Baby, It's Cold Outside (9 page)

Ryder grasped her hand, his viselike grip making the bones fuse together, and she yelped.

“That’s not necessary, Charles. We’ll be fine.” With that, he began dragging her backward toward the door that led to the utility corridor.

“If you’re sure, Mr. Ryder?” Charles sounded doubtful.

“Now hang on a minute,” Kate said, seeing her lifeline disappearing as she struggled to release her hand from Ryder’s ironclad grip. “I’m not sure…”

“We’ll see you in the morning, Charles,” Ryder said, effectively drowning out her protest as he slammed through the utility door and hauled her out after him.

“Let go of my hand,” she demanded, trying to pry his fingers lose as he marched her down the corridor as if she were a rag doll. “I need to go back and talk to…”

He swept her forward with an almighty tug. “The hell you will.”

She stumbled into the wall, her mouth slack at his furious glare.

Okay, that was a little more than miffed.

“What the bloody hell is the matter with you?” she yelled back—the inexplicable temper tantrum starting to piss her off, too.

“What’s the matter with me?” He towered over her, his face rigid with a fury she didn’t understand. “I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me, Princess Katherine.” He thumped his chest with the flat of his hand in a display worthy of an irate gorilla. “Charles Avenall has worked for this damn store for twenty-five years. He’s putting three kids through college on what amounts to not a whole lot more than minimum wage, so where the hell do you get off threatening him?”

Shame at the memory of Charles’s face when she’d snapped at him flickered through her. But she ignored it. She hadn’t meant anything by it, and if Ryder had given her a moment to apologize…

“I did
not
threaten him,” she hissed, her own temper sparking at being forced on the defensive. “I would never do anything…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he snarled, once again not letting her finish. “You’ve got how superior you think you are written all over your face.” He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting her face up as if for his inspection.

She twisted her head out of his grasp, stunned not only by the sudden contact but the shot of awareness that went sprinting up her spine. “Don’t you dare touch me,” she managed through the riot of conflicting sensations.

“I’ll dare what I damn well please.” He slapped his hand above her head, caging her against the wall in a bullying fashion that only made her more mad. “I’ve got news for you, Princess,” he said, his voice lowering to an ominous threat. “It’s working stiffs like Charles that made Sinclair’s what it is today. Not you and your fancy marketing ideas, or my old man and his boardroom full of fat, useless, stuck-up overpaid directors.”

She could feel her cheeks flaming, astonished by the furious accusation.

Yes, Charles was a vital part of what made Sinclair’s tick, but so was she and every other member of the staff. The thing that shocked her the most, though, was the utter contempt in his voice for the man who had fathered him. A man whose tireless work ethic and dedication to business she’d held in the highest possible esteem since moving to Manhattan in July. A six-month period during which she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his son—who now saw fit to lecture her on the success of a business he knew sod all about.

“It’s funny you should say that.” Her words dripped with sarcasm, her whole body shaking with a fury that now matched his. “Because the only useless, stuck-up, overpaid director I know of at Sinclair’s,” she continued, wishing she could add fat to the list but not quite able to, given the lean muscular physique only an inch from her nose, “is you!”

His jaw tightened and something raw and aggressive flickered in his eyes, but just as she braced herself for the explosion and prepared to fire it straight back at him—preferably right between those glaring sapphire eyes—the lights went out.

And they were plunged into darkness once more.

Chapter Six

“Shit!”

Kate flinched at the hissed expletive—but her rage at Ryder Sinclair was already being consumed in the wave of panic.

Two big hands settled on her hips, and she bucked in shock. “It’s okay, dammit. I’ve got you.”

“D-don’t touch me,” she protested, hating his grudging sympathy. She pushed against his chest with trembling hands, desperate to cling to her indignation.

“Stop fighting me.” He ignored her feeble attempt at bravery and dragged her into his arms. “Let me hold you,” he said, the tone tense. “You’re shaking.”

He cradled the back of her head, tucked it under his chin.

“I d-don’t need y-your help,” she said, the horrifying quiver in her voice calling her a liar.

