Rescued by the Millionaire. Cara Colter
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“I’m fine.” This was said as much to herself, and her life plan, as it was to him.
Stubbornly, anxious to get her night and her life back under control, Trixie tried to get up from the chair, but pushed with that right arm. A startled gasp of pain left her lips. She sat back down, feeling horribly like she might faint.
He was on his knees beside her in an instant, his hand on her arm.
She closed her eyes against two kinds of pain. One, the pain swimming in her arm like a snacking shark, the other the pain of being so close to such a devastatingly attractive, nearly naked man in such horrible circumstances.
He prodded and tugged gently. “I think your arm might be broken,” he said. “Or dislocated? Maybe at the shoulder.”
“But my arm can’t be broken! Or dislocated. I’m barely managing the twins now!” she wailed. The admission was out before she could stop it. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, and he frowned at her, troubled.
“Where’s your phone? Your arm is in bad shape, and you’ve had quite a knock on your head. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No.”
“No?” His eyebrow shot upward in shocked surprise, as if no one had ever uttered that word to him. Which seemed like a distinct possibility.
“I mean you can’t,” she stammered, and then stronger. “I mean, I can’t.”
“Well, I can, and you are, so live with it. The phone, please?”
It penetrated the fog of her pain and her relief over being rescued that Daniel Riverton was a man just a little too accustomed to getting his own way. And as tempting as it was to have someone taking charge in a situation like this, she couldn’t just give in. She had responsibilities!
“What about my nieces?”
His gaze shifted to Molly and Pauline. The next time she was thinking how attractive he was, she would remember that look. What kind of person looked at innocent children with such undisguised dislike?
Though, much as she hated to admit it, her own view of their innocence was slightly tempered now that they had tied her to a chair with near catastrophic results!
“I can’t go in an ambulance,” Trixie announced firmly. “What would happen to them?”
“Can’t you call somebody to stay with them?” He was frowning at the girls, again, making no effort to hide the fact he found them faintly horrifying. She followed his gaze.
They had a jar of strawberry jam open and were scooping out the sticky red substance with their hands and licking it off. On her sofa. Which, while not new, was one of her nods to her new life, recently reupholstered in a bright, supermodern pattern of large orange and red poppies on a white backdrop, that try as she might, Trixie couldn’t quite get used to.
Could she call somebody to stay with her nieces? It was obvious her arm was going to need medical attention.
Trixie contemplated calling Brianna. Her closest friend lived on the other side of the city, which was strike one. It would be at least forty-five minutes before she could be here. And Brianna would have to be at work in just a few hours, which was strike two. But strike three? Brianna had been nearly as horrified by the twins as Daniel Riverton was.
They are absolute terrors, Trix, she had said, part way through a play date with her own son, Peter. How are you going to survive this?
Apparently without any help from her friend, who had protectively installed Petie in his car seat and driven away well before the scheduled end of the play date.
“I’m afraid I haven’t anyone to call,” she said.
“Mrs. Bulittle?” he suggested helpfully.
She shuddered. “My twin sister, Abigail, would kill me if I left them with a stranger. I think she demands criminal record checks on everyone who is around her children.”
“Amazing,” he muttered, casting her a look that she interpreted as meaning there are two of you, really? But then he cast another glance at the jam-covered twins. “I think they could give the most hardened felon a run for his money.”
She wanted to tell him that wasn’t funny, but she just didn’t have the energy, and it was close to true, anyway. Both she and Daniel watched as one of them—she was almost certain it was Molly—casually wiped a sticky hand on the sofa.
“Girls,” she said, and then, when they didn’t even glance her way, a little louder, “Girls! Could you move to the table with that?”
They both ignored her.
He looked at her. “Are they always like this? I mean they seem a little—”
He hesitated, lost for words.
“Precocious?” she suggested.
“Um—”
“Cheeky?”
“Um—”
“Spirited!”
“Right. Spirited. Like savages. When’s the last time their hair was combed?”
It sounded so judgmental! She was feeling like a failure anyway, she didn’t need him pointing out her inadequacies!
“They won’t let me comb their hair,” she said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice. “Abby is on a horseback trip through the Canadian Rockies. I haven’t been able to contact her to verify if it’s true.”
“If what’s true?”
She lowered her voice. “They said only their d-a-d-d-y combs their hair.” She spelled it because the mention of the word was enough to send both girls into fits.
“Like the our-mother-lets-us-do-this-all-the-time story, that one also doesn’t exactly have a ring of truth to it.”
“And you would be an expert on when children are telling the truth, because?”
“Because I am a man without illusions,” he said comfortably. “I am a cynic about all things, and a ruthless judge of character as a result. The cute factor of small children has no sway over me. In fact, just the opposite.”
He didn’t like children! A wave of gratitude swept her. He was not, then, the perfect man, no matter how exquisite his finger on her temple had felt! Not even close!
“So,” he continued smoothly, “you know how you can tell those two girls are lying to you, Miss Marsh?”
She glared at him, not giving him the satisfaction of answering.
“Their lips are moving.”
“That seems unnecessarily harsh.” She defended her nieces despite her horrible inner concession that he might well be right. “Besides, if you thought you had noise complaints before, Mr. Riverton, you should have heard Molly when I tried to take a brush to her hair. It sounded as if I was killing my cat.”
It was the first time she had thought of her cat since this debacle started.
“Oh! My cat! The apartment door isn’t open to the hallway, is it?”
He took a step back from her and craned his neck. “I think it is.”
She had a sudden awful thought that Freddy might have slipped out the door in all the ruckus. He’d been unhappy since the arrival of the girls. How unhappy? Would he have taken advantage of the open door to explore a larger world? Find a new home?
“But I don’t think you have to worry about your cat. He hightailed it down the hallway toward the bedrooms when I came in. I suspect he’ll remain there for at least a month.”
At the risk of seeming like an eccentric who was way too concerned about her cat—which, she thought sadly, she probably was—she said, as casually as she could, “I’ll just go