Flushed (3 page)

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 what 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.