by Sally Felt
It wouldn’t do. Of all her unbreakable rules, top of the list was a hostess never insulted a guest, even one who’d started the evening as a contractor for hire. Had to be her tone, tainted by how pissed she was over Steven hiding something in her beloved home.
“I’m dying for a beer,” she said. “Can I offer you a Shiner?” It wasn’t the best apology, but it was a start.
“So, a man can’t kiss you without getting hurt?”
As she stiffened, he grinned. Shiner. Slap to the face. Right. What a relief. She let herself relax. “You have conquered the toilet of doom?” she asked.
“I have.”
“I’ll let it slide.”
“Then a beer sounds great.”
They entered through the mudroom door at the back of the kitchen. Charlie was saying, “Just ‘cause I don’t know him doesn’t mean anything. Isabelle seems to know him pretty well, if you get me.”
Of course, the conversation died as Isabelle and Kim came in—Charlie and Bob turning to look, Stacey and Gina pretending not to. How rude. She ignored them and took a pair of Shiners from refrigerator.
“Thanks,” Kim said.
“Thank you.” They toasted with a clink of brown glass and Isabelle savored the mouthful of cold brew and the nearness of a sexy comrade in arms. It beat figuring out how to handle this moment.
“So…that was weird,” said Stacey. Gina laughed uncomfortably.
Bob had his arm around Stacey and she looked happy to be there. “Seems Steven really wants you back, Isabelle,” he said.
Charlie snorted. Bob frowned at him.
“I’m sorry, Isabelle,” Kim said with his melt-me gaze. “I don’t do threesomes. You’ll have to choose between us.”
He remained in character, even though Steven had gone. Maybe it was because Bob was buddies with Steven. Smart guy. Nice someone was thinking clearly tonight. She pretended to pout, enjoying herself hugely. “Take it back. I don’t do well with ultimatums.”
He shook his head, his features serious but for the mischief in his amazing eyes. “I can’t, Isabelle. I won’t share you.” He kissed her cheek and pulled her into a sideways hug.
Isabelle purred with laughter, her arms sliding as readily around his waist as if they’d been dating for months.
As if they’d been dating at all.
Charlie cleared his throat and offered Kim his hand. “Charlie Bach,” he said. “I’m Isabelle’s brother.”
“Kim Martin,” Kim said, shaking Charlie’s hand. “I fixed Isabelle’s toilet.”
Kim waited for the laughter to die, then he said, “No, really.”
Isabelle stood stiff and wary in the circle of his arm, waiting for his next move. Even now, she wouldn’t trust him to help her through this? He’d have thought such an outrageous flirt would find it easier to let herself go.
“I happen to be a plumber,” he said, “but Isabelle didn’t tell me until tonight she had century-old plumbing that needed babying.”
Isabelle relaxed. It felt good, her trust.
“I don’t think of you as a plumber,” she said. “You’re far too sexy to be a plumber.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” said the redhead Isabelle’s brother seemed to be with.
“Hey,” Charlie said.
She shrugged. “Not as if you don’t look.” She wore no rings. Whoever she was, she wasn’t Isabelle’s sister-in-law.
Which reminded Kim to be amazed Isabelle herself seemed to be unattached. Which reminded him how many other assumptions he could make about her and be wrong. He should say very little, lest they be revealed before Isabelle was ready.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling down at her. She smiled back, her arms still around him, her weight against him, her breasts a warm pressure at his ribs. He could imagine many ways to spend time quite happily with this woman without speaking at all.
Charlie surreptitiously wiped his hand on his slacks. “Maybe you guys need a room.”
“Don’t be stupid, Charlie.” This from the curly-haired blonde attached to the other guy. She smiled. “I’d much rather hear about how Isabelle met her plumber. I certainly remember him.” Her smile became broader.
Kim racked his brain. Had he dated her? He tried imagining her as a pre-blonde, an awful lot of Dallas women had had a different hair color before they found their calling. This one was shadowed around the roots. Still, nothing.
Isabelle frowned at him.
