- -
- 100%
- +
Ian felt his clumsy companion lurch sideways, and bent his knees to accommodate her weight, such as it was. His flash of irritation was replaced by concern at her high-pitched yelp. At least they had progressed to an overhang, so he abandoned the umbrella to clasp her other arm.
“My ankle, my ankle, ow, ow, ow,” she whimpered, holding her right foot off the ground. With the white plastic bag tied around her head, her shimmering eyes and her drenched, dripping clothes, she looked pitiful.
“Hold still,” he said, bending to lift her into his arms.
“No,” she protested, pushing at his chest with laughably tiny hands.
“Hold still,” he insisted, swinging her up, “before you break your little neck.” She gasped with indignation. Ian pressed his lips together and stared straight ahead. He concentrated on the few remaining steps into the building to keep his mind off the fact that his hands were full of very attractive woman. The “little” had just popped out. Petite and elflike, she could be anywhere between her early twenties and mid-thirties. But she had a mouth like a teenager, and seemed just as flighty.
If Blythe Industries was riddled with ditzy employees, maybe he should rethink their business liaison. Perhaps this project would be better off in the hands of the midsize food plant he worked with in Peoria.
“I can walk, thank you.” She moved against him, struggling like a soaked kitten.
Glancing at her was a mistake—he nearly stumbled when he looked into her eyes. Pale blue, virtually black around the edges, and brimming with anger. Childlike long lashes. Chiseled, small features, with dark, spiky hair sticking out from under her makeshift rain bonnet. And her wet wriggling was doing things to his body. “We’re almost there—you’re making things worse,” he said tightly. Much worse. He’d come to Mudville hoping to forget about women for a while, and within hours of arriving, he already had his hands full…literally.
He dragged away his gaze to look around for someone to open the double doors heralding the entrance to Blythe Industries, but no one else was in sight. Thankfully, the doors slid open automatically.
About two dozen people loitered in the two-story lobby, talking, waiting for the elevator, stamping the rain from their feet onto pale marble tile. A few people drifted in through another entrance, directly opposite the one he and Miss Mishap had chosen. A tall desk sat unattended in the reception area. He looked around for a place to set down his load, and moved toward a small cluster of couches and chairs.
Meanwhile, his load was caterwauling, “Put…me…down!”
A few heads turned at the obvious distress in her voice, and his irritation flared. How like a woman to bite the hand trying to feed her.
“Be quiet,” he snapped, “before I drop you on your wet backside.” Indeed, the going was precarious with all the water dripping from her onto the slick floor.
She refused to behave. Still pressing against his chest, she shouted, “Put me down!”
He did. Ian dropped her unceremoniously onto the most absorbent-looking couch in the lobby. She bounced twice on her behind, arms flailing, eyes angry.
“There,” he pronounced, removing a handkerchief to wipe his own hands. His wet suit sleeves and the front of his shirt, however, were beyond patting dry.
“Thank you,” she said with a clenched jaw, trying to sit up. She reached forward to massage her ankle, which had already begun to swell. Despite her ungrateful attitude, Ian winced in sympathy. She needed medical attention.
A stout, middle-aged man broke from the staring crowd at the elevators, his stride purposeful. Ian recognized Edmund Blythe from the meetings in Chicago, where they had signed a sizable contract. “Piper, is that you? Good Lord, what happened?”
In wet stocking feet, the woman he called Piper looked up from the couch. She tore off the plastic bag, revealing choppy short, dark hair. Only someone with her incredible bone structure could have carried off the minimal hairstyle. “Good morning, Edmund.” She rolled her eyes toward Ian. “I was told that I’m accident prone.”
The man turned to Ian, then his face lit up in surprise. “Well, Mr. Bentley! I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon, but it’s good to see you.”
Ian took the beefy hand Edmund proffered. “Hello again, Mr. Blythe. I suppose I was anxious to see your operation firsthand.”
“And oversee the creation of your new dessert,” Mr. Blythe added with a knowing smile.
Relenting with a nod, Ian said, “This is an important project.”
Blythe grinned. “That’s why we have our chief food scientist ready to begin work on your assignment today—under your supervision, of course.”
