You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,58

he found himself looking forward to being with her. She laughed a lot, a tinkling little giggle that brought a smile to his face. She’d been beyond charming when he’d first met her at the inn, when she’d come looking for a job, and he’d been unable to resist her, couldn’t resist her still.

Another memory surfaced, an older one. He and Sophia had been together in another place. Her apartment. She’d found him in the shower, stripped off her clothes, and joined him in the tight space, eagerly running her hands down his body under the hot water. He hadn’t been able to resist her then either, and had actually made love to her, pressing her back against the slick tiles as he’d lifted her onto his all-too-ready cock, her legs wound around him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as the spray had steamed the glass. Afterward, he’d watched her dress, enjoyed the show of a reverse strip tease, her winking at him through strands of wet hair, then sliding into her lacy bra and panties as he’d lain upon her bed. She’d licked her lips as she’d pulled on a boot, tugging it over her foot and a once-broken left toe with an effort, then standing proudly in underwear and thigh-high boots, silently daring him to ravish her again.

And he had, pulling her onto the bed and yanking down her panties, pushing himself inside her as she giggled and writhed.

Now the images disturbed him.

Things had changed.

He had changed.

And yet he’d still let her into his bed—this bed at the hotel.

He raked a hand through his still-wet hair and winced as his finger scraped the sensitive area under the bandage. What kind of a mess had he gotten himself into?

He left the bracelet where he’d found it. He’d deal with the glittery bangle, and Sophia, later. Right now, he had other issues, and he still felt a little dizzy. He made a pit stop in the bathroom, eyed the pain pills he’d been prescribed, then thought better of it. He needed a clear, if slightly aching, head today.

After grabbing his jacket, he whistled to Ralph, found his hat, and gently placed the Stetson on his head. Steadier than he had been, he made his way downstairs to a hotel lobby that was beginning to fill with guests checking in or out, suitcases and overnight bags in tow, kids running and playing around a fourteen-foot Christmas tree lit from top to bottom. His stomach rumbled at the scents of maple syrup and bacon wafting from the kitchen area near the bar and dining room, but he didn’t stop, didn’t want to run into too many people. Instead, he strode down a hallway leading to the rear of the building.

Outside, it was crisp and cold, no snow falling. He crunched across new snow as he crossed the parking lot between the back side of the inn and the front stoop leading to the coffee shop. As he stepped through the doorway, he heard the tinkling of the bell overhead. Skirting a few occupied tables where parents and children were eating, deep into their iPads or phones, or sipping coffee, he walked to the counter, where he ordered a cup of coffee and donut to go, as he had done since he’d established the café.

The quick breakfast would go onto his running tab, so he was free to eat and leave. With the clatter of silverware, the hum of conversation, and notes of “All I Want for Christmas” chasing after him, he walked under an archway leading through the Christmas shop, where one could purchase everything from hazelnuts to tabletop crèches, peppermint-flavored candy corn to Santa hats, glass ornaments to toy soldiers, angel tree-toppers to reindeer night-lights.

Everything Christmas and then some.

Offered for sale by James Cahill.

Why did it suddenly feel so crass? So commercialized?

The selling of Christmas, he thought, stepping around a six-year-old fascinated by the miniature train that encircled the displays.

What had Cissy once told him, on a particularly bleak, rain-soaked San Francisco Christmas Eve?

“You can’t sell Christmas, James.”

Well, he’d damned well tried. Though he’d known that expensive presents weren’t the heart and soul of the holidays, he’d convinced himself in the past few years that he actually was selling joy, that all the shiny toys and ornaments gave people pleasure.

He glanced around. For the first time since creating this holiday bazaar of a store, he felt as if he was commercializing something that should be held sacred, making a profit