The blonde laughed, pointing to herself. “Stacey. I work at the Lumber Barn. You left business cards, maybe two months ago. Two months!” she repeated, looking at Isabelle. “Right about the time you were…” She pantomimed kicking an ex-jock out of the house. “It was fate!” She laughed again.
“You remember every guy who came into your store two months ago?” Charlie asked.
“Of course not,” Charlie’s girlfriend said before Stacey could answer. “Just every guy who looks like him.”
Kim laughed. Isabelle did too, but she stood up straighter, no longer leaning against him.
“Come on, Gina.” Charlie took the redhead’s hand and left the kitchen for the dining room and beyond. Trouble in paradise.
“It’s okay that you don’t remember me,” Stacey said. “It was a long time ago.”
“A pleasure, Stacey.” Kim offered her his hand and she shook it. Kim turned to the man beside her and offered it again.
“Bob Lewis,” the guy said. “You say your name is Kim?” His grip had that prove-it edge some big guys favored, something Kim had never understood.
“That’s right.”
“Is that a man’s name?”
Here we go. He’d have gotten physical with the radioactive turnip named Steven, but since this guy hadn’t hurt or threatened his date, rather hostess, rather client, Kim would prefer to keep things cool.
He smiled. “It’s my name.” Bob hadn’t let go of his hand yet. Kim half hoped the guy would push it, as no way could he match Kim’s hand strength. Not unless he was a climber too. Doubtful. With all the meat on his frame, he’d fall more spectacularly than a wet walrus.
Stacey nodded. “I know what that’s like—I went to grade school with a boy named Stacey. Not as pretty as me, ‘course.”
It was enough to lighten the mood and Bob finally let go. “Had to be hell, growing up with a girl’s name,” he said to Kim.
Kim shrugged. “Teaches you a couple of things. Mostly how to keep your sense of humor.”
Stacey laughed, Bob smiled and Kim could see he still thought he was the stronger man. That was fine. Let him.
Isabelle introduced him to the other guests, including a number of good-looking women and a man named Mike who watched Isabelle like a boy with dreams of saving enough pocket change for a go-kart.
Kim sampled the buffet, another beer, some conversation. Eventually the lady discreetly suggested he could leave. Not a bad idea, given he’d be up early to give a private climbing lesson at Wall Werx. But being at Isabelle Caine’s side as she entertained was surprisingly nice. She clearly loved it, entertaining that is, and though her friends seemed surprised by Kim’s presence, they readily made room for him in their conversations. It felt comfortable. Homey. He wanted to stay. No wonder it couldn’t last.
Isabelle leaned close. “I had my brother carry your tools to your truck,” she murmured.
Brother. The magic word. Kim knew only too well nothing good lasted when there were brothers involved.
This had been a bad idea. Isabelle could see that now. Sure, she’d enjoyed throwing the illusion of having a perfect man in Steven’s face. But to have continued the act in front of all her friends was a mistake. Kim wasn’t hers. She couldn’t even wish it otherwise. Every woman at the party had found an excuse to touch him, which he hardly discouraged, as he was charming and handsome and all but humming with sexual energy. Isabelle wasn’t about to let herself get hurt by another womanizer, no matter how edible he looked in athletic-performance fabrics that had her fantasizing wh
at his sport might be. Men were pigs and she was done with them, even the gorgeous ones. Especially the gorgeous ones.
His pickup truck, parked at the curb, had seen better days. A forest of poles outlined the truck bed, creating a rack for lengths of pipe or who knew what. The driver’s door advertised Martin Plumbing, along with a phone number.
“I’ll mail you a check,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”
He shook his head. “It’s on me.”
“But you rode to my rescue.”
He stepped back from her, brows drawn in a double take that couldn’t be more different than the banter that had marked the start of their evening. Apparently it was okay to flirt with Kim Martin, but nothing more serious. Where was his saddled-with-a-woman’s-name sense of humor?
Unless he thought she meant to pay him for helping with Steven. She blushed.
“The plumbing,” she said. “You took my call at the last minute and saved the party.” And then went above and beyond. Well above.
His posture softened. “Don’t worry about it. I enjoyed the evening.”
“I insist.”
