Page 99 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“Are you kidding?” she growled. “What part of hell do your thoughts come from? Why would I come all this way and stay here indefinitely if I knew?”

“Good question. One maybe you could answer.”

She leapt to her feet, torn between fury and disbelief.

“How would it look if you hadn’t shown up, hadn’t started demanding answers of the police?” he pointed out.

“You don’t really believe that.”

She saw, then, that his mood had lightened somewhat, that he was enjoying baiting her a bit. That pissed her off. “Let’s get this straight, okay? I did not drive over here to ‘look’ legit . . . to—to throw the police off the scent or whatever it is you’re getting at.” She felt her eyes narrow as she leaned across the table so that her nose was nearly touching his. “Don’t do this, James. Don’t try to put this on me. I came here to help find Megan. That is the single reason I’m here.”

His eyes held hers as he asked softly, “Is it?”

In a split second, she remembered making love to him, the stretch of his skin over taut, corded muscles, the pressure of his mouth on hers. Her breath caught in her throat. “You are a first-class bastard,” she said, the fact that her words were a whisper taking away none of their power. And with that she walked away from the booth and through the sawdust and peanut shells to the door, letting him worry about the tab.

He could damn well afford it.

CHAPTER 27

San Francisco, California

December 7

She’d been stood up.

On the night after she had been unceremoniously hauled away from Lenora Travers’s town house, Charity, fuming, had waited at the waterfront, the night closing in on her despite the lights of the city, skyscrapers with their towers of windows glowing against the inky, moist night.

The “contact” she’d made, a person who had called her the night before and suggested they meet near Pier 39, hadn’t shown last night, either. She’d been wary, of course, but the caller, whose phone number had been blocked, insisted that he or she—Charity hadn’t been able to tell which—had “dirt” on James Cahill, including why he was considered the black sheep of his family, and what stood in his way of inheriting.

Music to Charity’s ears. As she’d gone to the meeting spot, she’d had dozens of questions for the informant. Had James Cahill had some previous charge of violence against a woman? Had something happened when he was a teenager, and had the court records been sealed? Had a victim been bought off with some of the Cahill fortune? A dozen questions about Cahill came to mind.

And what had Charity learned tonight?

Nada!

It was so damn frustrating. She’d felt in her gut that something in Cahill’s past, along with the ties to old San Francisco money, had contributed to the mystery surrounding Megan Travers. Something deeper, something darker. But was that true? Or had it just been what it appeared? Out-and-out jealousy that another woman had turned his head, forcing Megan to take off? Was it that simple?

As Charity walked through the cold San Francisco night, she toyed with the idea that Megan, known for her mercurial temper and penchant for drama, might have staged her own disappearance. If she had, why hadn’t she reappeared? Did James know more than he was saying? If so, what?

And then there were the sisters, Rebecca and Megan Travers, both betrayed. Charity had just scratched the surface about them, but she’d made a mental note to dig a little deeper, discover more about them and their involvement with James. And they too had ties to this city.

So all was not lost.

And there was that information she’d received from Cissy Cahill, related to James and nearly fifteen years his senior. Boy, had that woman had stories to tell!

Enough for one book, and maybe two.

So, really, all was not lost. Even if this jerk-wad had set her up only to bail.

Charity just had to do a little more digging on Marla Cahill’s daughter—the other daughter, the real whack job of a totally messed-up family. So perfect for a true crime book, or even a screenplay . . .

So, screw everyone who thought she couldn’t make it to the big time.

As she stared out at the dark water of the bay and the thin stream of traffic crossing the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, Charity imagined her future, how she would show everyone, including those imbeciles she worked with at the Clarion, what she was made of. Blustering Earl Ray and his creep of a son would see.

Wrap that around your man bun, Gerry.

She imagined a book contract or a movie deal. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t that old has-been Seamus O’Day be surprised? They all would. Everyone at that two-bit rag!

---