by Sally Felt
Incessant banging at the door stopped her before she could do more than settle the much-abused jacket on a padded hanger. Whoever it was didn’t mind being rude about the banging. She was of a mind to throw open the door and tear off the head of whatever sap happened to be standing there when it occurred to her the sap might be Kim.
But banging? What did he have to be mad about?
She opened the door.
It wasn’t Kim.
Chapter Fourteen
“Good morning, Isabelle,” Bob said, sticking his foot in the door before she could close it and pushing his way inside. “Mind if we come in?”
“I do mind.”
“Too bad.” Too bad? He blew past her. He wasn’t alone.
“Steven.”
“Morning, Isabelle.” Steven followed Bob into the house. “We need to talk.”
“No,” she said, “we really don’t.” Bob was already in the dining room, looking out the window. What was with the attitude? What the hell was going on? She turned her glare back to Steven. “I thought I told you I’d get back to you when I’d had a chance to consider things. If you push me, you’ll never get that hideous ring back.”
“Izzy, you don’t understand.”
“Don’t call me that.”
In the dining room, Bob was touching the daffodil. Touching it. She couldn’t believe her eyes. “Keep your gorilla hands off that and get out of my house.”
“Why yes, I would love a cold beer. Thanks.” He went into the kitchen.
She sputtered, unable to comprehend what had just happened. This was not the same man who’d laughed at frog wine with Stacey.
“Isabelle,” Steven said. For once, he didn’t look as if he was going to launch into some smarmy used-car salesman persuasion technique. He looked like a worried human being. She was too mad to care.
“What the hell is the matter with you, Steven? Your friends are even more sociopathic than you are. Get out before I call the police.”
“Let’s sit down, Isabelle.” He put his fingers against the small of her back as if to guide her to the sofa.
“You are insane,” she said, twisting away from him. She’d once enjoyed having him touch her. She couldn’t even imagine such a thing now. He was nothing more than a grabby beast who had violated her home.
Her phone was in her purse in the kitchen. Crazy Bob was also in the kitchen, so she headed for the bedroom. She’d use the landline there, call the police. They’d sort this out.
Steven grabbed her around the waist from behind.
“Get your hands off me,” she said.
He pulled her closer to him. He was strong, she abruptly realized, and quite a lot bigger than she was. Her heart began pounding. She shouldn’t be afraid. Not of this loser. But he’d lifted her off her feet. His arms imprisoned hers. Whatever was going on, it was no longer simple.
“Stop it, Steven. Put me down.”
“Yes, Steven. Put her down.” Kim. She struggled in Steven’s grip until her eyes confirmed it wasn’t wishful thinking. Kim had come through her still-open front door in a white dress shirt and dark slacks.
“You stopped to change clothes?” He had followed her. Good. She had things to say to him…just as soon as she dealt with the problem at hand.
“Sorry.”
She kicked at Steven’s shin with the next-to-nonexistent heel of the one shoe she still wore, doubling the surprise factor for the idiot, and she slipped away from him.
Kim held his hand out to her, but kept his eyes on Steven as she took it, putting her behind him. He was treating Steven like a serious threat. Hah. Steven was just a goober using her for money. Once she could call the police, this would be over. Besides, she and Kim had some serious stuff yet between them—stuff that had sent her steaming mad from his house, stuff she intended to get off her chest so it could be over—they could be over, before it hurt any deeper.
“I don’t want to be one of your women with a problem—sorry, girls with a problem,” she said to Kim from behind his shoulder. “And I would have quite a problem with you moving two hundred miles away.”
“Isabelle,” he said, his voice a warning that this was not the time. She knew that, but damn if she could stop herself. If something in this room weren’t sorted out soon, her head would explode.
“I’m just saying don’t worry about it. I’m not one of your girls, so there is no problem.” Her voice sounded bitchy, even to her. She was a foolish woman who still hadn’t learned how to avoid men who would break her heart. Kim was a nice guy and an amazing lover, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
Why had she ever let down her guard?
