by Sally Felt
Flushed
Sally Felt
Blush sensuality level: This is a sensual romance (may have explicit love scenes, but not erotic in frequency or type).
Kissing a stranger in the middle of her dinner party wasn’t in Isabelle’s plans—after all, she’s sworn off dating. But when Kim Martin, plumber to the rescue, charms her guests and poses as her new guy to spare Isabelle the humiliation of an uninvited ex, she makes an impromptu exception—and gets carried away.
At first being Isabelle’s faux beau suits Kim Martin just fine, Isabelle’s hot, intriguing and won’t disrupt his plans to blow town and build a business he loves. But Isabelle just isn’t cut out to be a goodtime girl, and Kim can’t seem to keep things casual.
Kim is everything Isabelle believes of men—confident, flirtatious and too attractive for his own good. Yet the more Isabelle tries to fit him into a box, the harder he fights his way out of it. He’d be maddening if he weren’t so intriguing.
A Blush® contemporary romance from Ellora’s Cave
Flushed
Sally Felt
Chapter One
Isabelle’s house smelled like Monday—all was right with the world. The rich scent of buffalo wings in the oven, whiffs of floor cleaner, earthy smells of dusk through the open kitchen window, the citrus tang of bubbly dishwater that wet her to the elbows…
Of course, the phone rang.
Crap.
But Charlie was probably still around, and hey, answering phones was what brothers were for.
“Charlie!” she yelled. “Can you get that?”
From across the house, she heard him reply, “Bathroom!”
Men.
She wiped her hand on her vintage apron and grabbed the phone mid-ring, expecting one of tonight’s guests to be offering to bring something, or asking to bring a friend.
“Isabelle? It’s Steven. How are you?”
She hadn’t heard that voice in months—a relief to both her blood pressure and her temper. Just six words from his mouth and her stomach churned.
Great. Perfect. “What do you want, Steven?”
“I suppose dinner is out of the question?”
“You suppose correctly. Can’t your flavor of the week cook?”
“Whoa. You’re still mad.”
“If that’s what you called to find out, then we’re done here. Goodbye.”
Isabelle threw the phone to the far end of the kitchen counter where it crashed against her pasta jars. Luckily, nothing broke. Steven had broken enough.
Damp silk clung to her ribs. She must have pressed against the sink’s edge while talking to Steven. Figured. She’d made it through all the kitchen prep, including giving the chicken wings a field promotion from marinating to baking, without mishap. But one call from the oxygen thief named Steven and she needed to change clothes before her friends arrived.
The phone rang again. She snarled at it. Gone was her sense of happy fulfillment. This was not the day she’d planned when she got up this morning.
Charlie glided into the kitchen on bare feet and opened the squat, antique refrigerator. His sweaty t-shirt had once had something printed on it about the athletic department at Southern Methodist University, but a couple of years hard wear and repeated washings had all but erased SMU’s letters and reduced the Mustangs logo to a flaking blob. The phone rang again. “You gonna get that?” he asked, emerging from her refrigerator with a cold longneck. He looked toward the phone.
“Men suck.”
Her brother winced, helping her throw the verbal brakes before she could snap at him about wearing that nasty t-shirt to her party. He would go home and change. Besides, he’d sweated on her behalf today, helping her load her van with the shelving and hardware she’d need for her upcoming closet installations.
The phone kept ringing. They both ignored it.
Charlie swigged beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Toilet’s clogged again.”
“Crap.”
“‘Fraid so.” Her brother grinned, as entertained by bathroom humor as every other man she knew.
“I mean damn. There will be ten of us in,” she checked the kitchen clock, “less than two hours.”
“Chill, party mama.”
“Chill?”
Charlie winced again.
The phone kept ringing. Damn voice mail was taking its time.
“Just call that guy,” Charlie said. “The plumber guy. Earl, or Burl or whatever. Isn’t he on your speed dial by now?”
“Burt. And I’m not calling him again.”
“Why?”
“Butt crack.”
“And?”
“Criminal pricing.”
Charlie grinned, shaking his head. “And?”
He could be so annoying.
“C’mon, tell me the rest of it.”
“He called me ‘little missy’,” she said. “Twice.”
Charlie hissed sympathetically. “He’s lucky you weren’t armed.”
“Weren’t you on your way home to change?” she asked, mad she couldn’t be mad at him, not on the heels of him doing her a favor. Besides, it wasn’t his fault she was miffed.
“Going.” He left the kitchen, grinning. “Later!”
The front door shut loudly enough to hear all the way across the house. “Thank you,” she called belatedly. She smacked the dishwater’s surface in frustration.
At least the phone had stopped ringing.
Time to find a new plumber. The bungalow’s plumbing needed updating, especially the one and only bathroom, which became unusable at least once every couple of months. But the thought of moving out of the house she loved so much—even temporarily—kept her from scheduling the work.
She found the little notebook in which she recorded home repairs and its trove of business cards tucked in the front pocket. Her friend Stacey worked at a home improvement store and sometimes gave Isabelle the heads-up on recommended suppliers.