“I’m impressed with the quality of my Italian restaurants’ desserts. I’m anxious to meet him.”
Ian hadn’t meant to ignore the wet bundle he’d carried into the building, but he was eager to get on with business. At the sound of her clearing her throat rather loudly, though, he glanced down to find her staring at him, wide-eyed.
“Her,” she said, smirking.
“I beg your pardon?” Ian asked.
“The chief food scientist,” she said, still smiling. “It’s a her.” She slung moisture off her small hand and shoved it toward him. “Piper Shepherd, accident-prone chief food scientist, at your service.”
CHAPTER THREE
Don’t waste precious time dallying with ne’er-do-wells, drunks, married men and other undesirables.
IAN BLINKED. The clumsy little pixie who couldn’t maneuver her way from the parking lot into the building was in charge of the most important project on his drawing board? He took the damp slender hand she extended and gave it a light shake, lest he injure another part of her body—a part she would need for cooking. “My apologies,” he offered, feeling a flush climb his neck. “I’m Ian Bentley.”
“So I gathered,” she said, smiling tightly. “Looks as though we’ll be working together, Mr. Bentley.”
From the expression on her face, Ian made a mental note to keep tabs on the butcher knives in her food lab. Flustered, he wasn’t sure what to do or say next. Thankfully, Edmund stepped in.
“Piper, let’s get you to the infirmary so the nurse can take a look at your ankle.” His face creased in concern. “And that bump on your head.” He clasped her arm and eased her to her feet. She glared at Ian, as if daring him to offer to help so she could take off his head. Instead, feeling absurdly responsible, he collected her dismembered shoes and followed them. Edmund bent at the waist to aid his petite patient, and Piper hopped on one foot, leaving a trail of water that dripped from her shrunken hem.
People stared at him with accusing eyes as they traipsed through the lobby, as if he’d run her down in the wet parking lot. He averted his gaze from her round behind, but the glimpse of thin bra straps through the back of her transparent blouse seemed even more provocative, so he settled for staring at his own black tassel wingtips as they walked to the elevator.
“Mr. Blythe, perhaps Mr. Bentley would be more comfortable waiting in your office,” Piper suggested, turning those incredible eyes his way.
Her tone sounded deceptively generous, but Ian suspected she actually wanted to be spared his company. The knowledge roused the perverse desire in him to remain close by. “I may be a menace, Ms. Shepherd,” he said with a slight smile, “but I’m a concerned menace. I’ll tag along, if you don’t mind.”
Her mouth tightened, but she nodded curtly.
Edmund Blythe looked at him, then her. “What exactly happened, Piper?”
Ian opened his mouth to take full blame, but she cut him off. “Mr. Bentley saw me fall in the parking lot and he…came to my rescue.”
Surprised, Ian lifted an eyebrow. Of course, she was supposed to be winning him over.
“Mighty nice of you, Bentley,” Edmund declared, holding open the elevator door when it arrived. She limped in ahead of him, on her boss’s arm. If Ms. Shepherd’s skirt dried molded to her backside, Ian knew his attention span would be seriously compromised for the remainder of the day.
Just as the doors started to close, an intercom crackled. “Mr. Blythe, please come to your office. Mr. Blythe, please come to your office.”
Edmund frowned and blocked the door from closing with one stout arm while supporting Ms. Shepherd with the other. “Sounds like I’m needed upstairs. Can you manage, Bentley?”
Startled, Ian nodded and moved hesitantly toward a wide-eyed Ms. Shepherd, whom Edmund passed over to him as if she were a slim runner’s baton. Then her boss strode out of the elevator, and the doors slid closed, shutting out curious onlookers as they craned for a better look.
They stood in silence for several seconds, he holding on to her arm awkwardly and she alternately leaning into and away from him, as if she couldn’t make up her mind. She was a small woman, of average height, but as delicate-looking as a doe. She’d probably broken her ankle falling off those ridiculous shoes. A bit irritated, Ian marveled at how different the day was turning out to be than he’d imagined. At this rate, they’d never get any work done.
Which would delay his return to Chicago, he suddenly realized, and smiled.
“You can let me in on the joke later,” she said, wobbling, “but for now I’d settle for you pushing the basement button.”
