You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,104

victim, not again. Not ever.

Rolling over, she buried face deep into his pillow and breathed deeply. But she couldn’t smell his scent. No remnant of aftershave or male musk. Nope. Just the irritating fragrance of a clean pillowcase.

Nothing was working today!

Her fantasy just wasn’t complete.

Annoyed, she sat up and noticed that a hair had escaped from her braid and lay against the stark white of his pillowcase. She almost swept it away, but thinking twice, decided to leave it.

For James to find.

Or Sophia?

Or Rebecca?

The vengeful cockles of her heart warmed.

Surely, James’s interest in Megan’s sister was fleeting, maybe just the result of some weird need to comfort her, possibly even because he felt guilty about Megan going missing.

Eventually, though, he would come to his senses.

Eventually, he would understand that he and Willow were destined to be together.

Eventually, Willow thought, he would be hers.

But she would have to be patient. As she’d been all of her twenty-two years. Always overlooked, always outshone, never in the spotlight. Especially when her sister was around. From her birth, she’d never measured up, had never been as smart, or as cute or as charming as . . .

Don’t go there.

Pushing onto her elbows, Willow reminded herself it was time to leave. If she didn’t want to get caught, she needed to make tracks. James could return at any moment, and she would have trouble explaining why she was here, naked in his bedroom.

That would ruin everything.

She leaned over the side of the bed to pick up her clothes, and as she did, her phone fell out of the pocket of her hoodie. She scooped it up automatically, intent on tucking it away again when inspiration struck.

Why not a memento?

A selfie?

Yes!

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 her 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