In answer to my question, Sam pulls the trigger on his, and the bit spins with avroom.But I notice the way his biceps are shaking. Keeping the drill lifted for a couple of hours is taking its toll on his arms. Sam may be nineteen, but he’s not much bigger than Alex.
“Hop down and hand it over,” I tell him, gesturing toward the drill. He doesn’t argue when I climb up and take his place. “Flip the light switch on the hood so we can cut the power, eh, Sam?”
“Sure thing.” Sam turns on the light over the stove. “Where’s the breaker box?”
I’ve lined up the bit with one of the remaining screws and toss my head toward the back of the house. “In the laundry room.”
I barely have time to pull the trigger before I hear him.
“Whoa!”
I lower the drill. All of us turn in his direction. “What’s the matter?” I call.
“Uh…” Is Sam’s squeaked reply.
I swing my gaze to Joey. “Go see if he needs help,” I tell him, but with what I have no idea. Joey takes off.
“Ooh! Come to Papa!”
Wrong. Something is wrong. I leap to the ground and head to the laundry room, Donner at my heels. I reach the doorway to find Sam slack-jawed, Joey grinning like a rabid hyena, and a drying rack dripping with lingerie.
Millie’s lingerie.
At our approach, Joey reaches out a hand and comes within an inch of a ruby red bra cup trimmed in black lace.
“Do. Not. Touch. That.” The words are bitten off. The temp drops his hand, and it’s only when he faces me and his eyes widen that I realize my teeth are bared.
“Out.”
The laundry room empties without a word—a good thing since I’m ready to commit murder. And I’m still holding a drill, which I’m pretty sure could be used as a deadly weapon.
I set the drill on top of the washing machine and close my eyes, willing rage, lust, and anything else testosterone carries to settle in my blood. But behind my lids, all I see are jewel-toned panties and bras, sexy and suggestive.
The breaker box is in the wall. Directly behind the drying rack.
I drag a palm down my face, eyes still closed.Professionalism,I remind myself. I open my eyes and stare fixedly at the wall as I walk forward. I grab the rack by its hinges and set it aside, ignoring the swaying and fluttering of its contents in my field of vision.
The gray door of the box is cool under my fingers and pulls open with a squeak. Luckily, someone—Millie’s father or mother, perhaps—has left a strip of masking tape beside each switch with a location label.Upstr Bath. Mstr BR. Frt Porch.
I flip the one that saysKit Lts.
“Overhead, boss. Hood’s still on.” Donner calls.
I move the switch back and kill the next one.Kit misc.
“That’s it!” This time, Sam answers.
I close the breaker box door and stand there for a second, my hand palming the cool metal. Averting my eyes, I turn and grip the rack again. I’ve just got it back in place when I hear the whisper of silk and the rasp of lace against leather.
I look down. A thong—the sexiest fucking thong ever made—rests on the toe of my left boot.
Sweat breaks out across my brow.
Made entirely of smoke blue and pale blue lace flowers, there is so little to the garment that it might as well be stitched together with air. I stare at it. How can something that barely exists threaten my sanity?
I shake off the thought, bend down, and snatch it up. Without warning, the memory of Millie’s bare midriff assails me, and I smother a groan. Was she wearing these that night? Just behind the drawstring knot of her pajama bottoms?
The urge to fist the scrap of fabric and stuff it into my pocket is staggering.