He sobered and, since his fingers were full of her shoes, pressed the button carefully with a knuckle on his right hand, setting them into motion. Tension crackled in the few cubic feet of air. Ian felt at a loss to explain how rapidly they’d gotten off on the wrong foot, but if he’d learned anything in his bachelorhood, regardless of fault, it was the man who was expected to make amends. He cleared his throat, then said, “I have to admit I underestimated Mudville—is every morning around here this exciting?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said as the bell dinged and the doors opened. “You should have seen the commotion on Main Street when Alma ran out of biscuits last Tuesday at her restaurant.”
He laughed and helped her out onto the smooth tiled floor of the basement, but she promptly slipped. Ian caught her in what resembled a low waltz dip, slamming their bodies together and bringing their faces within inches of each other. She gasped and he could feel her heart pounding. Desire surged through his body, surprising him. Her eyes grew large and startled. Her skin shone translucent, dewy from the downpour, her cheekbones high and her mouth rounded in an O. A schoolboy urge to kiss her flooded him, but overwhelming the various signals his body transmitted was the screaming pain in the third finger on his left hand. Meredith’s ring felt like a sharp, metal tourniquet.
“Ms. Shepherd,” he said in a low voice as he pulled them upright in slow motion and tried to shake off the attraction he felt for her. “It seems that you’re determined to fall again. Our progress would be quicker if you would allow me to carry you the rest of the way.”
She straightened her slender shoulders and adopted a haughty look. “Oh, you’re asking this time?”
He pursed his lips, considering the wisdom of arguing with her. The woman was a confounding mix of spunk and vulnerability. Her arrogance annoyed him—he was only trying to help, and she continued to be difficult. Still, he recognized the dangerous signs of physical attraction, and the last thing he needed was yet another woman to complicate his life. Delivering Ms. Shepherd to the infirmary and putting distance between them struck him as the best solution. “I’m asking,” he said with as much control as he could muster.
A look of defeat passed through her eyes and pink tinged her cheeks. “Well, um, since we only have a little farther to go…” Her voice trailed off and she nodded down a tunnel-like hallway.
Anxious to get her to the infirmary and take his leave, Ian bent and once again swept her into his arms. This time she didn’t squirm or wiggle, but held herself stiff and unmoving instead. As if by mutual consent, they both stared in the direction of their destination. Ian quickened his pace and lengthened his stride until he reached a doorway over which a hanging sign announced Infirmary.
The infirmary was little more than a large closet containing a cot and tall metal cabinets with glass doors, behind which were arranged an impressive array of bandages and over-the-counter medications. As Ian lowered Piper onto the cot, an inner door that read Janet Browning, R.N. opened, and a woman sporting a pink smock, braces and big red hair emerged. “Good grief, Piper, what happened to you?”
“I fell and twisted my ankle.”
The nurse leaned over and smoothed back her patient’s hair. “Did you hit your head on the way down?”
“Sort of.”
“What are you doing so dressed up anyway?” the nurse asked, impatience clear in her voice.
Ian bit back a smile and placed Piper’s shoes on the cot next to her. Had Ms. Shepherd wanted to impress him? He glanced at her flushed face, then remembering his getaway plan, he stepped back toward the door. His neck felt sticky—damn, but it was humid in Mississippi!
He fingered his collar impatiently, and Meredith’s ring pinched the inside of his knuckle. Biting back a salty curse, he twisted the band into a more comfortable position. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the thing was tighter than yesterday. This was definitely one of those times when being left-handed was problematic—and he’d never liked wearing jewelry, so the ring felt doubly cumbersome.
The nurse had lifted Ms. Shepherd’s leg to inspect her ankle, giving him an inadvertent peek directly up her damp skirt. Under her nude hose, she wore red panties. Ian swallowed painfully and fought the urge to bolt without a word. “I’ll…I’ll be in Mr. Blythe’s office if you need—”
“Thank you, Mr. Bentley,” she cut in, smiling up at him from the cot. “I’m fine.”
He glanced over her one last time, from her droopy, wet hair to her plastered clothing to her plump ankle. Ms. Shepherd was as opposite to Meredith as a woman could be. She was a total mess, but she couldn’t have been more correct—she was very, very fine. Ian felt his body harden involuntarily. He nodded curtly, wheeled and fled for his wife, er, life.
