“I’m a reporter, okay?” she yelled at them.
“Come on. You’re outta here.” The guard pointed her back to her van.
“I’m doing my job!”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave. If you don’t, it’s my duty to call the local PD, as I said before.” He glanced at the house, where Lenora was peeking through the blinds. “Or Ms. Travers will do the honors herself. Trust me, she’s done it in the past when that little neighbor dog over there”—he hitched a thumb toward the crazed barker—“took to using Ms. Travers’s azalea garden as his own personal bathroom. It doesn’t take a whole lot to set her off.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“Tell that to the officers.”
“Shit, shit, shit.”
He moved toward her, and she edged closer to her van.
“You’ve got two minutes to drive outta here,” he warned her, and after she reluctantly climbed into the driver’s seat, he stepped forward, slammed her door shut, and then all too obviously checked his watch. “Now a minute and fifty-two seconds.”
Oh, ha, ha! He was gonna count backward! Very funny.
Asshole.
Charity started the van. She knew it was no use arguing or making more of a stink in this gated community, so she hit the gas and pulled away from the curb just as Hank took a step back. Even so, she nearly clipped him and thought for a vengeful second how good that would feel, then pushed that troublesome thought away. She didn’t need to maim anyone or get herself into any kind of trouble or even draw attention to herself. The outburst in front of the neighbors had been a mistake. She still had business here in California, and she obviously would have to use a less-than-direct approach. Not let her emotions get the better of her.
As she drove past the town houses, their identical windows glowing from interior lights, she flipped on the wipers. As the blades swatted away the accumulation of raindrops on the windshield, she plotted her next move. She’d already done as much as she could through the Internet. Next up, she would interview Cissy Cahill Holt, someone who intimately knew all of the skeletons tucked away in the prestigious, if scandalous, Cahill family closets.
Smiling to herself, she passed by the gatehouse where she’d bullied her way past the guard, then turned into a tree-lined street, joining the thin flow of moving traffic, taillights glowing ahead of her, headlights streaming in the opposite direction.
As for Lenora Travers, Charity was certain that bitch would get hers. What goes around, comes around.
If not, Charity would make sure of it.
* * *
Rebecca beat back her rising panic.
So she was going to meet James, so what?
She’d forced this issue, had barged into his hospital room, and then sneaked into his house, only to be found out, but she wasn’t ready for this, the emotional onslaught of dealing with James and Megan, and the aftermath of their betrayal, and . . .
“Oh, hell,” she muttered, giving herself a quick mental slap. She’d started this, and she’d better damned well see it through. The nasty little thought that if she played her cards right and enlisted James’s help in locating Megan, he might realize that he’d gotten involved with the wrong sister crept through her mind.
“Stop!” she said aloud. Whatever she’d once thought she’d shared with James, it was over! O.V.E.R.
“Just keep reminding yourself of that,” she muttered as she looked in the mirror, snapping her hair into a messy bun. Her reflection looked haunted, as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Still, she ignored her makeup kit. “What you see is what you get.” Pulling on boots and a jacket, she grabbed her wallet and was out the door.
True to his word, James was waiting for her just inside the hotel’s double doors, a Stetson covering most of his hair and bandage, his bad arm hidden beneath his jacket, looking for all the world like some long-legged action-movie hero in battered jeans and beard shadow.
Ignoring the knocking of her wayward heart, she moved toward him with more confidence than she felt.
He looked up and caught her eye. “Hey,” he said as some kind of greeting.
“Hi. You ready?” Before he could answer, she pushed into the street.
“You know where you’re heading?” he asked, following her out.
“There’s a restaurant across the street.”
“That’s where you want to go? A noisy restaurant?”
Beats the alternative, she thought, imagining being alone with him in her hotel room. And the lobby was out. She’d figured that out as she walked through. It was crowded. There were two people on the circular sofa near the Christmas tree, both heads bent over cell phones, a thirtysomething couple arguing with a desk clerk, their luggage surrounding them, their trio of children playing hide-and-seek around potted plants and chairs and yelling while faintly the strains of “Jingle Bells” added to the general cacophony.
“Doubt we’ll get a table,” James said.
Rebecca looked across the street through the restaurant’s windows and saw a crowd within. The booths were all full, and there was a group gathered in front of the reception area just inside the doors. And hadn’t she witnessed Sophia Russo going into it not fifteen minutes earlier? Did she really want to run into the blonde while she was with James? “Where then?”
“Your room?” he suggested.
Hell, no. She thought of the messy bed and lack of seating. And the last time she’d been in a bedroom with James. Shaking her head, she said, “Don’t think so. I thought I made that clear.”
“Then—?”
“You’re the local. You tell me.”
“Don’t suppose you’d want to go back to the house?”
She
