rods, reels and a cooler. They clomped noisily down the stairs.

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