“That’s where you’re wrong! It has everything to do with us and every damned woman you ever took to bed. You think you’re so ridiculously charming and good-looking that women can’t help falling for you?” Glaring at him, she answered her own question. “It’s the money, James.” She was so close now, he felt the heat radiating from her, saw the bits of darker blue in her light eyes. “It’s all about the money. Every damned woman you’ve dated in your entire miserable life has known you had money. Including Jennifer and Rebecca and that slut Sophia.”

He tensed then, wanting to shake her. “Including you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Including you?” he repeated.

She angled her chin upward and whispered, “Including me. If you want to know the truth—”

“I do.”

“That’s what started it all. My interest. But then? Then I was stupid enough to actually fall for you.”

For a second, he almost believed her. But the harsh glint in her gaze, the tight, hard corners of her mouth, and the almost crazed expression told him not to trust her. “I already said, I’m sorry, and I am—”

“Bullshit!”

Enough. “Okay. Maybe you should go.”

“Now you’re throwing me out?” Her rage exploded. “Well, fuck you, James! Fuck you!”

“Megan,” he started when she lunged at him. He stepped backward.

Too late.

“Bastard!” She swiped at him with her hands, her right fingernails scraping down the side of his face.

“Stop!” He grabbed one wrist.

It wasn’t enough. She threw herself against him, and she flailed at him with her free hand.

He stumbled backward, falling, with her atop him.

He remembered his shoulder slamming into the fireplace and his body scraping downward in a single moment. His head bounced against the bricks of the hearth. For a dizzying second, he saw her climbing off him, her horrified expression in his line of vision, the sound of his dog barking from behind the kitchen door ringing in his ears before everything went dark.

“Holy shit,” he whispered now as the hot water cascaded over his good shoulder and down his torso. For a second, he was unsteady and propped himself against the tile wall, trying to gain his equilibrium. He ran a hand over his wet face as he steadied himself. Memories assailed him, making him feel weak . . . weaker. He managed to twist off the faucet and reach out of the shower for a towel. Ralph had taken up residence on the bath mat, and he had to nudge the dog aside with a wet foot.

With an effort, he dried himself off. He decided against shaving—the beard would help hide the scratches still visible beneath his stubble—and managed to struggle into his clothes before it hit him that he had no car, no means of transportation. The police were still holding his truck and Explorer, both vehicles being searched for evidence.