Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(40)

“This is crazy,” Bev said. “I’m trying the front door again. It’s just stuck or something.”

But Liam made another jump. This time he got both hands over the edge. Flooded with triumph, he swung by his hands to build momentum then hooked his right foot, then knee over the edge, and soon was hauling himself up over the railing. On his feet and panting, he peered down at Bev. “Oh ye of little faith.”

“Sorry!” she called up. “Won’t happen again.”

Now he had to get around to the window. It wasn’t over the deck but around the corner. He swung a leg over the railing to straddle it then got up on it like a balance beam. Reaching around the corner he found the open window with his fingers. “You see a screen on it?”

“No screen,” she said. “In fact, that’s what’s so strange. I—”

Whatever she said he didn’t hear because he was leaping through the air, praying his grip on the sill would hold. Once his second hand was secure he began to breathe again. His fingers burned with the strain. He kicked his foot up over his head into the open window, then his calf. Finally, he hauled the rest of himself up.

He fell, shoulder first, into the bathtub, striking his forehead against the edge.

“Aaach.” He rubbed his head. Try to be a hero and f*cking kill yourself.

Was that it? Was he trying to be a hero?

Bev was yelling. He staggered to his feet and stuck his throbbing head out the window.

“You made it!” Her teeth flashed in the dark.

Flooded with pride, he bit back a smile and waved. “Don’t look so surprised.” He pointed towards the front of the house and brought his head back in. He checked the mirror, glad to see there was no blood. Though that might earn him some points. Points for what, he didn’t want to think about.

He walked through the house to the front door, then stopped cold and stared down at the floor.

Somebody had wedged the door shut. A black metal stapler, the old-fashioned, heavy kind, had been flipped open and worked under the door where it should swing open. A dozen pens were forced under as well, and when the gap became too small for pens, the intruder had shoved in a few pencils, scraping off the top layer of yellow paint.

Could Ellen have done this?

Breathing heavily, he worked all the obstructions loose and made a pile off to the side.

He stared at it a moment, feeling queasy, before he got up to open the door.

“Hurray!” She rushed in with a huge grin on her face and threw her arms around him. He felt soft roundness press against his chest, his pelvis, and under his hands as they came down, instinctively, to hold her against him. His heart had been pounding before, but now it stopped. Every inch of his body focused on the nearness of her, how she smelled, the taste of the smell of her, the breathy happy sounds she made in his ear.

Then she pulled away, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, not meeting his gaze.

Heart thudding, he gestured at the mess on the floor. “No reason to celebrate,” he said, more roughly than he intended, angry with himself for the unexpected lust. He turned away. “Sure you want to stay here?”

“What do you mean? Of course—” she stopped and seemed to realize the significance of the office supplies. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Were these stuck under the door?”

He shut the door behind them and flicked on the rest of the lights. “Tell me what you said before about the bathroom window.”

She stared at him in silent shock.

“Bev. The window.”

“Give me a minute. I’m a little freaked out.” She rubbed her forehead, shoulders drawn together, and he resisted the urge to put an arm around her. “I said I remember closing the window, because there was no screen. Last night I had flies.”

He took a deep breath. “Wait here,” he said, and stalked down the hall to the check out the rest of the house. He looked under beds and in closets and behind what little furniture there was, making sure nobody was hiding. He checked the side door off the laundry, disturbed to see the lock had been jammed with bobby pins from the inside. He went back and found Bev in the small bedroom she’d obviously been sleeping in, going through a suitcase thrown over the bed.

“Whoever it was could have climbed out the window,” he said.

“Nothing was stolen.” With shaky hands she unzipped a compartment and pulled out a bag. “My iPod is still here. And cash and jewelry.”

“Bev . . . ”

She didn’t look at him. Her suitcase overflowed with silky-looking girl things. Sexy things. Not seeing how he was transfixed by the sight of pink and black lace, Bev left the suitcase open and flopped down next to it and stared into space. “I wonder how she got in.”

So, she wasn’t going to deny the obvious. “Did you ever get the garage door opener?”

Bev lifted pained eyes to him. “No.”

Liam turned and went to the kitchen to check the door to the garage. Unlocked. It would have been easy enough to come in, screw up the doors, open a window, and leave. Bev came up behind him.

“She really wants you gone,” he said.

“She’s not the only one.”

He paused, then turned and met her gaze. “My motives are better.”

“You both want the same thing,” she said. “Same motive.”