His hand flattened on her back, rubbing up and down. “Shut up.”

She stopped struggling, her nails cutting into her palms as she fisted her hands, her teeth biting into her lip, and concentrated all her energy on stopping the silent scream echoing in her head from coming out of her mouth.

Because she knew if she let that happen—she’d never be able to stop screaming.

It felt like months, but could only have been a minute, before the electric hum sounded again. And the light returned.

She released her fisted fingers and licked the metallic taste of blood off her lip, but stayed in his arms as she waited for the hysteria to subside.

He stroked the slope of her spine to rest his hand on the swell of her bottom. “Why did you put the clothes back on if they’re still wet?”

She pulled away and blinked up at his handsome face—gratitude now mixed with trepidation. How did you deal with a man who never said or did the expected? “I couldn’t very well walk home in that elf costume.”

He gave his head a resigned shake, as if she’d said something nonsensical. “Here.” He pressed a gentle thumb to her mouth. “Your lip’s bleeding.”

She took a tissue out of her pocket, then folded it over in her fingers, and stared down at it. Suddenly close to tears.

It was all a bit too much. The breakup, spending Christmas alone, his disturbing presence, the blizzard, the pointless argument, the thought of being stuck here all night with the prospect of the lights going out at any second, and all the conflicting emotions she felt about a man she didn’t know, didn’t understand, but had somehow come to rely on.

He took the tissue, tucked a knuckle under her chin, and lifted her head. Then wiped her mouth with a gentle stroke that had her heart clutching again. “Don’t cry, Katherine,” he said. “It’s a glitch in the generator—it most likely won’t happen again.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, determined not to, now that he’d mentioned it.

Hadn’t she been quite pathetic enough?

He frowned slightly, and she had the strangest feeling he could read her mind. “You’ve got a phobia, it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“It’s not a phobia.” Damn, he
could
read her mind.

One dark eyebrow arched.

“It’s not,” she protested. “It used to be a phobia when I was a child. But I’ve had some therapy since, and it’s been downgraded. It’s only a paranoid fear.”

“Only?” he said, still looking skeptical. “What’s the difference?”

“I used to get so upset I couldn’t stop screaming. I don’t do that anymore.”

He curled his fingers around her elbow, pressed his thumb into the inside. The prickle of sensation migrated up her arm and across her chest.

“Do you know what started it?” he asked softly.

It was the question she’d been dreading, but somehow, with his hand cupping her elbow, and his expression puzzled rather than judgmental, answering it didn’t seem so terrible.

“Yes.” She hesitated. She’d never told anyone but the therapist before, because she knew how weak and stupid the reason sounded. But he didn’t prompt, didn’t question, simply waited, his thumb lazily stroking, and in the end, the words just spilled out.

“My mother used to leave me alone at night to go out—she was quite young when she had me. I was an accident and…” She paused, realizing she was probably giving him way too much information, but she didn’t want him to think her mother was a bad person. She’d simply been young and irresponsible. “She missed her social life after I was born. I was usually a good sleeper, but sometimes I’d wake up and get scared.” She shrugged. “Silly really. I don’t know how I ended up blowing it so far out of proportion.” She glanced at him, but his expression had become oddly unreadable. “But I suppose that’s the thing about phobias…paranoid fears,” she corrected herself. “They’re not rational. All you can do is learn to live with them.”

He didn’t say anything for the longest time, but his forehead furrowed as if he were thinking hard about what she’d said. And he didn’t look too pleased about the information.

She felt the tangle of nerves tie up in her stomach. He probably thought even less of her now than he had before. She should never have told him the truth. Why hadn’t she simply refused to answer the question? Why had she willfully exposed her most embarrassing secret to a virtual stranger? He’d accused her of being a princess, vain and selfish and superior, and he had even more ammunition now to support that theory.

But just as her anxiety reached breaking point, he slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.

“Okay, look,” he said, the tone a little stiff but not remotely contemptuous. “We should head up to the electrical department first for a couple of flashlights. So we’re all set if the generator goes again.” He led her toward the stairwell. “Then we need to find you some dry clothes.” He glanced down at her attire. “Unless of course you want to wear the lap-dancing elf outfit again. I certainly wouldn’t object.”

