by Heidi Rice
“Goddamn it,” he said, his senses reeling from the sudden burst of physical activity, a hard jolt of lust, and the heady shot of cinnamon that clung to her. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “The queen of the sprite dolls?”
Chapter Three
“Will you get off me, Mr. Sinclair?” Kate said in the most commanding voice she could muster while she was being pressed into a mass of jagged cardboard by a man who felt like he weighed several tons.
She swallowed down the lump of mortification in her throat as his gaze dipped down to her cleavage again.
Bloody hell.
Why had she come out here? She should have just stayed in her office and ignored the almighty crash from outside. Especially as her ethics had prevented her from “borrowing” anything from the clothing department while her wet clothes dried on her office radiator. Consequently, the only thing she’d been able to find to wear was the prototype for this year’s Santa’s Little Helpers outfits—which was two sizes too small.
“How the hell do you know who I am?” Lake-blue eyes glared at her accusingly.
She glared back at him, ignoring the spectacular blip in her pulse from the man’s face. With a day’s worth of stubble shadowing a strong jaw, blunt features darkly tanned from what she suspected was several months spent in some glitzy Caribbean resort, unruly hair that curled around his ears, and brows drawn into a sharp frown over those unfathomable blue eyes, he looked more like a marauding pirate than the pampered playboy she’d expected.
“I know who you are because I’ve seen your photo in Vanity Fair.” Although the chiseled, pretty-boy features of that man looked nothing like the ruggedly handsome face above her. And neither did the impressive muscles molding the black cotton T-shirt he wore over khaki chinos. His physique looked a lot harder and better developed than she would have predicted—to the point of being ostentatious, frankly. Clearly, although Ryder Sinclair didn’t have enough time to turn up for work at Sinclair’s, he had more than enough time to pump iron in a gym.
“I’d like to put my arms down, if that’s all right with you,” she said through gritted teeth trying to twist her wrists out of his manacle-like grip—to absolutely no avail.
“No, it’s not all right,” he said, the tone annoyingly laconic as he tightened his grip. “First, I want to know who the hell you are.” That penetrating male gaze dipped to her cleavage again, and she cursed the midget-sized minidress she’d been forced to wear, and the prickle of response in her nipples.
“My name is Katherine Braithwaite,” she said, using her full name in the hope that it might intimidate him. “And I’m the assistant marketing manager at Sinclair’s.”
His eyes narrowed, but he finally released her wrists.
She crossed her freed arms over her unfortunate display of cleavage and pressed down on the traitorous nipples, hoping to heck he hadn’t noticed them sticking out like two sore thumbs. But instead of getting off her he settled back on his haunches, making muscular thighs flex on either side of her hips.
“Uh-huh. So what are you doing here on Christmas Day dressed as a leprechaun?”
Kate’s usual patience began to disintegrate at the amused tone.
“I could ask you the same question,” she shot back, even though she knew perfectly well what he was doing here: stealing merchandise from a company that already paid him an exorbitant salary for doing bugger all. She wriggled furiously. “Now get off me, you big oaf,” she demanded, having had quite enough of being manhandled and interrogated.
She didn’t care if he was Lachlan Sinclair’s precious son, if the man tried to get her fired over this incident she would sue.
He didn’t budge. “I don’t see how you could ask me the same question,” he said as his gaze took another leisurely trip over her skimpy outfit. “I’m not dressed as a leprechaun.”
His lips lifted in a mocking and disturbingly sexy grin. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch—out of irritation, she decided.
“This isn’t a leprechaun’s outfit, you moron. I’m supposed to be one of Santa’s Little Helpers,” she said, not even attempting to hold back the condescension this time.
The stupid man had scared the life out of her, not to mention demolished six hours of work in a single second by knocking over the Festive Fun Palace of Christmas Dolls, and he kept checking out her boobs. It was too much.
“Oh yeah?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, making it very clear he was having an absolute ball at her expense.
“When did Santa start hiring lap dancers?”
That did it.
Kate felt the tips of her ears ignite as her temper exploded. “You son of a…” She shoved him hard in the chest. He toppled off her as a deep rumbling laugh choked out.
She jumped up, and he rolled onto his knees, still bent over and laughing.
“That’s disgusting,” she said, so furious she wanted to throttle him.
“Now, Katherine.” He got slowly to his feet, and she had an uncomfortable realization of how tall he was as he towered over her. “Don’t get in a snit. It wasn’t that bad.” A couple more laughs choked out as his eyes, alight with amusement, lifted to her face.
She stood stiffly, desperately self-conscious not only about the preposterous outfit, but also about his use of her given name and the disarming smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth.
He lifted a finger and brushed it down her cheek. “You look real cute when you’re disgusted.”
She jerked away from the live-wire touch, mortified by the husky timbre of his voice and the way it shimmered over her nerve endings.
He coughed. And finally stopped laughing. Then raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry I jumped you. I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here on Christmas Day—and I’m still edgy after two months in country.”
In country? What country was he talking about?
He held out one large hand. “Let’s shake on it and forget it ever happened.”
