Apparently, Jim’s business last night had been with a liquor bottle. There was ample evidence that her Mr. Coyne was a hard-drinking Irishman. Not that he was her Mr. Coyne, she thought sadly, or her anything but a means to an end. The groan turned into a hiss of pain. Worriedly, Gilly opened the door and peeked out. He wasn’t sprawled in the disreputable heap she’d expected. He was sitting on the edge of the fainting couch, his back to her, pulling on a clean white shirt. He’d gotten one arm through a sleeve and was cautiously working on the other. The livid bruise marking the thick cap of muscle on top of his shoulders seemed to be giving him trouble. He lifted his arm, got it just high enough to slip in, and gave a muted groan. “What happened to you?” Gilly asked. His head snapped around, and she could see a slight discoloration on his chin. Then his lovely pasque flower-blue eyes narrowed and he jerked the shirt the rest of the way on, turning his back to do so. A modest man.