The first plumber in the stack was named Kim. Unlikely a female plumber would flash butt crack or use patronizing language, so Isabelle phoned the number on the card. It reached a service. Crap. Now she’d have to answer every call, even though it might be Steven.
Why was he calling, anyway? He couldn’t possibly imagine she’d want to hear from him. Ever.
The open kitchen window brought in the scent of damp earth and new grass—hopeful smells of springtime and new beginnings even a big city like Dallas couldn’t smother—and he’d had to go and ruin it.
Isabelle turned her anger on hapless veggies, using her biggest knife to chop jicama and celery for the spinach dip Stacey always supplied for Isabelle’s Monday-night gatherings.
How dare Steven? Sleeping with other women while he was living with her. Nobody did that to her. She was no longer the trusting kid she’d been in college. She would not be taken for granted.
Of course, she’d known he was trouble. But Mom and Stacey had ganged up on her, urging her to “get back on the horse” and he’d seemed like a good guy when they met at a charity event. He’d had those dimples and a way of making her feel so special…
At least until he’d had a place to keep his spare socks.
No, not even onions could make her shed one more tear over a waste of skin like Steven. Not a chance.
By the time the phone rang, she had her blood pressure in check. Still, she gritted her teeth before answering.
A man’s voice said, “I’m returning a call for Martin Plumbing.” There was noise in the background, as if he were outdoors on a busy street or in a moving car. Maybe Kim had a team of plumbers working for her.
Isabelle sketched her emergency—one toilet, houseful of guests due, no plumber she could trust.
“It could be forty-five minutes, maybe an
hour before I can get there,” he said.
Not what she wanted to hear. But he sounded respectful enough, and Isabelle didn’t know if anyone else could be quicker, so she agreed. He assured her he was on his way.
A break. Still, she wondered what had happened to Kim.
An hour later, scores of lit candles added extra hominess to the scents of warm wood and furniture polish, of oven-barbequed chicken wings nearing perfection. The only thing better than living here was sharing it with friends every Monday. She loved the wide, squared-off archway connecting the bungalow’s living and dining room. She loved the built-in bookcases and the extravagant dining room buffet, all with mullioned-glass doors. She loved the long sunroom where she could enjoy sun-warmed catnaps. She even loved the cantankerous radiators and the old fixtures.
The plumbing, less so.
She headed for the lone bedroom to find something to replace her water-stained silk shell. Her friends would arrive soon.
The doorbell rang.
She hurried through the den and living room, pulling loose the apron’s string tie with one hand as she swung the heavy wood door open.
The man on the porch was a stranger to her. Nikes. Khaki pants. Dark, long-sleeved pullover that clung to his whipcord body. Maybe he was an offering sent by a well-meaning friend, a move she normally wouldn’t appreciate. Tall. Long neck. Cleft chin. Lips. Smile. Eyes. Oh my, eyes. Pale irises, ringed with dark, the color impossible to determine in the harshness of the porch light. If a friend had dared send him, it was a friend with good taste. And a little taste—rather, a little flirting, of course she meant flirting—wouldn’t kill her, would it?
“Ms. Caine?”
Presence. Charisma. Voice.
Isabelle nodded, not wanting to disturb the flutter in her entire lower body by speaking. His dark, very short hair stood up every which way as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Mmmm. A taste might spice tonight’s dinner.
“I’m here for your toilet?”
The flutter faltered.
Toilet?
“I’m Kim Martin. The plumber.” He hefted the toolbox she’d failed to notice.
“Oh my.”
* * * * *
Orange-covered breasts.
It took Kim way too long to climb to his client’s face from those orange-covered breasts. Ungentlemanly, for sure. More importantly, unprofessional.
Her ear was translucent in the light, too delicate to hold back wild curls of dark, bobbed hair that licked her chin. He got a glimpse of the tip of her tongue between lips brimming with sensual promise. Definitely a climb worth making.
She opened the door wider and beckoned him inside. If something in the gesture seemed vaguely predatory, being devoured by this lioness sounded like an ideal way to go.
He followed her into the Craftsman-style home across hardwood floors. He couldn’t say how many rooms there were or what was in them. Her swaying hips held his undivided attention. Short white skirt, creamy pale legs, ankles that did unnerving things to his professional focus.
He’d noticed her ankles? Probably had to do with spending the last three hours riding home from Austin in Damon’s ancient van, marinating in his own sweat. He was glad he’d returned this particular call. Very glad he’d showered.
He enjoyed a closer view of those orange breasts as she turned around.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Martin.” Even her voice held heat. For barely standing shoulder height to him, this woman filled the room. A bedroom, he noticed. Mirrors all around the room reflected the light of dozens of candles. His eye was drawn to the king-sized bed, furnished like something out of the Arabian Nights, with swirls and tassels and richly textured surfaces that called for bare skin.
“No trouble,” he said, though he suspected she was. The kind of trouble lesser men threw themselves at and broke themselves against. Kim was willing to have a run at it.
“Heck of a setup for seduction,” he said. “Is there something I should know?”
She matched his half-grin with one of her own. “I hadn’t meant it to be seductive, but then, I hadn’t met you.” She leaned a little closer, looking at him through lashes sexy as lingerie.
She was trouble, all right. “And now?” he asked.