“I’m not putting that on again,” she said, so relieved at the change of topic she felt almost giddy. “I looked ridiculous.”

Giddy relief turned to giddy shock when his arm tightened and he murmured, “Katherine, you did not look ridiculous. You looked seriously hot.”

The blush shot up her neck and set fire to her ears.

“But if you’re dead-set against giving me any more cheap thrills,” he added, apparently oblivious to her embarrassment, “which I personally think is a little small of you, then I suggest we check out the lingerie department and find a compromise we can both live with as a fallback position.”

“Um…” She stammered, her wits having completely deserted her. Was he flirting with her? And if he was, why was it making the giddy shock turn into a giddy thrill? “I’m not sure that’s appropriate…” She continued trying to find her indignation. Or at least a tiny iota of her usually very reliable common sense.

“Katherine, we’re stranded in the middle of a major weather event here. Forget appropriate. The only benefit to a situation like this is that appropriate no longer applies.”

It didn’t?
“But I don’t…” she began.

“So,” he cut off her scattered thoughts, “once we’ve got you suitably attired to both our satisfactions, then we should hit the grocery section and, after that, we need to find somewhere to bed down.”

He steered her through the door to the stairwell, as her mind snagged on the prospect of finding somewhere “to bed down” with Ryder Sinclair—and the completely inappropriate shot of adrenaline that accompanied the thought.

“Sound like a plan?” he asked.

She drew out from under his arm, trying to quash the stupid compulsion to go with him wherever he wanted to lead her. He smiled at her, that super-sexy smile that she now knew made him a very dangerous man. And tried to concentrate on the specifics. Instead of the giddy thrill that was migrating all over her body. “We can’t do any of that, I didn’t bring my purse with me.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t have any cash, unless you do?” she said, not liking the silly spurt of hope. She didn’t want to spend the night having an inappropriate adventure with this man. Because that would be…well, inappropriate.

“Why would we need cash?” he asked.

“Because the tills aren’t working, so we can’t use plastic.”

“And this is relevant how exactly?”

It occurred to her what he was suggesting. “We can’t just
take
the stuff,” she said, trying to push the prickle of alarm front and center so it drowned out the inappropriate thrill. “That would be shoplifting.” She tried to think, not easy when he was looking at her as if she’d accused him of cannibalism. “Although I suppose we could leave an IOU.”

“No way,” he said, the flirtatious smile replaced by a stubborn frown.

“Why not?”

“Because this is an opportunity I’ve been waiting for my whole life, and you are not going to screw it up for me.”

“Are you joking?” she said cautiously, and wondered if this had something to do with his apparent dislike of his father.

“No, I’m not. Didn’t you ever have that dream as a kid where you’re in the candy store after hours, and you can take whatever you want? As many Hershey bars and Baby Ruths and Reese’s Pieces as you can stuff into your mouth?”

“I doubt it, not if it was after hours—it might have been dark,” she said.

He gave a rough chuckle, the frown disappearing—and it occurred to her that she’d actually made a joke of sorts about her phobia…um, paranoid fear.

“Katherine, then you’ve been missing the best dream there is. And we’re now living the adult version of it. We’re stuck here all night. We can take what we want and do what we need to do to survive.”

“We’re not going to starve to death in one night,” she pointed out, deciding to ignore the thrum of anticipation at the thought of “doing what they needed to do.” What exactly was that going to entail?

“And there’s no one here to stop us,” he continued, riding roughshod over her objection. “And don’t forget I’m one of the fat useless directors, so I get to make the rules.”

“I never said you were fat,” she pointed out, relieved that they seemed to have gotten over the pointless argument.

But as he led her up the stairs, she couldn’t deny that she was seriously tempted for the first time in her life to do something reckless, and irresponsible and inappropriate. As a child and then as an adult she’d always been so careful to follow every single rule down to the letter, to read the small print, to be productive and scrupulous and sensible and most of all cautious, partly because her mother had never been any of those things and it had always made her feel hopelessly insecure.