PIPER SAGGED with dismay. Mortification washed over her as she gazed at her shredded panty hose and fat ankle. The man must have thought she was a complete nincompoop. Her immediate financial success—and her chances of being able to afford her grandmother’s house—depended on impressing Ian Bentley. So far the only impression she’d made was the one she’d left in the parking-lot pavement.
“Boyfriend?” Janet Browning asked with one red eyebrow in the air.
Piper gave her a dry smile. “Hardly. He’s Ian Bentley, our largest customer.”
“He’s a looker, girlfriend.”
“He’s okay,” Piper relented. “But he’s also my boss for a few days.”
“Planning to put in a little overtime?”
Remembering the thrill of being carried in his arms, Piper masked her disappointment with indignation. “You’re a nut. Didn’t you see his wedding ring?”
Her friend scoffed. “Ring, schming. You take what you can get in this barren little town. Let’s take a closer look at your ankle.” Janet leaned over and pulled a small stool forward on which she propped Piper’s swollen foot. She knelt and touched the flesh gingerly while Piper grimaced and sucked air through clenched teeth.
“I don’t think anything’s broken, but you’ve got a bad sprain. I can give you an anti-inflammatory. You should be back to work in a few days if you take it easy.”
Alarm bolted through Piper and she sat up straight. “But I’m starting a new project today.”
“With Mr. Bentley?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t Rich take care of it?”
Piper fought to keep from wrinkling her nose. She was going to get that bonus, not her assistant. “It’s not what you think—I have other reasons for heading up this project.”
Janet smiled knowingly. “Admit it, Piper, working with Mr. Bentley is the reason you’re dressed like a mannequin.”
“Wrong,” Piper replied calmly, loath to confess the embarrassing details of the manhunt that had unwittingly gotten her into this humiliating situation. “I knew someone was coming from the Bentley Group, but I had no idea it was a man or what he looked like.”
“Oh, right,” Janet said, her hands on generous hips. “So I guess you expect me to believe you’ve turned over a new leaf and are now dressing like you give a damn about men in general?”
Piper stuck her chin in the air. “Well, what if I am?”
“Then you’re failing miserably.”
As if she needed to be reminded. “Thank you, Dr. Ruth. Just wrap my ankle, will you?”
Janet walked to the cabinet and removed a roll of bandage, scissors and tape. “Lose the panty hose.” She grinned, flashing her braces. “Bet you haven’t heard that for a while.”
“I’ll ignore that remark.”
“Hey, has your grandmother sold her house yet?”
“No, but she’s moving this weekend.”
“What a gorgeous place—those columns! I’d love to have it.”
Silently, Piper agreed with her. Her grandmother’s house resembled a miniature plantation, two high-ceilinged stories of limestone, with grand round columns studding the deep, wraparound porch. But the beauty on the outside couldn’t begin to compare with the beautiful memories inside. The house represented all the good things about family that Piper had never been exposed to in her own home, and she wanted to own it more than anything. Which was why she needed to come up with something fabulous for Ian Bentley’s coffeehouses.
A few minutes later, her wrapped ankle feeling much stronger, Piper made her way back to the elevator and up to her office where experience in the food lab had taught her to keep an extra change of clothes.
“What happened to you?” her assistant, Rich Enderling, asked when she walked into her office.
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay,” he said slowly, scrutinizing her bare feet and wrapped ankle. He shrugged his wide shoulders and held up his hands in submission. Ironically, auburn-headed Rich was one of the better-looking men in town. Rich had admitted to her his homosexuality a few weeks after joining Blythe, but revealed he hadn’t yet decided to live an openly gay lifestyle. The fact that he’d come to Mudville to buffer his attraction to men spoke volumes for the selection. “Piper, don’t forget, someone is coming this afternoon from the Bentley Group to talk about the new dessert.”
She gave him a wry smile as she passed him on her way to her storage cabinet. “Thanks for the reminder.” After opening the cabinet, she removed clean jeans, a white T-shirt and a navy blazer, plus red canvas tennis shoes.