“Why don’t you show me what you’ve got first?” she said.
Surprise kicked him back a step. Kim laughed. It had been too long since flirting had been this fun.
She pointed to a doorway near a floor-standing mirror. “I ask you to slay the toilet of doom. Should you return alive, you may escort me to dinner.” She smiled.
That was how she did it. A look, a smile, a promise. What man could resist her? What man would want to try?
“I’ll do better than slay it,” he said. “I’ll tame it.”
She continued to smile. He took his toolbox into the long, narrow bathroom. The pedestal sink seemed an original fixture to the bungalow. Likewise the iron tub. The toilet had been replaced, probably no more than five or so years ago. At a glance, he knew the installer had been a do-it-yourselfer. Likely not the lioness.
She watched him from the doorway. He knew it before he even turned around, awareness centered at the base of his spine. He wondered whether her invitation simply meant he was welcome to stay for the party that had motivated her call, or whether she might actually be available. Surely not. Husband or lover—someone looked out for her. A woman who oozed fertile, flaming passion like this orange-breasted creature did not live alone. The laws of nature prohibited it.
“I want it known,” she said, her hands fidgeting in contrast to her royal tone of voice, “this was not my doing.” She waved vaguely in the toilet’s direction.
She held her head high even when embarrassed. Helluva lady. A lady who, as he’d suspected, did not live alone.
“It never crossed my mind.”
“Well, Kim Martin,” she said, once again in complete control, “I’ll get out of your way. Do you mind if I close the door a moment? I’ll be changing clothes out here.” He made himself nod, sorry to see her close the door on their banter. This job was often all too straightforward. One of the many reasons he planned to give it the heave-ho in favor of new adventures.
While his client changed clothes—something he tried not to think about—Kim stepped into canvas coveralls that had spent too much time rolled up and wadded into the top of his toolbox. He’d judged his compression shirt nice enough to be seen by guests at a party, but only the coveralls would keep it that way. As he zipped up the heavy protective layer, something crinkled in the breast pocket.
A crumpled yellow Post-It note with just two words on it. Underlined and followed by three exclamation points. His friend and climbing partner, Damon, had handwriting as flamboyant as everything else about him.
Call him!!!
Kim crumpled it a second time, balling it in his fist. He chucked it into a bell-shaped wastebasket that fit right in with the bathroom’s vintage style.
A few days earlier, he’d been tracking an elusive leak at Wall Werx, the indoor climbing gym Damon owned, when his friend had handed him the note. Damon hadn’t specified a name because there was no need. Kerry. Damon had the idea Kim and Kerry should be inseparable, live next door to one another, marry sisters and name their firstborns after one another.
But then, Damon didn’t have a brother, let alone a condescending prick of a half-brother.
Kim pulled on his light-duty gloves and dug through the augers in his toolbox. Odds were he’d need the six-foot unless the plumbing had been updated at the same time as the fixture. He’d start with the three.
Kerry had bought a new house. Something gigantic, no doubt. Something appropriate for celebrating his position as the perfect heir to his late father’s business. Stable. Successful. Respected family man.
Prick.
Kim looked around the bathroom for a distraction. He gripped the auger too tightly and he’d learned early in his apprenticeship that working when pissed off meant r
isking the job’s safety. On a job as simple as this, Kim wasn’t likely to get hurt himself, but he might damage his client’s pipes or fixtures.
The bathroom had its original floor, he forced himself to notice, small white tiles in a tight herringbone pattern, larger white tiles on the walls up to chest height, little black lines that made a good-looking border. The painted upper walls were hung with framed displays of small beaded purses. A feminine room, but not hopelessly girly. Kim liked it. He’d been in god-awful bathrooms in his day, choked with floral wallpaper and lace-trimmed towels. The lady had class and taste.
The lady was expecting guests. Kim hefted the auger and got to work.
* * * * *
It took Isabelle far too long to focus on the choices in her armoire. She could no more stop smiling than she could stand to leave a dresser drawer hanging open. Something about this man made her want to flirt, want to laugh, want to forget the consequences of giving in to charisma like his. Her whole body vibrated with his nearness.
Dangerous. Very dangerous. Especially since she’d seen something devilish flicker in his gaze. It had been a long time since she’d allowed a man to look at her like that without calling him on it. She should have called the plumber on it, but she was guilty too, leering herself, thinking a glimpse of plumber’s crack wouldn’t be so awful on a plumber as fine as this one. She had to get a grip on her hormones.
Why couldn’t Kim have been a woman?
As Isabelle fastened the jeweled buttons of a matte satin blouse, the doorbell rang. Her first guest had arrived.
She knocked on the bathroom door. “Are you okay in there, Mr. Martin?” She opened it to a view of a gaping metal toolbox on her bathroom floor, the plumber squatting next to it, pulling off a pair of work gloves. He looked up at her with eyes like a husky’s—arctic blue, ringed in black.
“Won’t be a minute,” he said, rising to his feet. He took a breath and let it out without saying anything, his smile offering a healthy measure of male appreciation. As reactions went, it beat looking in the mirror any day.
She tried not to return the smile and failed. “Please join the party when you’re through.”