Sadness, hurt—she wasn’t sure what she saw as his extraordinary face went slack. Had she insulted him again?
“Please,” she said.
He opened the truck’s door and climbed in. She thought he’d drive off, but he rummaged through the papers on the dashboard until he came up with a business card. “Sure,” he said. “Why not. I could use the cash. Maybe you could bring a check by tomorrow.” He held the card out to her, his eyes flat and cold.
So touchy. Well, she didn’t know him, he didn’t know her, and she’d already decided it was better that way.
“I have your card, Mr. Martin,” she said.
“Not this one, Ms. Caine.”
“Fine,” she said. She took the card. “I’m sorry to have kept you so late.”
“No trouble,” he said. He started the truck, she shut the door for him and he drove off without another word or backward glance. She knew because she broke her own rule by watching. Of course, in the darkness, he might be taking a last look in the rearview mirror and she wouldn’t know it. Meaning he would know she was looking.
Turn away. Go back to the house. Back to her friends. Alone.
Cold, she reminded herself. Touchy. And if he were strapped for cash, he was shallow too, spending whatever money he had on sleek, pricey clothing.
She licked her lips for any remaining traces of Kim Martin’s kiss.
Damn her hormones.
* * * * *
Kim had thought he might get another kiss. Instead, he’d found himself facing a curvy version of big-brother Kerry, determined to dictate what was best for him in any given moment.
She’d insisted on paying him. Insisted. Did she fear feeling obligated? Need to keep herself above the hired help?
Whatever. He must have been blinded by lust to be intrigued by her old-fashioned house and her old hats and even her old-news ex-boyfriend. She’d led him on and he’d followed. He’d gotten one nice kiss, a couple of beers and a reality check.
He should be grateful that’s all he got. Why add complications when all he wanted was to sell his place and set up in Austin where he’d have the best outdoor climbing in the state in his backyard? So yeah, he’d take the money, what little the job was worth. He’d add it to the far-bigger chunk he’d already banked and use it to make Austin a little sweeter—a kind of retirement present to himself, as no way would he answer another plumbing call.
Insisted. As if he hadn’t had enough of people second-guessing his judgment.
Kim came home to a quiet box that couldn’t have been more different than Isabelle Caine’s house. Concrete floor and walls, fourteen-foot ceilings with exposed pipes. Even when he remembered to pull the blinds, the space never achieved full darkness thanks to the wall of windows that offered a spectacular vista of downtown Dallas. He didn’t bother switching on the lights as he threaded through the tiny kitchen that separated his front door from the main room. Seven hundred square feet and the Realtors still called it a loft. Originally, there had been no doors at all in the place, so he’d installed one on the bathroom at a girlfriend’s insistence.
It sure was sterile compared with the happy warmth of Isabelle’s gathering, especially since he’d begun keeping his place decorator-magazine clean to help it sell. His ego could use some mess. A little noise. Distraction. Where were his obnoxious, party-in-the-breezeway neighbors when he needed them?
Kim grabbed the TV remote and surfed through a few dozen channels. Game show. Police drama. A painfully academic tour of an acclaimed museum. Nothing caught his interest except the meteorologists’ springtime thunderstorm warnings.
He’d had enough warnings tonight—warnings to get serious about what he wanted. He wanted out. Out of plumbing. Out from under his brother’s condescending, controlling eye. Out of town before his thirtieth birthday found him still drifting from hobby to hobby, woman to woman, screw-up to screw-up. He dug out his phone and dialed his Austin realtor. She seemed pleased to hear from him, in spite of the hour. She asked a lot of questions about what type of house he wanted. He wanted a big mudroom, he knew that for sure. A yard large enough for dogs. Other than that, everything he told her sounded oddly familiar, though it took him a beat to figure out why.
It wasn’t his house he described. It was Isabelle Caine’s.
* * * * *
The house had fallen quiet and Isabelle couldn’t sleep. It had been a long time since she’d felt truly alone in her own house. Even longer since it had bothered her to be alone in her bed. This wasn’t anxiety, no simple startle over every slap of tree limbs against the roof as another of March’s frequent storms moved in. This wasn’t the fear of something here that shouldn’t be. This was wishing something were here that wasn’t. Or someone.
