You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,81

the couple was still in a heated debate with the hotel clerk while one of their kids was sliding down the banister.

“Come on.” James touched Rebecca’s elbow with his good arm, guiding her away from the hotel entryway.

The air was crisp and cold enough to fog when they breathed. As they headed down the street, Rebecca glanced to the spot where she’d spied the woman with the long braid on the street, but no one was watching her now. Maybe she’d imagined that whoever it was had been staring at her room; perhaps the woman had just been looking at the hotel.

Then why did she turn away so suddenly when she caught sight of you?

“Something wrong?” James asked as they reached a corner.

Every damned thing. “Nope.” She was just unnerved, spying Sophia, then the woman, and now James.

He offered her a smile, but she pulled her gaze from his face. No. Nope. No sexual tension. Nada. Just conversation.

Hands in her pockets, as she’d forgotten her gloves, Rebecca kept in step with James as they crossed the street, turned a corner, and two blocks later, ended up at a redbrick building with a striped awning.

The Brass Bullet Bar looked as if it had been constructed at the turn of the last century and, aside from the addition of several flat-screen TVs, hadn’t been updated since the end of the Second World War. High-backed booths lined a wall opposite a walnut bar that stretched the length of the building and was backdropped by a mirrored wall where dozens of bottles glimmered on narrow glass shelves.

Sawdust and peanut shells littered the floor, and the odor of wood dust mingled with the smells of beer and ale.

James led her through the few tables scattered in the middle of the room, and they found a booth near a back exit. She slid onto the bench seat opposite him and saw him wince a bit as he sat down.

“Riggs Crossing’s finest,” he said with more than a trace of sarcasm. Before she could reply, the bartender arrived, her wild gray curls tied back by a red bandana that matched her western-cut shirt.

“What can I get you?” she asked, sizing up Rebecca.

“Something hot. Irish coffee?”

The barkeep glanced at James. “You?”

“Bud. On tap.”

“Anything to eat?” she asked, and though Rebecca felt her stomach rumble, she shook her head. “I’m good.”

“Just the drinks,” James said. As the bartender/waitress left, he slid a bowl of shelled peanuts toward Rebecca, which she ignored.

“Time to get down to business, so spill,” she said, folding her arms across the table. “You said you remembered, so tell me.”

He didn’t hesitate, which kind of surprised Rebecca, even as she told herself she welcomed it. He just launched in, explaining about the argument with Megan, how she’d come at him when she’d found out about Sophia. How hurt she’d been, how angry. She’d thrown a note she’d written at his face, then lunged at him.

The drinks had come, and he’d stopped to take a sip of his beer, but he’d only paused his tale while the bartender was there. As soon as she left, he picked up again, barely missing a beat. As he spoke, Rebecca searched his face for any trace of a lie. She tasted her drink, the foaming whipped cream sweet and at odds with the warm whiskey.

“I should have told her,” James wound up. “She was right. Before I got involved with Sophia, I should have told Megan it was over.” He leaned back against the booth. “That’s it. That’s what I know.”

She didn’t remind him that this was his MO, moving on to one woman before cutting it off with the previous one, didn’t say anything to jog his memory that he’d done the same to her.

Is that jealousy worming its way through your veins, heating your blood, poisoning your heart? God . . . please . . . no . . . not at this late date.

“Go on,” she said woodenly.

“That’s all. I just said—”

“That’s not all.”

James regarded her carefully. “Are we . . . talking about something else?”

“Megan.”

His gaze narrowed. Moments passed. Rebecca could almost hear the tick-tick-tick of elapsing time. She was pushing. Asking without asking. Angry. Needing to know, but unable to ask him, Why . . . Why? Why Megan?

James either read something on her face or picked up the vibe because he said, “I’m sorry.”

Jackass. Did he think that would be enough?

She tried to smile, but couldn’t force the muscles of her mouth to comply.