Flushed (17 page)

She opened the door. It was Charlie. To judge by the
backpack hanging on his shoulder, Gina hadn’t forgiven him.

Crap.

* * * * *

Kim needed a shower and a shave. Cleaning up for Isabelle
might even improve his odds of getting an audience. But that all presumed her
anger was the most serious thing stalking her today. With her ex threatening
her and possibly having broken into her house once already, Kim wasn’t willing
to gamble. He settled for a speedy change of clothes in the bathroom while
Kerry amused himself with the real estate flyers Kim had brought back from
Austin, the flyers Isabelle had thrown into the kitchen on her way out of his
life.

“None of them are what I want,” Kim said when Kerry asked
whether he’d decided on anything. His stomach burned with the need to hurry in
spite of his agreeing to give Isabelle a little time. “The realtor found out
about this loft and assumed I’d want something in the same vein.”

“And you don’t,” Kerry said through the frosted glass door.

“I don’t. I want something that doesn’t give a damn what’s
hip, something with real character. Something with roots.”

“Something that wears vintage suits,” Kerry said.

“Mind your own business.”

“I just don’t understand why you’re moving.” He hadn’t
understood why Kim hadn’t let his money call the shots on Kim’s college life,
either. The man didn’t get him at all.

“I love climbing.” Kerry said nothing, which pissed Kim off.
He left the bathroom saying, “I do. I’ll have you know I’ve been climbing for
almost two years. Teaching, too. Why the hell shouldn’t I live closer to what I
love?”

“Kim, do you know how long I’ve waited to have this
conversation?”

Great. Kerry was one-upping him again. Pulling the surrogate
dad bit. Kim pushed past him. “I’ve got a bucket of don’t-care right here with
your name on it.”

Kerry smiled, quite an event in itself. Kim always figured
Kerry allowed himself two smiles a year—one for the annual family portrait and
one wild card. Hard to believe he’d spend the wild card here with his
good-for-nothing brother. “A bucket of don’t-care?”

“Big bucket,” Kim assured him. He searched the closet for
shoes.

Kerry laughed. Truly startling. Was the man ill?

“That actually wasn’t a joke, Kerry.”

Kerry shook his head, grinning. Kim picked up the hat
Isabelle left behind on his dresser. “You got something to say, Smiling Boy?”
He pushed past his brother, out the door.

“If you don’t come for your birthday, Ann is going to
absolutely kill me.” He looked as if he’d break out laughing again any second.

“There’s incentive,” Kim muttered.

* * * * *

Isabelle paced the living room while Charlie sat, lump-like,
on the sofa. She still clutched the damp dishtowels Charlie had tucked beneath
the sweating stockpot.

“You liked the flower. So why didn’t Gina? I thought women
liked flowers,” he said.

How crazy was he to pick this moment to ask for ideas to
soothe the woman he’d wronged? She wanted to throw him out, but he was her
brother. And he’d asked—begged, really.

She took a breath and found she couldn’t expel it without
battling temptation to yell.

“Gina isn’t women. She’s one woman. And this is one day.”
Don’t
treat her as interchangeable.

“It’s been four days,” he whined.

“She might like flowers on another day,” Isabelle explained,
her blood pressure rising with the effort to be calm. “Or is there something
that connects flowers with your supermarket bimbo?”

Oh, the look on his face. Somehow, he’d managed to make
flowers a symbol for his infidelity. Stupid, stupid man.

“Flowers were maybe a mistake. I see that,” he said. “What
can I do? I want this to work.”

“What can you do? Damn it, Charlie, tell Gina the truth.” So
much for calm.

“I did. Seems to me I’d be better off lying.”

Isabelle threw the dishtowels at him, her face hot. “Tell
her everything. Tell her your plans. Tell her how you feel. Show her it’s her
you want and not some other client.”

“Client?”

She flushed. “Woman.” Her hands curled to fists, as if it
would help her cling to the shreds of her self-control.

“How do I do that?”

“I don’t know, Charlie.” If she’d gotten in the shower first
thing after getting home, like she’d wanted to, she could have missed this
charming exchange.

She pulled off her wrinkled suit coat and folded it over her
arm, smoothing it with exaggerated care. It was probably due for the cleaners
so it would get a proper pressing. If only her stupid heart could be so easily
straightened out.

Maybe helping Charlie with his would help.

“The apartment is where you fought, so that’s no good.” She
resumed pacing, waving a hand impatiently. “Take it to neutral ground. Ask her
to go for a walk in the park or something.”

“Park. The great outdoors. No need for money. That’s good.”
Charlie sat up straight on the sofa, paying attention.

“Find something there that gives you something to talk
about—something that’s not you. A tree, a dog, a baby. Then make it about her.”
She found she was compulsively smoothing her suit coat over her arm. She made
herself stop. “Give her a compliment, but stay away from body parts and clothing.
Make it something you love about her.”

“Like what?”

Classic Charlie, opening his mouth before he used his brain.
Lucky for both of them, he clamped it shut again with obvious chagrin before
she could scream at him.

“I mean, you think that will be enough?”

Isabelle sighed. “Maybe. If she wants to forgive you.”

Charlie stood up. “I hope she does. Guess I should be a man
and go find out, huh?”

Tears stung her eyes as he drew her into a hug. “Be more
than a man, Charlie. Be good to her. Be honest.”

She pushed him out the door, blinking rapidly until she had
control of herself. No tears, even if Gina settled for a man whose idea of
making up was sending flowers.

Isabelle didn’t doubt Charlie’s sincerity. But if Gina gave
him another try and he betrayed her again, it would be far worse than the first
time. Trust a man with a history and she’d have only herself to blame.

Isabelle liked to think she was the kind of woman who
learned from her mistakes. She caught herself crumpling her suit coat in her
fist and got mad all over again. At what point had this stopped being about
Gina? She stormed to the bedroom.

Isabelle hadn’t learned from mistakes. Twice. What had she
been thinking to go back for seconds with Kim Martin? Her body knew exactly
what she’d been thinking. Her body was not in charge here. She wanted a shower
more than ever.

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.

“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.