Her neck felt stiff, paralyzed, and when she tried to turn it, streaks of agony shot through her body. She felt drunk, hungover in the murky night, and she closed her eyes again, trying to summon back the graceful twilight. She could hear voices. Low, murmuring, from somewhere in the house. It took her a moment to remember where she was—the small, Englishy-cottage overlooking the L.A. canyons. She’d found … what was his name, Clancy? And someone had come up behind her and tried to kill her. No, scratch that. If someone had tried to kill her, she’d be dead. And it wasn’t just someone—in retrospect she knew exactly who’d come up behind her. James. She could barely control a quiet whimper of pain as she sat up. She reached a trembling hand to her neck, pushing her hair away. It was raw, throbbing. What had the man done to her? She moved to the door, then stopped. The voices were clearer now—James with the Texas in his voice, deceptively smooth and easy. And someone else, all quiet concern and stern disapproval.