The front door snicked shut. Bob stood against it, a human barricade with his massive arms folded across his chest, beer in hand. A chill ran through Isabelle at the cold amusement in his eyes. “The boyfriend-for-hire. How touching.”
“Bob the yob,” Kim said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“For hire?” Steven said.
“Steven, weren’t you supposed to be getting a certain item while I was in the other room?” Bob asked.
Isabelle stared at Bob from behind Kim’s shoulder. He was not the man Stacey thought he was, that was obvious. This man was hard and calculating and Isabelle didn’t yet know what he wanted, though his association with Steven suggested it had to do with the ring. An idea started forming in her head and she didn’t like it at all.
“Must be more valuable than it looks,” Kim said. “What’s market value?”
Bob laughed. “For doing a woman for money? You tell me, plumber boy.” Kim’s body clenched and he stood taller.
Isabelle couldn’t be bothered with so minor an insult while a far uglier idea was clicking into place in her brain. “You used Stacey,” she said. “You’re the one squeezing Steven for the ring. This is all your fault and you used her.” If Kim hadn’t been actively moving to keep himself between her and Bob, she’d have run at the bastard.
“I’m not the one who made a deal and then dropped his end of the bargain. This isn’t my fault, merely my solution.”
“What’s going on, Isabelle?” Kim asked.
“Bob and Steven aren’t friends,” she said. “They’ve never been friends. This is Bob’s—”
A new thought struck her.
“You made the double date happen,” she said to Bob. “You made sure I’d be out of the house so Steven could look for the ring. You son of a bitch!”
He smirked and toasted her with the beer bottle—the beer bottle from her fridge. The self-satisfied, scum-sucking, son of a bitch actually found this funny.
Kim blocked her, blocked her and blocked her again.
“Maybe you should get the ring, Isabelle,” Kim said.
“What? Give this bottom feeder what he wants?” She growled.
“I think you should get the ring.”
“He’s a smart one,” Bob said. “You should give him a raise.”
“Shut up,” Kim said to Bob. “Really, Isabelle. Trust me.”
Sure. Just like that. The man who hadn’t mentioned he was leaving town.
“What does he mean, for hire, Isabelle?” Steven asked.
“It means we’re not really dating, Steven. We’ve been pretending for your benefit and Bob’s here. But the plan is shredded. I’ve fallen in love and as soon as I can get you asshats out of here, I’m going to try to convince her of that.”
Isabelle stared at him, or rather the back of his neck. Kim was keeping his eyes on Bob.
Love?
“Aww, isn’t that sweet?” Bob made a face.
“Pretending?” asked Steven.
Bob made kissy noises.
Kim reached behind him, his rough fingertips brushing her wrist. “Please, ‘Belle,” he said, his voice low. “Please go.”
He had a plan. Or something. He’d help if he could, make her another one of his girls.
Her brain sputtered, resisting engagement in any way that might be helpful.
Go.
Get the ring.
He’d fallen in love?
Focus. Two big men. Threats. Break-ins.
“Okay,” she said, hoping she understood.
She took off, dodging around Steven, who still looked stunned, and ran through the dining room and into the kitchen. It was awkward. Her sandaled foot slid easily on the wood floors while her bare foot gave her bone-jarring suction. She grabbed the doorframe between dining room and kitchen and swung through, throwing her momentum at the mudroom.
But someone else had beaten here there—someone tall, lanky, and standing in front of the washing machine.
Isabelle skidded to a squeaky near miss of a crippling collision with Kim’s toolbox. The lid of her washing machine was up. The man held Kim’s wet coveralls in his hands. He seemed familiar. Dark hair. Beard. Three-piece suit.
“Kerry?”
He nodded briskly and held up the coveralls. “Got it. Shall we?”
“Hang on,” she said. She squatted and turned the toolbox on its towel so it was even more of an obstacle than before. Then she tumbled out the back door with Kim’s brother.
Bob’s first punch knocked Kim’s back teeth into his eye socket. The second knocked him down. Kim was more a climber than a fighter. Bob was no climber, but he evidently knew how to make one fall.
Kim couldn’t begrudge the pain—Isabelle was on her way out. That was the point. Thankfully her survival instinct seemed stronger than her temper. Kim hadn’t been too sure about that.
