Page 121 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

Without thinking twice, she leaned back on the bed, and adjusted her braid to fall over one of her bare breasts, coyly exposing the nipple, just a bit. Then, angling her chin just right, she stared at the camera and snapped several pictures of herself in different poses. One on her back; another on her stomach looking over her shoulder; then, just her boobs, no face, just the tip of her braid visible; another of her naked buttocks again with her braid; and finally her bare breasts, the Glock, barrel pointed up at her chin, placed between them, her braid wound around its handle. Oh, Lord. How phallic was that?

Her own private gallery.

She giggled.

Someday—please God—she would share them all with him.

And they would make their own. Together. Maybe even a sex tape. She tingled at the thought of filming him with his muscular back covered in sweat, his eyes fixated on hers as he pried open her willing legs and . . .

Her heart swelled as she pictured it, and the pulsing in her private parts . . . mmmm.

Oh, love, soon!

For now, though, she’d keep these to herself. The only person she dared confide in was Zena, who was her best friend and coworker, but no. Not yet. Zena had changed with her pregnancy, and Willow wasn’t sure she could be trusted, not with something like this.

She could possibly tell her sister, but if she spilled the beans about James tonight, Willow was sure to get a lecture, and God knew she didn’t need that. She’d had enough over the years from h

er older and—ugh!—wiser sibling. No need to suffer through that kind of torture, not again.

For a brief second, Willow considered staying here, in his room, in his bed, and surprising him, but, again, the timing wasn’t right. Reluctantly, she rolled off the mattress and straightened the bed, making sure the long hair was visible on his pillow. If anyone ever suggested it might be hers, she’d deny it, then, if it were proven to have come from her scalp, finally just admit that she had been in his room cleaning. That would explain it.

But Sophia would know.

“Good,” she said aloud.

Smiling, feeling like she finally was getting the upper hand, she reached for her sweatshirt and—

Crreeeak!

The noise came from outside the bedroom, as if someone or some thing were outside the doorway, maybe on the staircase.

Fear sluicing through her, Willow froze, strained to listen, hardly daring to breathe over the wild knocking of her heart. Maybe she was wrong about the noise; maybe it was the echo of that damned branch scratching against the kitchen windowpane.

She heard nothing.

Still, her insides clenched.

Had the noise all been a figment of her imagination?

No! It had been from inside the house.

Throat dry, she dressed quickly, noiselessly, and, with her ears straining for any other unlikely sound, carefully tugged on her boots.

Suddenly, bright illumination washed across the window, throwing the bedroom into relief.

Headlights!

No—oh, no!

Inching to the side of the window, Willow watched in horror as twin swaths of moving illumination played upon the trunks of the trees guarding the lane and sparkled against the blanket of snow covering the yard.

James was returning, his Explorer roaring toward the house!

Oh, crap!

“No, no, no,” she said under her breath and hastily zipped up her boots. She scrambled out of the room, more concerned about being caught by James than by whatever imagined threat she thought she’d heard inside the house.

She didn’t have much time, probably not enough. Her heart in her throat, she thundered down the stairs as fast as she could. On the final step, she turned, slipped, and twisted her ankle as she fell. “Shit!” she hissed. She got to her feet. Pain shot up her leg. She sucked in her breath. No matter what, she couldn’t be caught. Not here!

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