She glanced down at his peace offering, and although she’d rather not have to touch him again, she decided it would probably be best not to make a scene. The sooner she got away from this man, the better.
Keeping one hand firmly holding the bodice of the dress together, she reached out with the other.
Long fingers wrapped around her hand, rough calluses rubbing against her palm, and the shimmer of awareness arrowed down.
She yanked her hand back, deciding the calluses probably came from all the weight lifting he obviously did in the gym. “Charles said you were here to buy a last-minute Christmas gift. Did you find what you wanted?” she inquired with chilly politeness, in the vain hope that his gaze would stop flicking to her cleavage.
He looked over his shoulder at the wreckage of the Festive Fun Palace. “Not exactly.”
“What were you after?” Maybe if she solved his gift-purchasing problem he’d leave. “Perhaps I can help you?”
“I doubt it,” he said wearily, all amusement gone now as he raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got to find the perfect Christmas doll.”
It was only then that she noticed the bruised smudges under his eyes and the thin lines of exhaustion around those sensual lips.
“Who’s it for?” she asked as a wave of sympathy crested, but was quickly quashed. The flight home from the resort had probably been a red-eye.
He sent her a questioning look, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced by her offer of help, then said evasively: “A very special lady.”
“You date women who like dolls?” she said, failing to control the sneer as it occurred to her the bimbos he dated had probably been dolls in a former life.
His brows lifted fractionally, then fused into a sharp frown, and the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Is there a problem with that?”
“No,” she said, getting the sneer under control, just. Far be it from her to insult him—or his reincarnated bimbos. “Not at all, we have a lot of adult customers who like to collect,” she added in
her best client-friendly voice as something pinched under her breastbone that felt suspiciously like envy.
How come even bimbos with toy fixations got to spend Christmas with someone special—and she didn’t?
Chapter Four
Well, what d’you know? The old man has hired someone as cold and judgmental as him to work in his marketing department.
Ryder held back the sigh of regret.
What a shame. For a moment there, Katherine Braithwaite had seemed kind of cute and tenacious, even a tiny bit intriguing. And her rack really was a sight to behold. But humorless workaholics who judged people by some invisible yardstick that would always leave them feeling not-quite-good-enough was what he’d spent his whole life avoiding. He’d just have to steer well clear of those wide emerald eyes, the fit little body, the clipped smoky British accent that made him think of sexy schoolmarms—and that sinful snickerdoodle scent.
He generally avoided sex-for-the-sake-of-it these days, ever since he and Christine had managed to make Gully during a drunken one-night stand in college.
And he wasn’t going to mention his little girl to her. Gully was precious, important. She was the best thing he’d ever done in his life, and he sure as hell didn’t intend to talk about her to one of his father’s familiars.
Ignoring the woman, he glanced back at the doll apocalypse. Hell, he was too damn tired to make a decision today, and he’d caused enough damage already. He’d come back first thing in the morning, have a chat with one of the sales assistants and pick something up then. His father would be here, as the man spent pretty much every spare minute at Sinclair’s, so Ryder could get that chore out of the way, too.
“What time does the store open tomorrow?” he asked, figuring if she was anything like his old man she probably had the hours of business tattooed on her pert little behind.
“Ten o’clock,” she said with a distinct hint of pride in her voice. Yup, she had it as bad as his father. Why else would she be working on Christmas Day?
“Great,” he said, not much relishing the thought of having to return two days in a row. He’d always hated this place. Ever since his father had insisted on dragging him here on Saturdays to punish him—usually for some minor infraction he couldn’t even remember committing. He’d spend the day on his own, forced to sit in the walnut-paneled office on the sixth floor while his friends got to go to Little League with their dads.
“I should get going.” He swept a hand toward the mess. “Would you tell the staff I’m sorry about that? I’ll pay for any damage tomorrow when I come back.”
She looked surprised at the offer, and he felt the stab of irritation.
How about that? She doesn’t know a thing about me, and she’s already pegged me as a deadbeat. Real cute.
“Okay, Mr. Sinclair.”
He stared at her. “The name’s Ryder.”
She nodded, tensing slightly, and he wished he’d kept the surly tone out of his voice. She didn’t mean a thing to him. And neither did her low opinion.
“See you around, Katherine,” he said, deliberately using her first name to annoy her as he stepped around the fallen debris to head toward the stairwell.
But as he passed her, there was a crackle of electricity, before the overhead lights flickered ominously and the whole store plunged into darkness.
“What the…?”
The swear word was cut in half by a strangled cry of distress next to his ear, and the grip of fingers clamping onto his forearm like a vise.
…
Please help me.
Kate swallowed convulsively, trying to stem the tide of terror as the dark rushed toward her and plowed into her chest, cutting off her air supply. Her fingers dug into the only solid thing she could find, and she held on for dear life.
“Breathe.” A voice low with tension came out of the black.
Her heart charged into her throat, strangling her, the fear so huge and all-encompassing she wasn’t sure she’d heard anything.
“What?” She didn’t recognize the high-pitched squeak as her own voice.
