to have to protect himself, but better safe than sorry.
Strange that anybody would choose this house to rob. The place might once have been a showplace—Oliver had seen pictures of it from its glory days, when it had been owned by his own family. It had been passed down from a great-grandfather who’d been a silent movie star. His uncle had sold it a decade ago, and that owner had gone bankrupt. Now Buddy Frye, its current owner, was trying to restore it. Oliver hoped he succeeded—the bones of a beautiful mansion were still there. As for right now, though, it was a falling-down heap, held up as much by the layers of paint on the walls as by any remnants of a foundation.
The porch creaked—the third floorboard being the loudest—so he avoided it as he approached the door. He reached for the knob, which twisted easily in his hand. That wasn’t a good sign. He remembered locking it tonight before heading to his place. Buddy often didn’t, feeling safe out here in the country, but Oliver hadn’t lost that big-city need for security.
Stepping inside, he almost tripped over a small carry-on type suitcase, and was immediately curious about this burglar who carried Louis Vuitton.
Clanging emerged from the kitchen. So the prowler had decided to make himself a sandwich? A little ham and Swiss to go with the breaking and entering?
Nothing about this added up.
The kitchen was at the back of the house. Edging toward it, clueless about what to expect, Oliver paused at the doorway. When he peeked in, he froze in uncertainty.
It wasn’t a prowler. At least, it wasn’t the sort of prowler he’d ever seen or envisioned, unless prowlers now came disguised as tall young women with thick masses of honey-brown hair that hung in a wave of damp curls halfway down a slender back. She stood at the sink, filling two things: a glass with water, and a pair of jeans with the most amazingly perfect ass he’d ever seen.
His breath caught, his heart lurched and all parts south woke up, too. As he watched, she lifted a shaking hand and swept it through that long hair, weariness underscoring every movement. Her slumped shoulders reinforced that.
He ran down a list of possibilities and lit on the most likely. A granddaughter. Buddy had mentioned that one lived in L.A. She must have come up when she heard about her grandfather’s accident.
Welcome to Northern California, sweetheart. And thanks for improving the view by bringing that gorgeous ass with you.
He blinked, trying to clear his mind. He’d done enough staring for one night, especially at the posterior of a woman whose grandfather was one of the few men Oliver truly respected.
“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat.
She dropped the glass. It fell from her hand onto the floor, exploding into a volcano of tiny slivers, splashing water on her pants. Spinning around, her eyes wide and her mouth falling open, she saw him standing there and let out a strangled cry of alarm.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, realizing what he must look like, shirtless, wearing dirty jeans and, he suddenly realized, still holding a sharp, threatening-looking rake. The woman, who was beyond sexy, with a pair of blazing green eyes and a beautiful face surrounded by that thick, honey-colored tangle of hair, was eyeing him like he’d popped up in front of her in a back alley.
“I’m not going to...”
He was going to say hurt you. But before he could say a word, a pot flew toward his head. He threw up an arm to deflect it, groaning as the metal thunked his elbow, sending him stumbling back into the hallway. He barely managed to stay upright. If not for the rake on which he suddenly leaned, he might have fallen flat on the floor.
But the rake couldn’t help him when the frying pan followed the pot.
One second later, he was flat on the floor, rubbing the middle of his chest. He focused on trying to catch his breath, which had been knocked out of him as if he’d been KO’d by the love child of Ali and Tyson. That skillet must have been made of cast iron, and she’d flung it like a discus wielded by an Olympic champion.
He held his hands up in surrender, trying to form words, though his body had forgotten how to breathe and his ribs were screaming for her head on a platter. Meanwhile, the rake, which he’d been clutching as he fell, toppled forward.