Page 26 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

Now he stared through the window to the darkness beyond. Security lamps cast a vaporous blue glow over a mostly deserted parking area. Snow was still falling and had piled up on the shrubbery, asphalt, and a few scattered vehicles.

He started to rub his chin with his right hand, but a stab of pain stopped him, so he used his left, felt the beard stubble of more than twenty-four hours. How long had he been here again? He checked the clock, mounted high over the television. 8:26. Still Sunday, he presumed. He blinked, decided his pain wasn’t quite as severe as it had been earlier.

But a woman had visited.

The blonde. Sophia.

He’d fallen asleep after she’d left and almost thought he’d dreamed that she’d been in his room, had hallucinated with the head injury and drugs.

But he knew better.

She was real. Had been here. And some of what she’d said rang true. He did know her, and yeah, she probably did work at the inn, but had he been involved with her? Slept with her? Surely, he’d remember that.

But no . . .

Still, he didn’t believe she was lying.

He shifted in the bed and again rubbed the stubble on his chin.

And flinched.

More pain.

Damn. Whatever meds he’d been given to make him more comfortable had definitely worn off. His head was clearer, despite the dull ache that pounded behind his eyes.

He needed to get out of here. He had a life. A business. And a small ranch with some cattle and horses. And a dog . . . Ralph. Damn. He couldn’t just lie around in the hospital. He pushed himself upright and twisted the kinks from his neck. His mind was still fuzzy, but he had to get out of this bed and hospital and . . . His eyes searched the room for his clothes, even though he was still hooked up to the IV.

The door to his room was ajar, and his throat was dry as cotton. As he reached for his water glass on the bedside table, he heard a soft ding announcing the arrival of an elevator car. Lifting the glass, he felt another sharp jab in his rib cage, and with it came some clarity.

Megan.

Her name floated through his consciousness.

Sophia had mentioned her, hadn’t she? But he hadn’t been able to put the name with a face. Now, however, he remembered. Early twenties. Pale blue eyes that twinkled mischievously. Freckles over a short nose, a deep dimple in one cheek, and straight hair, somewhere between blond and brown, that brushed her shoulders.

Yes!

His heartbeat increased.

The memories teased, but he couldn’t quite grab them and hold on.

Then a quick, intense image flashed—her pretty face twisted in rage, her hair damp with snow, her lips curled angrily, her eyes bright with hatred.

“I swear, James,” she’d breathed, “you’ll never see me again. You’re going to regret this for as long as you live!”

“Fuck,” he whispered under his breath.

It was true.

There had been a fight. In his house. She’d been furious with him and swinging some kind of long weapon with one hand, maybe a machete or a bat, all the while swiping bare-handed at him with the other. She’d found out about something . . . Oh, God, had it been about Sophia? Isn’t that what Sophia had said earlier? That she’d suspected they’d been fighting over her? He yanked at the hair in front of his bandage. Think, Cahill, think!

He remembered backing up in his living room, trying to calm her down, trying t

o grab at what she’d been flailing. But she’d been furious. Outraged. Intent on doing serious harm.

The weapon—a poker. Yeah, the fireplace poker. Not a machete. Not a baseball bat. She’d scratched him, he’d turned for a second, and she’d landed a blow to his head, and he’d tripped, and—

“I really don’t think it would be a good idea! He’s sleeping now.” A woman’s sharp voice interrupted his train of thought. “Did you hear me!” She sounded irritated. The image in James’s mind faded as he glanced to the partially open door. “Please. Don’t.” The voice was firm, punctuated by the staccato beat of quick footsteps heading his way.

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