CHAPTER 41
Mike sat there, staring at me. The stitches in my forehead were stinging and so was I. The intense look he was busy shooting at me from the chair in the corner of the room was as sharp as throwing spears, making everything sting.
“So?” Mike finally spoke. His voice was cold and steely-sounding.
“Mmmm?” I looked up at him innocently from my hospital bed, although I knew there was no amount of wide-eyed innocent looking that was going to get me out of this situation.
“I’m waiting,” he said, folding his arms. He sat back in his chair and his shirt tugged against his broad chest; for a moment, I remembered how good he looked, almost naked.
“Still waiting,” he said, sounding even more irritated than he had a second ago.
“Waiting?” I asked.
“For an explanation!” He crossed his legs now too—very sexy, and yet surprisingly intimidating.
I nodded. I’m not sure why, but I did. I looked around the room, hoping someone would appear at any moment and save me from this situation. But Ash had gone to get snacks from the vending machine and, for the first time since Mike burst in on me in his library, we were alone. Honestly, at this stage, I would have taken a nurse with an enema to avoid this conversation.
He jiggled his foot in the air and I knew I needed to say something soon. Wait . . . A thought hit me. Maybe I could pretend that the wound on my head had caused temporary amnesia, and that I had no memory of who I was or what I was doing.Was that even possible?Or were things like that only possible in soap operas and romance novels?
“Becca, Sam, Pebecca—whatever your name is—what is going on, here?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair. “Last time I saw you, I thought I’d made it very clear that you werenotto come back.”
“You did,” I said, my voice trembling a little.
“Well, an explanation for why you’re suddenly here again—and in my house, no less—would be great!” he replied sarcastically.
“I didn’t know you lived there when I checked in,” I snapped, in my defense.
He shook his head again; clearly, he didn’t believe me. “And, not only do I find you in my house, when you’re not even meant to be in this town, I find you—yet again—sneaking around in the middle of the night, and I have to ask myself, and you, the same question again: what the hell are youreallyup to?”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re researching a book.” He looked dubious; I didn’t blame him, but it was the truth. In fact, that was the only bit of truth I’d probably spoken in several days.
“It’s the truth,” I said, as sincerely as I could.
“And what are you researching, exactly? I mean, what kind of book requires all this sneaking around?”
“I told you, it’s a book on a P.I.” That didn’t sound as sincere, and I could see he’d picked up on that immediately.
“Okay, now that part was a lie,” he said.
I shrugged. “I . . . I can’t tell you what the book is about. I’m contractually bound not to say what it’s about yet. If I did, I could get into trouble with my agent and publisher.” This was a half-truth, but it flew out of me so easily, it might as well have been the gospel truth.
He eyed me, but it felt more like he was dissecting me. His gaze moved over me like some kind of scanner—one of those powerful radars that they used to look inside the Giza pyramids, searching for all the secret hidden tunnels that lurked deep inside them. I tried to keep my facial features in check as he scanned my innermost corners, looking for my hidden secrets, but my lips kept twitching for some unknown reason as he dragged his eyes slowly over my face.
“The thing is, Pebecca.”Dear God, he was calling me by my full name—this was bad!“Thing is, since you’ve arrived in this town, there has been nothing but chaos. We never have any incidents; in fact, Willow Bay is one of the most peaceful places in South Africa. But, since you’ve been here, we have had a break-in, damage to property—and by that I mean a cat is missing its eyebrow—and then we had a cat stolen by a mysterious women called Sam, who was impersonating a groomer . . . Coincidence?” These were obviously rhetorical questions.
I hung my head. Everything he’d said was right. But I wasn’t usually like this, and I wanted him to understand that. “Iamresearching a book,” I reiterated. “I wanted to see the town hall today, and, yes, I might have—without thinking—impersonated a cat groomer. But I put that black cat down, and she was found!” I said quickly.
“So itwasyou?” he asked.
I nodded and then cringed a little. “Would it help if I told you that I regret doing it and wish I could take it back?”
“But why?” he asked. “Why not just buy a bloody ticket and go inside, like a normal person?”
“It was sold out.”
“And you were that desperate to go to a cat show?”
