As people came and went, laughing and ordering drinks, or picking at the nuts and pretzels, Sophia caught snatches of conversation. Just bits and pieces, but a lot more of it swirling around James Cahill. Actually, since Megan Travers had gone missing, business in all of James’s enterprises, including the hotel and bar, had picked up. Which was kind of sick, when you thought about it.

Fame or infamy—both always got people’s attention.

Two thirtysomething guys took seats at the bar: Gus Jardine, the taller one, and Bruce Porter, shorter and stockier in his ever-present Yankees baseball cap. Both worked for James. Sophia knew who they were, just not a lot about them. They both smelled of smoke, and Jardine kept fiddling with his lighter. Over shots of tequila, they were not only discussing the national basketball rankings and their latest hunting trip; they’d also figured out what happened to Megan.

“. . . he did her and then he did her, if ya know what I mean.” Unshaven, his black hair long and curly, Gus confided to Bruce as Willow, that stealthy kitchen assistant, hurried in with fresh ice. She poured it into the refrigerated tub near the soda machine, and it rattled so loudly Sophia had a hard time catching the end of the conversation. She thought Gus said, “Something went wrong.”

“Well, duh. Of course it did,” Bruce agreed. “The fucker was doin’ two chicks at once.”

Sophia’s back stiffened, and she glanced in the mirror, to see if he had figured out she was one of the “chicks.”

Apparently not, because Bruce didn’t catch her eye. Instead, his gaze followed after Willow as the thin woman, her black braid swinging behind her, hurried back through the swinging door to the kitchen. Good riddance, Sophia thought. Willow, barely out of her teens, hung out with unreliable Zena. Worse yet, Sophia had caught Willow staring at James with a quiet fascination that bothered her, that had really gotten under her skin, which she’d forced herself to get used to. Even pregnant Zena had followed James with her eyes from time to time.

It was exhausting. And irritating.

The problem was Sophia recognized that look, knew what it felt like to want something so badly, so out of reach that you ached inside.

Well, too damned bad.

James was off limits!

“The double-chick thing isn’t a bad gig if you can get away with it,” Gus was saying, still musing aloud about seeing two women at once and finally stuffing his lighter into his pocket.

“But not many guys can.” Bruce’s attention was back to his drinking /hunting buddy.

“Unless the chicks are dumb as shit.” Gus threw back his drink, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and slammed his shot glass. His buddy followed suit.

They both laughed. Ugly, guttural snickers. Then signaled for another round.