Back In The Bedroom (The Wrong Bed #29)(14)

She crumpled to the floor with a crash-landing that wasn’t the quiet one she’d hoped for. Quick as she could, she leaped to her feet and took a quick inventory.

No broken bones, just a sore butt. Good thing for her extra padding then. She was still missing a shoe, but she could live with that. Because she had to, she made use of the facilities, and then looked around her for something, anything, to use to protect herself. Silver tile, silver towels with gold bows, silver gilt around the mirrors and a bar of silver soap in the shape of a sea-shell. She needed…ah-ha. On the back of the toilet, she grabbed up one of two long silver candlestick holders, tossing aside the pretty ivory candle.

She hefted the thing in her hand like a weapon and was gratified by the weight.

What she wasn’t gratified by was the sick pit in her stomach. How many times had her big brother tried to teach her self-defense? How many times had she ended up on the mat laughing with Rafe shaking his head in disgust. She wasn’t laughing now, and with all her might she wished he was here.

Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open and peeked out. Nothing. She stepped out of the bathroom, brandishing the candlestick out in front of her as if she knew what she was doing.

Up ahead, she could see the vast living room, and beyond that, the kitchen. Then she caught a flash of movement in there and plastered herself against the wall, nearly hyperventilating.

With her pulse at a full marathon rate, she scooted her way down the hallway to the opening of the living room. No one. She moved toward the sliding glass door.

On the other side, in the kitchen before the island, facing away from her, Reilly suddenly appeared. Then he bent down, momentarily disappearing from her view, and when he came up again, there was a gun in his hand.

An involuntary gasp escaped her, and gun out, he whirled. For one dizzy moment all she could see was the muzzle pointed right at her. Before she could blink, he’d uncocked it, or whatever one did when one didn’t intend to shoot after all, and was standing before her, jerking her out of the living room, into the kitchen and around the corner. His laser beam eyes demanded answers but when she opened her mouth he put a hand to it, just as her thug came around the corner, still wearing his jeans and dirty thermal shirt.

When he saw them he raised an arm with a knife.

Reilly shoved her down and kicked the knife out of the guy’s hands with chilling ease, adding another well-placed kick to his stomach.

The guy doubled over, then fell to his knees, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water before he flopped all the way to the floor.

Reilly stood over him. “What are you after?”

The guy offered a snide but interesting suggestion on what Reilly could do to himself. Reilly grabbed him by the hair and calmly lifted, then let his head hit the floor.

Given the squeal of pain this invoked, it was a hard hit.

“What are you after?” Reilly asked again.

“We were just going to mess up the place, that’s all.”

“Why?”

The guy apparently hesitated too long for the impatient Reilly, and got another head bump on the floor.

“Ouch! Stop!”

“Then talk.”

“Okay, look, we were hired to steal his stuff and mess the place up, that’s all.”

Reilly looked unimpressed. “Keep talking.”

“But we just thought since he was going to be gone, we’d camp out and live here for a few days. You know, really trash it in style.”

“Who’s paying you?”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t know.”

Reilly stood up. The guy on the floor kicked out to trip him.

Tessa cried out a warning and huddled back against the wall, but Reilly didn’t need her help. He did some sort of karate chop to the guy’s throat and out he went like a light.

There was a coil of rope on the counter and a knife. “Where did those come from?” she whispered.

“From our captors.” Reilly efficiently and quickly tied him up, and when he was done, he nodded curtly to Tessa. “Nice to know you can follow directions.”

“I…” Stunned by what she’d just seen, she just stared at him.

He gave her that long-suffering sigh she seemed to cause. “Call it in.”

“What?”

“I got all four of them,” he said with that eerie calm knack for understating. “Call 9-1-1.”

She started to stand but her knees were knocking together. From her perch on the cold tile floor she could see the other side of the island now, where two men lay bound and gagged.

“The fourth is in the foyer, also prone.” He moved back into the kitchen and picked up the phone on the wall, then shook his head with disgust. “They cut the lines. Come on—”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her up. For a moment, one very weak moment, she let her hands come to rest on his bare pecs but she resisted the urge to put her head down and beg for comfort because she’d just realized something more than a little unsettling.

Reilly Ledger was not hiding himself behind his tough, rough, dangerously edgy exterior. He was that tough, rough, dangerously edgy exterior.

Standing there, with the bad guys at his feet, he glanced around. Coolly. “Need my cell phone,” he said. “Stay.” He left for a moment, and came back with an armful of clothes that he dropped and started to pull on. A black T-shirt. Black jeans, from which he took out a cell phone and called 9-1-1 while he slid his feet into black athletic shoes.