The thought of being wedged tight between the two men even for a short distance was daunting.
“I don’t think—”
“There’s no use arguing with him,” Bobby said. “Let’s just get on with it. Cyn—that’s my wife—she’s been texting me like crazy. I need to get home.”
“Let me grab a hat,” James said and disappeared down a hallway to return wearing a black cowboy hat that partially covered his bandaged head. “Let’s go.”
Rebecca didn’t like it, but she was hustled out of the house and to the Silverado and, along with the dog, crammed inside. Bobby was behind the wheel and James against the passenger window, Ralph curled at their feet, his dark eyes never leaving Rebecca’s face.
You can get through this, she thought, ignoring the fact that the length of the outside of her leg was pressed tight against James’s, that he was so close. Memories of being with him flooded her mind. He might not recall their short time together, but she did—in all too vivid detail. Seattle had never seemed so vibrant, so alive than in the short few months she’d spent with James. Nor, she realized, had she. His betrayal had been bitter.
With her own damned sister.
And then he’d done the same to Megan.
She should have felt some satisfaction in that, she supposed, but didn’t. With an effort, she closed her mind to all those ridiculous thoughts and even more ridiculous feelings. The past was the past, and apparently it hadn’t made enough of a lasting impression on James that he could feel even a twinge of emotion about it.
They jostled on the ride in the close, warm cabin of the truck, and the smell of smoke and liquor enveloped her. Thankfully, the drive was short, less than five minutes that somehow felt like eons of staring silently through the windshield while watching the wipers slap away the snow.
At the inn, Bobby found a parking slot close to the entrance, pulled in, and cut the engine. Almost before the truck had stopped, James opened the passenger door and climbed out, as if he were as anxious as she was to avoid the close contact.
Good.
She too needed to break the intimacy of the closed space.
Keys in hand, she slid across the bench, stepped outside and into the sharp 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
