You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,40

cold. With a glance to the driver, she said a quick, “Thanks for the ride,” to Bobby, then to James, still standing by the open passenger door, “This isn’t over.”

* * *

“She doesn’t like you much,” Bobby observed as he hauled James’s bag up the few steps to the porch of the inn.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

He shot James a disbelieving look and held the door open, and James eased his way into the familiar surroundings of the hotel. Intimate lobby, bar, and dining room to one side, elevator bank and fourteen-foot Christmas tree to the other.

Walking wasn’t as easy as it had been. The booze had been a mistake; Rebecca had been right about that, if not much else. He was a little light-headed, detached from his body, which helped with the pain but not so much with his stability.

Worse yet, the feel of Rebecca’s body next to his in the pickup had been a jolt.

Half an hour later, after Bobby had carried up his plastic bag of belongings to one of two executive suites at the hotel, James was finally alone. Executive was a bit of a stretch, James thought, as he moved slowly across the room, but the suite had a bedroom, bathroom, French doors, and a desk, along with a fold-out couch in the living area and a compact kitchen, complete with small stove and apartment-sized refrigerator. He was lucky to have it due to a last-minute cancellation, as the inn was booked solid through the new year.

Didn’t matter that he owned the damned place. Well, he and First Crossing Bank.

James moved into the bathroom, stripped, and surveyed the damage to his body in the full-length mirror. He looked like hell. Though his legs and lower torso were unscathed, his head was still partially wrapped, his arm in a sling, his ribs bruised. And then there were the scratches down the left side of his face. They’d been cleaned, and there was evidence of antiseptic on his skin. Scabs had formed in his beard, and he supposed he would be okay in a week or so. And if not, a short beard would disguise the marks, but for now . . .

He pointed the shower head to hit him low on the back, then stepped under the spray. He tried to keep his sling and bandages dry, but failed and thought, tough. He cleaned himself, shampooed what he could of his exposed hair, and then let the hot water and steam envelop him. He was on the mend; he could feel it. His body was healing.

But he still couldn’t remember.

Not clearly.

And the pain was still a dull throb. Despite the scotch, he’d never sleep without the aid of medication. He considered the fact that he should have stayed another day or two in the hospital, then banished the thought.

He thought about Rebecca. Beautiful and angry as hell. Convinced that he had something to do with her sister’s disappearance to the point that she broke into his house and skulked around. She didn’t trust him. Didn’t like him.

But she had.

He didn’t clearly remember, but felt that she had cared about him, possibly more than he had cared for her. Though he couldn’t recall the details of their relationship, he knew deep in his gut that women had always been his downfall.

Apparently, they still were.

So was she here for Megan?

Or for him?

His ego . . . shit. It had always been a problem. That much he did remember. He found the bottle of pain pills on the counter, shook out a couple, tossed them back, and leaned against the sink. Why could he remember only bits and pieces?

Because you don’t want to. You know from some psychology class you took that the mind protects itself, that sometimes areas of your life are too painful to remember, so the mind closes the door to whatever it was that was so brutal.

Face it, you can’t remember.

Not now, anyway.

Glancing at his scruffy reflection in the mirror, he considered his lack of memory and decided it might just be for the best.

CHAPTER 13

If James Cahill thought he was going to get off the hook that easy, he had another think coming, Charity decided as she drove to her apartment, a studio cut into what had once been the maid’s quarters in a larger home. She pulled into the driveway and eyed the place.

It appeared right smack out of a damned Currier and Ives lithograph: a three-storied Victorian with snow on the roof and even