You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,19

to gouge deep ruts in his flesh.

Screaming, she attacks, pushing him and slicing his left cheek as she swipes at him. He steps backward to avoid the attack, stumbles, and hits his head on the hearth? Knocks himself out? Cracks his ribs in the fall?

Or had he been the aggressor?

He considered the scene from a different angle, even physically turning, though his eyes were still closed. Was that a dark figure lurking on the staircase? An accomplice waiting to attack? If so, in league with whom? James? Megan? Someone else?

Had there been another player here? A third party, either by design or, no—His brows knit together as he concentrated. That wasn’t quite right. Not exactly lurking in the shadows. But pulling the strings, taking advantage, and—

“Rivers?” Mendoza’s voice cut into his vision.

His eyes flew open.

Embarrassed, he glanced over his shoulder to find Mendoza standing at the foot of the stairs.

“You okay?” she asked, watching him closely.

He hadn’t even heard the door open, nor felt the rush of wintry wind racing through the entryway.

“Fine. Just wanted another look.”

“What were you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“Huh.” Disbelief. “You find anything?” She was eyeing him skeptically from beneath the hood of her jacket.

“Nah.” He gave a quick shake of his head. He was irritated that he’d been disturbed, but he hid it. “Let’s go.”

“Ohhh . . . kay,” she said as they walked outside to the porch. He pulled the door closed and heard the latch click into place.

In silence, they headed to the Cherokee.

She was already strapped in by the time he climbed inside. “What is it with you?” she asked, turning to face him. “It was like you were in some kind of trance or something.”

“I told you, I was thinking.” He started the engine and backed around the Silverado, giving the Jeep a little too much gas. “Just getting the feel of the place.”

“That was it?” she asked.

“That was it.”

“And what did you feel?”

He slid a glance her way and put the Jeep into DRIVE. “Nothing,” he replied, remembering Astrid’s laughter when he’d confided about his methodology to her. “Absolutely nothing.”

CHAPTER 7

James opened a bleary eye.

Night had fallen.

But he guessed only a few hours had passed, that he hadn’t lost another day. God, he hoped not. He remembered Nurse Rictor coming in to check on him again and adjust his IV, but he’d been half asleep when she’d stepped into his room, and whatever had been added to his bloodstream had knocked him out.

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