Baby, It's Cold Outside (7 page)

Santa, you dirty old man.

He sighed and replaced the two boxes beside the others on the display, then rubbed his temple where the tension headache brought on by jet lag and extreme frustration was starting to bite.

Dammit, he’d been in the toy department for an hour at least and he still didn’t have a clue which doll to buy. He hadn’t seen Gully in over two months, so he’d phoned Christine from the airport in Afghanistan last night to get a ballpark idea of what his daughter might want—but Christine’s only suggestion had been a Christmas-themed doll. And there were like twenty of the damn things.

He glared at the array of boxes neatly stacked in a tower of concentric circles as frustration turned to aggravation. Maybe he should get Gully a selection of them? But he dismissed the idea almost as soon as it had occurred to him.

Turning up at Christine and Bill’s place in Ithaca tomorrow with more than one Christmas gift would mean suffering through another lecture from Christine about being present in his daughter’s life instead of trying to buy her affection—while getting the standard smirk of smug superiority from her husband, Bill.

After holding it together for two solid months in the sweltering hell of Helmand Province and dispassionately photographing everything from two-year-olds who’d had their limbs blown off by IEDs to soldiers who risked their lives on a daily basis but were barely old enough to shave, he was pretty sure his bullshit-o-meter wouldn’t be able to survive even a single glimpse of that damn smirk. Since punching Bill’s lights out for smiling the wrong way wasn’t an option with Gully there, he was going to have to make a decision about the doll, one way or the other, before he could head back to his apartment in SoHo and crash until he had to grab a cab to take him to Penn Station tomorrow.

He surveyed the tower for what he hoped was the last time and spotted a sparkle of silver among all the green and gold. But as he bent forward to read the script on the side, his boot connected with the boxes at the foundation of the tower.

“Crap.”

He went to grab something, anything, but all he got was thin air as the boxes at the top tumbled backward in slow motion. He sucked in a breath, watching in horrified amazement as the rest of the display tilted precariously to one side like the Leaning Tower of Pisa and then collapsed—taking out the elaborate Lego landscape of Santa’s Grotto set up behind it—in a thundering avalanche of plastic, cardboard, and sparkles.

…

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

The astonished shout rang out, and he whipped around to see a shadowy figure standing right beside him. Panic shot up his spine and battle-ready reflexes, honed by two months in a war zone, engaged. He launched himself at the threat before his mind could remember he wasn’t in Helmand Province anymore—where your life depended on reacting first and asking questions later.

Female.

His mind finally grabbed hold of the coherent thought as his hands grabbed hold of about one hundred twenty pounds of soft, stunned feminine flesh clad in considerably less green velvet. He managed to turn in midair, taking the impact of the fall, as the two of them landed with a spectacular crash in the avalanche of debris.

She gasped in shock as he rolled to get her underneath him and protect her from the cascading boxes of dolls. She muttered something incoherent in breathless outrage, and he got a lungful of something sultry and exotic with a hint of cinnamon—like snickerdoodles and sin.

He manacled her wrists and held them above her head as she began to struggle in earnest, then gave a startled gasp of his own as he got his first good look at his captive in the store’s fluorescent lighting.

Damp hair framed a pale, fine-boned face flushed with exertion, her huge green eyes the exact same rich emerald as the figure-hugging velvet dress she wore. Although calling it a dress seemed generous given the way the skirt barely covered her butt, and the red laces holding the bodice closed strained against the most magnificent rack he’d ever laid eyes on.

“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.