Kay David - Bachelor By Design - Bachelor By Design / Too Hot For Comfort

Besides, it was only one date. How bad could it be?

The front door swung open and Ramon stood on the other side, a scowl on his face and a six-inch carving knife in his hand. “It’s you.”

“Put the knife down, Ramon.”

Ramon held the knife up in the air, the blade glinting in the glow of the porch light. “This little thing? I was just using it to slice up a roast.”

“Put it down, Ramon.” After almost losing his big toe, Trace wasn’t about to take any chances.

Ramon tipped up his chin. “And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll have to take it away from you, and you won’t like the way I do it.”

Ramon hesitated a moment, then dropped the knife into the potted plant just inside the front door. The hilt quivered slightly as the blade pierced the soil. “All right, have it your way.”

“Thank you.” Trace waited for him to move away from the door. “May I come in now?”

Ramon stood with his hands on his narrow hips, blocking the doorway. “Could I stop you?”

“No,” Trace said genially, pushing past him as he stepped across the threshold and into the living room. “Is Chloe ready to go?”

“Depends.” Ramon turned to face him. “Exactly what are your intentions toward my sister?”

“I intend to buy her dinner.”

“I’m not worried about dinner. I want to know what you have in mind for dessert.”

“Something sweet and soothing, which pretty much rules out your sister.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry about it, Ramon. I’m not interested in Chloe that way.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth, but he didn’t like the way Ramon was eyeing that knife.

“I hope not.” Ramon moved a step closer to him, the top of his head barely reaching Trace’s chin. “Because otherwise you’ll have to answer to me.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Trace said dryly.

“Remember it.” Ramon gave him one last glare, then turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Trace watched him leave, grudgingly impressed with Ramon’s efforts to defend his sister. The man might be a fruitcake, but he was a loyal fruitcake.

Left on his own, Trace could finally feast his eyes on the exquisite and spacious living room. Evidence of fine craftsmanship was everywhere. Intricate crown moldings lined the high ceiling. The large picture window was a showpiece in itself, accented with rose, amber and green stained glass. Marble insets flanked the hand-carved windowsill.

Trace stared in wonder around the rest of the unique room. Chloe obviously wasn’t his perfect match, but he was falling hard and fast for her house.

He had to give her credit, though. She’d decorated it just right. The simple, tasteful furnishings and decor enhanced rather than detracted from the nineteenth-century grandeur of the setting. He just hoped she could do half as well with Café Romeo.

Saving the best for last, he moved toward the open spiral staircase. He’d never seen a staircase like this one before, although he knew a handful had been built in St. Louis sometime around the turn of the century. It was in amazing condition for its age, the wood gleaming and polished to a high sheen. With a feeling of reverence, he reached out one hand and ran it down the carved balustrade. He didn’t know enough about real estate to guess the value of the house, but the staircase itself had to be worth a fortune.

He wondered who had built it. One of his hobbies was studying the techniques of local craftsmen from the nineteenth century. They had built some of the finest houses in the city. He bent down to look at the underside of the staircase, hoping to find a find a date or even the initials of the man responsible for this masterpiece.

He saw something far different.

“What the hell…” he muttered, angling his head for a better view. Then he heard footsteps behind him. But before he could turn around, something solid and heavy struck his temple. He blinked in surprise as a blinding pain streaked through his head.

Then everything went black.

CHLOE GAVE HER BANGS one last spritz of hair spray for good measure, then headed for the stairs. A loud thud made her pause at the top of the staircase. “Ramon?”

No answer. It was quiet down there now. Too quiet. She hoped Ramon hadn’t scared her date away. Or maybe Trace hadn’t shown up at all. In the past twenty-four hours, she’d wondered more than once if Callahan would really go through with this fake date.

Her doubts turned to uneasiness when she reached the landing. The living room was empty, but the front door stood open. She walked toward it and looked outside. The wide porch stood empty too, although a strange black Chevy Blazer was parked by the front curb.

Chloe closed the door and turned back into the living room. That was when she saw the knife sticking out of the potted plant. It looked as if someone had tried to murder her philodendron.

“Ramon?” she called again, picking up the knife, then walking toward the kitchen. “Where are you?”

She moved through the kitchen door and her gaze settled on the oak pedestal table in the center of the room. It was set for one. The pot roast sat congealing on the counter, two thick slices of meat lying on the platter beside it. She set the knife in the stainless steel sink, then looked out the kitchen window at the driveway. Her brother’s beat-up ’83 hatchback was still there.

“Ramon?” she called, louder now as she walked down the long hallway, checking all the other rooms on the main floor. Could he possibly have gone upstairs without her seeing him?

Chloe moved back into the living room and headed toward the spiral staircase, a vague uneasiness settling over her. She’d just set her right hand on the newel post when she saw the shoes. She blinked in surprise, then leaned over the right side of the banister. Sticking out from under the staircase were two feet, wearing brown leather loafers, their toes pointing up toward the ceiling. She leaned further and saw that the feet were connected to a pair of long legs clad in tan Dockers.

“Omigod!” She rounded the newel post, and her knees hit the hardwood floor right next to the shoes. Bending down far enough to peer underneath the staircase, she saw Trace Callahan crammed in the narrow space between the floor and the bottom of the staircase.

His face looked pasty-white in the shadows.

“Trace!”

She grabbed his ankle and shook it. “Trace, are you all right?”

He didn’t react to either her voice or her jostling. He just lay there deathly still. Her heart pounded in her chest as panic consumed her. She stood up, grabbed both his ankles and pulled with all her might. His body moved about a foot. She pulled again, grunting aloud with her effort. He was so impossibly heavy. She’d never moved over two hundred pounds of dead weight before. Dead. The awful word reverberated in her head. He couldn’t be dead.

Could he?

At last, she’d pulled his body clear of the staircase. She dived to her knees again and clasped him by the shoulders. “Trace, please wake up. Please!”

The skin at his temple was mottled a dusky blue, and a thin red streak of blood was running down his cheek. His face was still pale, his lips almost bloodless. She wasn’t sure he was breathing.

“Trace!” She shouted his name, her throat straining with effort and fear. She called it again. Then a third time.

No response.

Frantic now, she cupped one hand under his neck, tilting his chin up. His mouth fell open, revealing a straight line of white teeth. She took a deep breath, then clamped her mouth over his. Exhaling slowly, she tried to fill his lungs with air. But somehow, it wasn’t working right.

Then he moved. His lips anyway, gently molding themselves against her mouth. His tongue darted forward and her eyes opened wide as it slid sleekly inside.