Baby, It's Cold Outside (8 page)

“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 horror 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.

…

Why are you so frightened of the dark?

The question registered in Ryder’s brain and hovered on the tip of his tongue, but as her gaze darted away a second time and the flags of color on her cheeks became radioactive, he stopped himself from asking. Even though the need to know suddenly felt like a lot more than curiosity.

Maybe it had to do with the way she’d clung to him as if her life depended on it, or maybe it had been the violent tremors racking her body, or even just the desperate humming, but as they’d stood together in the darkness, all his protective instincts had come charging to the fore—her valiant struggle to master her fear touching a place deep inside that no other person had ever touched, except Gully.

“I should probably head out,” he said, and noticed how the stiff line of her shoulders slumped, he guessed with relief because he hadn’t asked for an explanation.

“Yes, me too,” she replied, a little awkwardly. “Would you mind waiting a minute while I go and change? My clothes should be dry by now.”

She said it without inflection, but he noticed the tug of her teeth on her bottom lip and knew she didn’t want to be left alone in case the lights went out again.

“Do you have to change?” he asked trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve gotten kind of attached to the lap-dancing leprechaun look.”

She peered at him through her lashes, and her lips twitched. “I told you, it’s not a leprechaun outfit,” she said, the small smile warming her eyes and wiping the pinched expression from her face. “I’m Santa’s lap-dancing elf, remember?”

He chuckled as she disappeared through the exit marked E
MPLOYEES
O
NLY
.

Chapter Five

Damp wool clung to Kate’s legs as she concentrated on not looking at Ryder Sinclair and getting down the twelve flights of stairs to the store’s employee exit without breaking an ankle.

Silly to feel as if they’d shared something important. He might have a more complex personality than she’d given him credit for and be—well, extremely attractive if you liked the rough-and-ready look, but tomorrow she’d see this whole experience as nothing more than a lesson in not making snap judgments about people. She was sure of it.

He held the fire door open at the bottom of the stairwell, and she walked into the long utility corridor that led to the loading bay and Charles’s security station. The shadows were a little unnerving. She steeled herself to ignore them, but then one of the strip lights flickered as they passed and her breath caught.

Ryder’s hand folded over hers. “We’re almost there,” he said, as if there was nothing at all untoward about a grown woman flinching at the prospect of the darkness.

Twin tides of gratitude and embarrassment washed over her as she held on to him.

Her breathing had evened out when they arrived at the security station, but she couldn’t quite let go of Ryder’s hand, even though she felt foolish.

Charles signaled them but continued to talk in hushed tones into his phone. Kate noticed that the security monitors above his desk were blank, obviously another casualty of the blackout.

“Mr. Ryder, Ms. Braithwaite, I’m glad you came down,” Charles said after he disconnected the call.

“We’re heading out, Charles,” Ryder said. “If you’ll open the security door we can get out of your hair.”

Charles shook his head, a slightly pitying look crossing his face. “Don’t think you’ll be going anywhere now. Blizzard hit an hour ago. Just been speaking to the local dispatch. They say anyone on the premises should stay here until further notice.”

Ryder swore softly and let go of Kate’s hand to thrust his fingers through his hair.

Kate gaped. “But that’s ridiculous,” she said as both men turned to stare at her. “We’re in the middle of Manhattan; I can walk home from here in twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, right,” Ryder said, as if she were an imbecile.

Charles levered himself out of his seat and beckoned her forward. “Come have a look at this, Ms. Braithwaite,” he murmured as he headed to the employee door.

As he inched open the door, freezing air blasted her, chilling her to the bone as it hit her damp clothing. Kate’s vision blurred at the sight of swirling impenetrable snow and drifts already several feet high where there had been nothing but large puddles before. Charles needed Ryder’s help to slam the heavy door shut.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, her whole body shuddering. “But that’s impossible. How could that much snow have fallen in the space of an hour?”

“This is a major weather event, ma’am,” Charles said, wearily. “The emergency services are operating, and we’ll all be fine. But nobody should be out in it unless they need to be. That’s the advice I’ve been given.”

“But we can’t stay here indefinitely,” Kate said, her throat closing on the pulse of panic.

She needed to get home, to the security of her apartment, where she had food and a bed, and dry clothes and a hot shower—and several emergency light sources. And there would be no more disturbing thoughts about the man standing next to her.

“Maybe I could get one of the other security guards to escort me,” she suggested, knowing that Charles supervised a team of three or four burly guys who patrolled the store during the night. “If that’s not too much trouble.”

“I don’t think so, Miss,” he said. “I sent them home as soon as it hit.”

“Who gave you the authority to do that?” she said, knowing she was starting to sound a little shrill, but not quite able to stop herself.

Charles’s eyebrows rose up his forehead, but before she had the chance to apologize for the statement, Ryder butted in. “Don’t worry, Charles, I’ll take care of Miss Braithwaite,” he said, but the steely words sounded more threatening than comforting.

“You don’t need to take care of me,” she said, annoyed with the proprietary tone. Helping her out upstairs with her minor meltdown didn’t suddenly make him her keeper. “I’m perfectly capable of…” she began, but the admonition trailed off when glacial blue eyes shot her a look that could burn through lead at fifty paces.

What is he so miffed about?

“How about you, Charles?” he inquired, pointedly ignoring her. “Have you got food? A place to sleep?”

“Uh-huh, Alva made me too much lunch as usual, so I’ve got some left for my supper, and there’s a cot in the back.” He paused, jerking a worried look at Kate. “But maybe I should call dispatch and see if I can arrange transport for Ms. Braithwaite?”

Feeling guilty about snapping at him and so grateful for the lifeline she almost wept, Kate began. “If you could, Charles, that would be…”