“Breathe, Katherine.” This time the disembodied voice snapped with command, and she sucked in a breath, pushed it out again. “That’s it, keep breathing,” came the next command. She struggled to repeat the process despite the burning pain in her lungs.
Then the still-solid thing shifted, and her fingers fisted in panicked reflex.
“Don’t go. Please don’t go. Don’t leave me here,” she begged, recognizing the thin, small, desperate voice of her childhood self, and shame engulfed her.
“Don’t panic.” Hot breath stirred her hair as a hand settled on her hip and gave her a reassuring rub. “I’m not going anywhere. But you have to let go of my arm before you crack the bone.”
Her fingers flexed, feeling the muscle, the sinew, the soft hairs against her palms for the first time, and she heard a grunt of pain.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered frantically, starting to shake, trying to make her mind engage and her fingers release their death grip. “I’m sorry. But I can’t let go.”
“Here, how about if I hold you?” He shifted again, and the hand on her hip moved to wrap around her waist. “I’m not going anywhere.” The tone was gently persuasive, but she could hear the tension beneath and knew her nails were digging into his arm.
She sucked in another tortured breath and got a lungful of his scent: sandalwood soap and the musty hint of sweat. His big body surrounded her, his arm and her hands trapped between them where she clung on to him.
Her teeth chattered as the quaking terror charged through her body.
“When you let go, put your arms around my neck,” he soothed. “Then you’ll know where I am, okay?”
She nodded, and the top of her head butted his chin.
He grunted again, but didn’t say anything.
“S-s-sorry,” she said on a rattle of teeth.
“Let go, Katherine. Now.” The demand snapped out, and her fingers released instinctively. Fear shot through her, but he folded both arms round her waist, drawing her close as she flung her arms around his neck.
Her whole body shook, the tremors raw and uncontrollable. She squeezed her eyes shut, moisture seeping out of the corners. The only sound was the rat-a-tat-tat of her teeth, echoing like machine gun fire in the still dark.
A slow breath gushed out against the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Large hands stroked the slope of her back, sure, certain, safe.
Her fingers clutched at his nape as she pressed her cheek against his collarbone and felt him swallow against her ear. The frantic punch of her pulse finally began to slow a little, as did the pitch and roll in the pit of her belly.
“The store’s got a backup generator,” he said, the gruff, matter-of-fact tone more soothing than any lullaby as his hands continued to stroke. “It’ll kick in any minute.”
“T-thank you,” she stammered, her teeth still refusing to cooperate.
She flattened herself against the hard planes of his chest, trying to push closer. To take more of the comfort he offered and stop the shaking.
“Try humming.”
“S-s-sorry?”
“It’ll stop your teeth from chattering.”
“O-okay. What s-should I h-hum?” she asked, only to recoil when he laughed.
What was wrong with her? Had she regressed into childhood and lost the ability to make the simplest of decisions?
“How about ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’?” he suggested, cutting neatly through her panic attack. “I’ll sing, you hum along.”
The seasonal song came out in a husky baritone, not particularly strong, but pitch-perfect. She couldn’t say the same for her humming.
His large hands bracketed her hips to hold her steady while they stood together in the inky blackness, and he chanted the silly lyrics while she hummed tunelessly along. A wave of strong emotion washed over her as her teeth finally lost the stuttering chatter: partly relief that the horr
or had begun to retreat into the black hole it had lurched out of, but mostly bone-deep gratitude, that Ryder Sinclair with his big hands and rough baritone had managed to catch her before she’d tumbled down the black hole after it.
Santa was making his list and checking it twice for the second time before the emergency lights finally flickered on with an electric hum.
Kate blinked a couple of times, but as soon as the broad expanse of Ryder’s chest became visible in the pearly glow, she dropped her arms and took a small step back, utterly self-conscious.
Ryder kept his hands curled loosely around her waist, halting her retreat as he peered at her, the intensely blue gaze shadowed with concern. “You okay?”
She nodded, sure the blush burning up her neck was probably vermilion.
“Thanks for not leaving me here.” She dropped her chin to stare at her toes. “I’m not too keen on the dark,” she murmured, the understatement of the century.
He gave her a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
“I’m not sure I could have gotten away from you without losing an arm.” The wry amusement helped a little in dousing the nuclear blush. “But you’re welcome.”
She risked a look at him, saw the puzzled frown, and her stomach twisted into a knot of apprehension.
Please don’t ask.
She shouted the plea in her mind, trying to communicate it telepathically. But as she waited, gagging at the prospect of having to answer the question he was about to ask, the incongruity of the situation occurred to her. After two years of dating Benedict, he’d never had a clue she had a paranoid fear of being in the pitch-dark, because she’d gone to all sorts of ludicrous lengths to keep the shameful secret hidden. And after only fifteen minutes in Ryder Sinclair’s company, he’d witnessed the worst of it.
The realization that Ryder had reacted with a lot more patience and compassion than Benedict would have was equally incongruous—and made two even more sobering thoughts occur to Kate.
Why the heck hadn’t she dumped Benedict, long before he’d had the chance to dump her?
And maybe Ryder Sinclair wasn’t a total jerk after all.