The Millionaire And The Glass Slipper. Christine Flynn
Читать онлайн книгу.
The last thing he’d expected to find when he’d walked in the door was a possible candidate for the Bride Hunt. But he couldn’t deny the possibility staring him in the face. While she reminded him of any number of other beautiful, sophisticated women he’d known over the years, as ambitious and career driven as she seemed, she might well meet his criteria for a wife.
Because of that, and because of his father’s rules, he surreptitiously pocketed his Rolex on his way out of the graphics department. On his way into Film Media where he met Sid Crenshaw, their techno and art wizard, he made a point of claiming that every penny he had was going into his new business, so he really needed whatever campaign they designed to work. He wanted Ms. Chapman and the entire KA team, as she called them, to think him an average, modestly successful architect who lived part-time in Seattle, presently worked mostly overseas and wanted to open his own firm in the Northwest so he could return to living in the States.
He handled the logistics of paying the retainer without writing a check or otherwise exposing his identity by claiming to be in the process of setting up a separate account for his new firm. Candace didn’t bat a single lush eyelash when he said he’d return the contract she would send him with a cashier’s check for five thousand dollars to cover their preliminary work. She’d simply said that would be fine, and offered him her hand to seal the deal after they’d entered the reception area, where he found himself glancing around for the young woman who’d run into him when he’d first arrived.
“So we’re agreed,” Candace said, as he absently withdrew his hand. “We’ll have a preliminary presentation for you next week.” She tipped her head, her blue eyes steady on his. “If you have any questions or ideas in the meantime, call me. If you’re in town, I’d be happy to meet and discuss them.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. Not “we’ll talk on the phone.” Rather, “we’ll meet.” He had to give her points for being direct. He liked that in a woman. It took the guesswork out of the whole dating thing.
Thinking he’d give her a call to meet for a drink after he looked at his schedule, he reached for the door. “I’m sure I’ll be in touch,” he assured her, and found himself taking one last glance toward the empty Lucite desk.
He was looking for her assistant. Not sure why, even less certain why he felt a twinge of disappointment at not seeing her, he moved into the hall, headed for the elevator and punched the down button.
He was in the process of dismissing that disappointment as being totally irrelevant when the elevator dinged, the door slid open and he heard a feminine voice down the hall call “Hold that, please?”
The missing assistant hurried toward him with an armload of manila envelopes, stacks of letter-size white ones and a half-dozen Express Mail packs.
He stepped inside the empty elevator, blocked the closing sensor with his arm.
“Oh, thank you,” she murmured, and stepped inside herself.
Moving to a back corner, she aimed a smile toward his chest. She said nothing else, though, as the doors closed and he glanced from his corner to where she stood hugging the mail. The overhead light caught faint hints of gold in her baby-fine brown hair as the elevator began its descent. A few of the wisps that fell beneath her eyebrows had caught at the corner of her long, dark eyelashes.
With her arms full, she pulled her focus from the descending floor numbers, ducked her head and lifted her shoulder to dislodge the strands. She’d yet to meet his eyes. Wondering if that was because she still felt flustered from their first encounter or if she was just preoccupied, he started to ask if she always moved at a run.
The lights flickered just as he opened his mouth.
An instant later, the lights went out as the elevator jerked to a stop.
Chapter Two
Amy couldn’t see a thing. In the darkness of the stalled elevator, she couldn’t hear anything, either. No Muzak. No mechanical grind and whir that might indicate a frozen pulley motor. The construction noise from the tenth floor that had tormented the building’s tenants all week was gone. Except for a terse, “What the…?” seconds ago, even the big man next to her remained silent.
As far as she could tell, Jared Taylor—all six-foot-two, beautifully masculine inches of him—didn’t move from his corner. Neither did she as she waited a handful of seconds to see if anything else would happen.
Nothing did.
“Are you claustrophobic?” she heard him ask into the dark.
“I haven’t been before.” She drew a cautious breath. The way her day was going, however, discovering a new phobia was entirely possible. So far, she’d overslept, which meant she’d missed her bus so she’d had to take her car to work. She’d dented her fender pulling into the parking garage because she’d been in such a hurry, then arrived late to find that the receptionist had quit. She’d then nearly knocked over the firm’s newest client because she’d been worrying about a call she received last night from her grandmother and hadn’t been paying attention to where she was going. Now, the Fates had pulled the plug on the power. “But there’s a first time for everything,” she conceded. “How about you?”
“The only thing that bothers me right now is not knowing why we’re stalled.” He paused, listening. “I don’t hear a fire alarm. If someone had tripped one, the elevator should have gone straight to the first floor and opened. It must be something else.”
The mail she’d hugged landed on the floor. “There’s a phone by the doors.”
She had absolutely no desire to stand there conjuring scenarios. Apparently, neither did he. Even as she reached out to find the brass panel to the right of the elevator doors, she felt him moving beside her.
She reached the panel first. Groping over it in the dark, she felt his arm bump her shoulder as he reached past her.
His palm landed on the back of her hand. Since her hand wasn’t covering what they were both looking for, she pulled her fingers from beneath his and patted farther to her right. As she did, his sleeve brushed her cheek. Or maybe her cheek brushed his sleeve. Whichever it was, she could feel his big body at her back. His heat permeated her sweater as his hand, or maybe it was his elbow since he seemed to be reaching over her, bumped a spot above her temple.
He must have heard her quick intake of breath.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his deep voice above her. “What did I hit?”
“The side of my head.”
She thought she heard him swear. She knew for a fact that she felt his hands curved over her shoulders and ease along the sides of her neck. As if feeling for the point of impact, his palms slid up and cupped above her ears.
“Where?”
She barely breathed. “My temple.”
“Which side.”
“Right.”
His left hand fell to her shoulder, the fingers of his right eased into her hair as if feeling for a knot.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Her heart was already doing double-time. The feel of his big hands should have put it into overdrive. Yet, his touch, the concern in it, the gentleness, seemed almost…calming. Or would have had she let herself truly consider it.
“I’m…fine. Really,” she murmured. “You didn’t hit that hard.”
The disquiet in her tone had changed quality. J.T. heard it as certainly as he’d felt her go still the moment he’d touched her. Realizing he was the reason for both, aware that he’d reached for her without thinking, he eased his hands away.
“There’s an emergency button by the phone.” Urgency returned to her voice. “Below it, I think. Here. I’ve got it.”
She must have pushed the button. Or someone trapped in one