Bob stood over him. “Who’d have thought you’d be the bright one of the bunch?”
Steven had taken off after Isabelle. It meant Kim couldn’t waste time teaching Bob manners. He needed a quick move. He jackhammered up under Bob’s kneecap with the heel of his loafer, wishing he had leverage to make it count, but at least Bob’s balance wobbled. Kim was set to hit him again when Bob fell on him, all his weight slamming into Kim’s solar plexus on one knee.
Kim oofed. Thanks to Bob’s precision targeting, his breath wasn’t quick to return. Bob starting punching him in earnest, right, left, right, screaming curse words with each strike as if showing off his ability to breathe.
Kim couldn’t afford to take much of this. He slid his arm beneath Bob’s leg, lifting and twisting to put pressure on the joint he’d tried to hurt. Bob tipped sideways and Kim scrambled free.
He blew out the front door and leapt from the porch, but a wobbly landing made him stop and take stock. His own balance wasn’t what it normally was. Probably had something to do with his throbbing jaw and the swelling he could already feel around his mouth and cheeks. His forehead, too, felt full and fuzzy, like two or three nights without sleep. He didn’t think his head had struck the floor hard enough for there to be damage, but it clearly hadn’t done him any good.
He decided he was fine and ran for the driveway, which led to Isabelle’s back door. Isabelle and Steven stood at either end of Kim’s coveralls in a tug of war, Steven in a pale-yellow polo shirt and Isabelle in her wrinkled suit. Maybe her survival instinct wasn’t so strong after all.
Why wasn’t she in the car with Kerry and gone? “Get in the Jeep!” Kim yelled.
“No good,” Kerry said, sounding disgusted as he emerged from the shadows by the garage, his white dress shirt shining in the gloom. He’d ditched the suit coat and vest, but still wore a tie. What was he talking about, and what the hell was he doing? Kim didn’t have long to wonder about his brother. He smelled something. His Jeep. Something was wrong, very wrong. Something involving smoke.
Too bad. He climbed in, turned the key and—
Nothing. The engine tried to crank, he could hear it, but no go. He tried again. The ignition balked while the smell became more pronounced. The only way the Jeep was leaving Isabelle’s house was with the help of a tow truck.
He let it go and joined the fray, seeing the ring drop out of the pocket of the coveralls Steven and Isabelle still fought over. It flashed in the sunlight as it fell. Isabelle dove for it. Kim stepped up and blackened Steven’s eye to give her time. That and because Steven had it coming.
“Go!” he yelled, jerking his head toward her van.
“It’s locked,” she said.
“Roof, then,” Kerry barked. “Police are on their way.” He waved toward the extension ladder he’d hauled out from somewhere and leaned against the garage. It was a good idea, considering. For once, it felt good to let him handle some of the decisions.
Kim turned to Isabelle. “Go,” he said again.
She shook her head.
“Isabelle.”
She shook her head.
Heights. Isabelle. Not a good match.
Whatever he might have said then got lost as he ducked to avoid Steven’s punch. They got tangled in a contest of blocks, Kim’s forearm absorbing another blow intended for his already woozy head.
Isabelle had run to the back door of her house, and trying to keep track of her whereabouts was destroying Kim’s concentration. He was going to have choose between protecting her at close range and staying with the fight at hand.
Then Bob emerged from the bungalow’s back door, grabbing Isabelle’s arm, and Kim’s choice got really simple.
“I’ll take that,” Bob said. Isabelle winced. His grip on her arm was tighter than it needed to be. He would think nothing of hurting her. She wondered if maybe he’d like hurting her.
“You certainly will!” This man had been with Stacey under false pretenses. Stacey thought she loved him. It was worse than infidelity. It was calculated and criminal. It made Isabelle want to tear his face with her fingernails. She turned the ring, choked tight just above the knuckle of her index finger, and slapped Bob as hard as she could with the gem.
