Read Online Baby, It's Cold Outside by Heidi Rice, Kate Hardy, Aimee Carson, Amy Andrews - Free Book Online
Book: Baby, It's Cold Outside by Heidi Rice, Kate Hardy, Aimee Carson, Amy Andrews
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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
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
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