It was the plumber’s fault. If he hadn’t sailed in to help make her life look full and happy and perfect, she might not be lying here so miserably aware it wasn’t.
His kiss had been so different from Steven’s. Steven’s moves had all been about taking pleasure from her. Everything about Kim Martin, from his flirtatiousness to his forgiving laugh suggested he understood making love meant taking pleasure in his partner, not taking it from her.
One kiss.
It was hardly enough by which to make such sweeping judgments. She was probably projecting, anyway. It had been a long time since she’d made love with anyone. Obviously too long, to judge by her wide-open eyes.
If only Steven hadn’t turned up. If only he hadn’t remembered she always invited friends over on Monday nights. The very things that gave her life structure made her vulnerable to ambushes like tonight’s.
Isabelle sat up. Steven had said he’d hidden something in her house. Getting flustered over the plumber had taken her mind off that troubling fact for hours. Unbelievable.
Where would a devious two-timer like Steven choose to hide something? She rolled out of bed and found a robe to tie over her silk shortie.
It would help to know what the something was.
She used the recently reamed toilet, trying not to think about the hunk who’d made it safe to do so. While she sat there looking at the sink, she remembered something Steven had said.
You know your medicine cabinet?
She hadn’t given him the chance to say more than that, had she? Isabelle washed her hands and leaned in for a good look at the cabinet in question. Unlike so much of the bathroom, it wasn’t as old as the house. The mirrored door had rounded corners protected by a narrow metal frame. Nothing exciting. She opened the door.
Inside, a variety of over-the-counter remedies crowded the painted metal shelves, plus her makeup and a stack of sample-size packets of lotions and such that forever arrived in the mail in packaging too annoying to use. Every time she managed to open her cabinet door without something spilling into the sink was a small miracle. No place to hide anything in there.
By a
horizontal slit in the cabinet’s back wall, a yellowed sticker clung to the painted metal. It read, Dispose of razor blades here. Isabelle fingered the slit. She’d seen it a million times in the three years she’d owned the house and never wondered where blades dropped through that slit might go.
Until now.
Could Steven have hidden something behind the medicine cabinet? She didn’t know, but it seemed easy enough to find out. The metal cabinet’s lip extended a full inch out from the wall. Plenty to get her hands on. She grabbed and tugged. Makeup sponges and cotton swabs spilled into the sink. Crap.
Isabelle hurriedly emptied the cabinet and stashed the contents on the tile floor between the toilet and the bathtub. The bathroom desperately needed counter space. Someday, she’d install a simple wall shelf, the kind she wished for every morning when juggling mirror and makeup. Someday.
She closed the medicine cabinet door, braced the heels of her hands at its bottom corners and pulled. The cabinet slid from the wall with a spray of gypsum and plaster dust. She staggered backward with it in her arms and nearly lost her footing as makeup cases cracked beneath her bare feet.
Perfect.
The cabinet was heavier than she’d expected. Its lip dug into her thigh. She turned around and carefully lowered the whole thing into the bathtub. As she did, the smell of peppermint toothpaste exploded into the room.
Cold goo between her bare toes. Better and better. She had a lot to thank Steven for even if she didn’t find whatever it was the rat had hidden here.
She wiped toothpaste from her foot with a bit of toilet paper. If she waited until tomorrow, she could get Charlie’s help with this operation, but she wasn’t ready for anyone to know about this. It might be pointless. Or she might find something no one else should know about. Besides, it was her house.
The hole in her wall gaped like a wound. It tore her heart to see exposed studs where the cabinet had nestled so snugly. She wanted to stuff the cabinet back in—staunch the flow of wall dust wafting over her sink, coating the radiator with fine white powder.
But not yet. Not until she’d seen what there was to see.
Beyond the plaster at the opening’s lower edge was a dark chasm, partly blocked by a box wedged between the frame and the plaster, a box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It clearly didn’t belong there. Imagining all the razor blades in the vicinity, Isabelle maneuvered her toothbrush handle under the string and fished the package toward her until she deemed it safe to grab.