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  the kitchen door. “Hello?”

  No one answered.

  “It’s getting dark,” Shelly noted uneasily.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wish we could make like a fat man’s pants and split,” Shelly whispered.

  No kidding. “Where’s Lariana?”

  “She said she was taking a few hours off. I assumed she was having a late lunch,” Shelly said.

  “Wouldn’t that be in the kitchen?”

  They both looked around. No Lariana.

  Thump.

  “Come on,” Breanne said.

  “W-where are we going?”

  “I’m tired of being scared. We’re going to find out what that noise is.”

  “But it’s nearly dark.”

  Was dark. Breanne tugged down the nearly obscenely short skirt, snatched the lantern, and then, on second thought, took a large butcher knife out of its block, handing it to Shelly before grabbing another one for herself. “Don’t worry, we’re going to be fine.”

  “Then why are we carrying butcher knives?”

  “Just in case.” She tugged Shelly out of the kitchen. The hallway was dark except for the lantern’s glow, and she went still to listen. “What’s down that way?” she asked, pointing with the knife past the dining room.

  “A sauna, gym, Jacuzzi, and a small, indoor pool.”

  More thumps.

  “Oh, God,” Shelly said, swallowing hard.

  “Come on.” They tiptoed toward the area, their knives out in front of them.

  The thumps got louder.

  “Could you really use that knife if you had to?” Shelly whispered.

  Breanne thought about the spider she wouldn’t have been able to kill. “Yes,” she lied. “You?”

  Shelly’s knife was shaking so badly it was in danger of falling out of her hand, so she brought up her other hand to help support it. “Sure.” She gulped. “No sweat.”

  They turned a corner and came to an open workout area, two of the walls lined in mirrors, the room filled with first-class gym equipment. There was a full-screen TV on one wall with an opened DVD case of Friends: Season One on the floor, and Shelly sighed in relief when the light from the lantern fell on it. “Oh, it’s just Patrick.”

  “You sure?”

  “He loves Friends. It’s how he learned American slang. He must be around here trying to get that TV running on battery or something. Patrick?” she called out.

  There was no response but the odd banging, which had become . . . steady. Rhythmic. “Oh, God,” Breanne said and stopped, sagging in relief against a mirror. She couldn’t believe it.

  “What?” Shelly whispered.

  Someone cried out, a woman.

  “Lariana,” Shelly said, and ran for the sauna.

  “Shelly, wait!” Breanne took off after her, catching her just before the door. “I don’t think you want to—”

  As they stood there, the door to the sauna opened and Lariana appeared in the doorway holding a flashlight, wearing only a towel and a cat-in-cream smile. At the sight of Breanne and Shelly, one carefully waxed brow shot straight up. Cool as ever, she shut the sauna door behind her.

  “Ohmigod, Lariana.” Shelly put her hand to her heart and nearly nicked her own chin with the knife. “You’re not dead.”

  “Do I look dead?”

  Breanne took in Lariana’s dewy skin, the I’ve-just-been-screwed satisfaction swimming in her eyes. “Nope, you sure don’t.” Carefully, she relieved the still-shocked Shelly of her knife. “Sorry,” she told Lariana for the both of them. “Overactive imagination.”

  Shelly blinked. “What were you—”

  “I told you I was taking a few hours for myself.” Lariana strutted past them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get into the shower.”

  “Sure.” Breanne didn’t open the closed sauna door and peek, but she wanted to. She’d recognized those thunks. Lariana hadn’t been in there by herself—she was sure of it.

  “We heard you cry out,” Shelly said, baffled. “We heard . . .” She trailed off when Lariana turned back.

  “You’re just spooked,” Lariana said as she began to rein in her long, dark hair, piling it up on her head for her shower.

  “You should be spooked, too,” Shelly said. “And you shouldn’t be alone.”

  For one beat, Lariana’s eyes skittered back to the sauna. Then she smiled. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” She vanished into the shower room.

  Breanne watched her go, not missing the new love bite on the back of her neck.

  “She thinks she’s invincible,” Shelly said. “But—”

  “She wasn’t alone.” Breanne gestured to the sauna door.

  “Oh?” Shelly’s eyes swiveled to the same door as well. “Oh.”

  Breanne transferred both knives to one hand and opened the sauna door.

  Patrick jerked to a stand, hands holding his towel—the only thing he wore. “Uh, cheers, mates.” Then he caught sight of the knives in her hand. “Christ Jesus, what’s happened now?”

  “We heard a strong noise,” Breanne said. “We came to investigate.”

  “Oh, that’d be us—Me. I mean me.” Beet red, he smiled shakily and swiped his arm over his forehead. “No worries, then.”

  Breanne had never seen a man blush so hard that his face looked like a tomato. But the rest of his long, lean form . . . She’d imagined him like a stick, skinny and scrawny, but the opposite proved to be true. He was thin, but tough and ropey with strength. And quite attractive. In a very naked sort of way.

  Shelly was trying not to stare and not having any success with it. “Um . . . yeah. We were just . . . Oh, Patrick.” Closing her eyes, she covered her equally red cheeks. “You were . . .”

  “Shh!” He glanced frantically around the workout room, relaxing only when he saw no one but them. “She’d kill me if she knew you saw me, no doubt about that.” The shower came on, and he relaxed a bit more, hitching up his slipping towel. “Fuck me, but the woman’s got eyes in the back of her head. I’m going to be screwed.”

  “You already were,” Breanne said, and shocked Shelly into a horrified laugh.

  “I’m sorry.” Shelly once again clapped her hand over her mouth. “That wasn’t funny.”

  Patrick moved past them and toward the showers where Lariana had vanished. That door was locked. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, raising his hand to knock.

  He lost his towel.

  Shelly gasped but kept her eyes wide open.

  Breanne tipped her head upward while Patrick swore and fumbled for the fallen towel, giving Shelly more of an eyeful, if her second and more audible gasp meant anything.

  Still swearing, Patrick wrapped the thing back in place and knocked frantically. “Uh, darling? Open up.”

  Breanne was trying to look anywhere but at the flustered fix-it man, and while she did, her gaze caught on the doorway of the workout room and the man who’d appeared there, holding a flashlight.

  Cooper.

  He took in both her and the situation with one sweeping glance, and though he didn’t so much as blink, she knew he grasped it all: the humiliated Patrick, the shocked Shelly, the unseen Lariana . . . and herself. He eyed the knives in her hand and arched a brow, but didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to—his expression said it all.

  “We heard a noise,” she said, feeling a little like Lucille Ball.

  Patrick whipped around, and with a groan at the sight of Cooper, thunked his head on the door. Unfortunately, at the same moment Lariana opened it and he went stumbling in.

  Lariana looked down at the man now sprawled at her feet, then up at the crowd watching. “You idiot,” she said, and they all knew she meant Patrick.

  “Aye,” he agreed, still prone.

  Lariana sighed, hunkered down, and patted his bare ass. “But you’re my idiot, I suppose.”

  Patrick lifted his head and stared at her. “Am I?”

  “Yes.”