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.
His eyes were still closed and she heard a low rumble deep in his throat. Then his hands rose. They reached up to cradle her face, holding her gently in place. Pure sensation overcame her shock as his mouth pressed against hers. She moaned softly as his fingers trailed down her throat, his thumbs stroking her collarbone. Then his hands moved over her bare shoulders, drawing her even closer to him.
He groaned again. Only this time it sounded more like a groan of pain than pleasure.
Chloe broke the kiss and sat up, watching him grimace as he brought his hand to his temple. She swallowed hard. “Are you all right?”
“What the hell happened?” His voice sounded weak and raspy.
“I don’t know. I came down here and found you unconscious under the stairs.”
His gaze focused on her. “Where exactly is here?”
“My house.” She leaned forward. “I’m Chloe, remember? Chloe D’Onofrio. We have a date.”
“Chloe.” He closed his eyes. “I dreamed you were kissing me.”
It seemed like a dream to her, too. She’d never been kissed like that before. It wasn’t just his technique. The man had been barely conscious, after all. It was the unusual spark that had arced between them—connected them.
He opened his eyes. “Or was it a dream?”
“No. But it wasn’t exactly a kiss, either—at least it didn’t start out that way.” She licked her lips. “That’s not important right now. How do you feel?”
“Like someone has been using my head for batting practice. What happened?”
“I think you were attacked by a Chihuahua.”
He shook his head as if to clear it, then winced. “I think I’m hearing things. Did you say a Chihuahua?”
She stooped to pick up the small ceramic dog lying upended near the base of the stairs. One pointed ear had been chipped off, and the remaining fragment was stained with a small amount of blood. She held it up for him see. “It used to be Ramon’s pet, since he’s allergic to animal dander. Now we use it for a doorstop.”
“It also makes a handy guard dog,” he said, gingerly fingering his injury. “I just wish I’d seen it coming.”
“What exactly were you doing under the staircase?”
“The staircase,” he echoed, closing his eyes once more. “Nice. Nice staircase. I…looked under it.”
She frowned. “Why?”
His brow crinkled as if he was trying to remember the reason. At last he said, “Names. I was looking for names.”
Names? That