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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.