As soon as she connected, her gorge rose. The strange rip-tear of his skin, the blood, Bob’s enraged shriek. Horrified, she stared into the bloodied face of inhuman fury—teeth bared, big hands grabbing at her, claws extended. This fight had just become survival of the fittest and her own anger wasn’t going to do much to improve her chances.
Before Bob could eviscerate her, Kim snatched her away and put her hands on the ladder. “Go, Isabelle. I’m right behind you. I’ll keep you safe. Climb.”
She heard Bob roaring his outrage, the sound of feet scuffling, someone being hit. She climbed. One rung, then another. The ribbed metal bit painfully at the arch of her bare foot and she hurried up a rung to stand on the sole of the one sandal she wore. She was eye level with the edge of her garage roof.
Her brain told her the roof was the best place for all of them, that the ladder was the only way up and that she needed to move. She heard Kim call Kerry’s name.
The brothers seemed to be arguing, interrupted by grunts and harsh breathing and impacts she didn’t want to picture. She needed to climb. She knew that. It was important. She closed her eyes and raised her foot to the next rung but she couldn’t make herself shift her weight, couldn’t make herself rise farther from the ground. With her eyes closed, she couldn’t see the roof in front of her but she knew it was there.
Someone grabbed her, rough and powerful. Had to be Bob, but even an angry giant wasn’t strong enough to make her let go of the ladder, to make her fall.
More scuffling. The ladder shook. “Now, Kim,” Kerry barked. “Go.” Percussive sounds of fists on flesh. Swearing. The hands on her fell away. Isabelle climbed another rung.
“You’re doing great, Isabelle,” Kim said, sounding breathless. “You can do this.”
Isabelle opened her eyes. Bob was down, sprawled on the driveway, writhing and holding his gut, his face a mask of blood. This just couldn’t be happening.
“Hang on, Isabelle.” Kim took off his shoes and climbed atop her thirty-gallon plastic trash cans tucked under the overhang of the garage roof. He pressed his palms flat to her roof’s shingles, though he had to reach above his head to do it, and as she watched, his feet lifted off the trash cans. She thought he must be levitating, there was no other
explanation. But as his feet rose higher, she saw he was pulling himself up, his hands shifting on the roof to help him leverage his body weight. How strong was he? Soon he had his shoulders above the roofline. His feet followed. It was a more impressive display of power than she’d seen from either of the bigger men below her.
The ground scuffle continued. From the sounds of it, she guessed Kerry was frustrating Steven’s attempts to get close enough to cause damage.
Then Kim was above her, his hand out to her. She looked up. Oh my. His lip was split, one cheek purpled near his eye. Swelling had distorted his beautiful, expressive face.
“Come on, Isabelle. Let me bring you up.”
He was strong enough to do it. If she’d ever doubted it, his levitation would have convinced her. But he was so above her. So far up there.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Got that right, bitch,” said Bob as his hand closed around her bare ankle.
Chapter Fifteen
“Isabelle!” Kim said. She was so close. He sat near the roof’s edge, his legs spread wide, his bare feet on the shingles, his body leaning toward her and he tried to imagine a seat secure enough to allow him to just lift her to the roof, out of Bob’s reach. He’d have to treat her like cargo, like equipment—she was too frightened for anything else. But equipment didn’t wriggle unpredictably and make his tentative stance a disaster. To belay for her, he needed her cooperation, but between Bob’s grip and her terror of heights, she was understandably uncooperative.
“The ring,” Kerry called. “Toss it to me.” Kerry was playing block to Steven on the ground, a lanky, bearded guard in a three-piece suit. It had been Kerry’s idea to split up, volunteering to keep the other men occupied as long as he could.
“Isabelle?” Kim said.
“Take it,” she said, holding up her hand.
Kim pulled it off her blood-smeared finger and passed it in a sparkly arc to his brother. Below, Bob swore and let go of Isabelle to go after it, and Kerry danced to stay out of reach of the goons. If the two of them got him, his brother wouldn’t stand a chance, and as often as Kim had wished Kerry to go down in a crumpled heap, he couldn’t wish it now. He needed him. He and Kerry were going to have to keep the ring moving. He clasped Isabelle’s wrist.