“Uh, Piper?”
She turned. “Yeah, Rich?”
He gestured to her clothing. “Did somebody die?”
Smiling sweetly, she slammed the cabinet door. “Yes—the next person who asks me that question.”
Piper marched into the ladies’ room, and came to a toe-stubbing stop in front of the full-length mirror. Her mouth dropped open in horror. Her hair alternately stood on end and lay flattened to her head, her clothing hung wrinkled, spattered and damp. Mascara flecked her cheeks. And her ankle looked huge.
It was a good thing Ian Bentley was married—she’d never stop kicking herself if she thought she’d met an eligible man in her current state. She changed clothes and repaired her hair and makeup as best she could, glad when she could feel the painkiller Janet had given her kick in. She considered flushing the broken pumps down the toilet, but settled for slamming them into a metal trash can. Darn shoes! She’d paid a fortune for them years ago for somebody’s wedding and hadn’t worn them a half-dozen times since. Damn the man who invented these things! It was probably the same guy who invented panty hose.
She half limped, half stomped back to her desk and stuffed the ruined clothes into a plastic bag, snatched a clean lab coat from the cabinet and hobbled down the hall to the food lab. She’d planned to spend the morning whipping up two or three experimental desserts for the Bentley Group representative. Now she’d probably have to do it all with him looking over her shoulder—if her appearance and behavior hadn’t spooked him into leaving altogether.
“Here she is now,” Edmund said, his arms out to her and his face wreathed in smiles. A large room lined with counters, sinks and huge industrial-size stainless-steel appliances, the lab suddenly looked crowded with her boss, her assistant and her nemesis lined up against a counter, enjoying coffee and a sampler of Danishes and sweet breads from the production line.
“Hi, Edmund, Mr. Bentley.”
She made brief eye contact with Ian. He acknowledged her with a nod, but his gaze swept over her, head to toe. Piper tingled, but vowed to maintain the most professional demeanor possible. He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie and top shirt button. Gorgeous, the man was simply gorgeous, she bemoaned inwardly, but recalled the no-nonsense advice from her grandmother’s book. The man was off-limits, out-of-bounds, inaccessible and just plain taken.
Holding a mug in one hand and a slice of strawberry-cream-cheese-pecan-nut-bread in the other, he looked like most men when they ate—content. She wondered briefly if his wife was a good cook, then chastised herself. What did she care?
“How is your ankle?” he asked politely.
“Much better, thanks.” She limped over to the coatrack, removed her blazer and donned the comfortable lab coat.
“I gave Mr. Bentley a tour of our facilities,” Edmund announced.
“I see you raided the production line,” she teased. “Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen. I’ll gather my supplies for the day.”
“Piper, these caramel doughnuts are the most wonderful things I’ve ever tasted,” Edmund declared, wiping a corner of his mouth. “If Harriet knew I was eating these, she’d have my hide.” He shook his head and grunted.
She smiled at her boss, knowing he was laying it on thick for the sake of their guest. “Your secret is safe with me, Edmund.” She noticed Rich studying Mr. Bentley unobtrusively and started in surprise.
Her assistant glanced her way, flushed, then straightened. “Speaking of having someone’s hide, Prickett will have mine if I don’t help with the morning inspection.” He headed for the door, adding over his shoulder, “I’ll check in with you later, Piper.”
“Well, Mr. Bentley,” Edmund said, wiping the sugar from his hands, “I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of Ms. Shepherd.”
Stepping into the deep supply closet kept her from hearing Mr. Bentley’s response, only the muffled sound of his deep voice. The voice of a confident, rich, successful, powerful man. Despite her vow, she couldn’t argue with the fact that her hands shook and her heart raced at the thought of spending the next few days with Ian Bentley, ring or no ring. Which simply demonstrated how desperate she was, she realized with disgust, trying valiantly to concentrate on the task at hand.
Tall shelves crammed with nonperishable ingredients towered over her—white sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, white flour, bread flour, wheat flour, baking soda, salt, dark cocoa, white cocoa butter, peanut butter, assorted nuts, marshmallow creme, fudge sauce, caramel sauce, strawberry sauce, raspberry sauce and an exhaustive list of other goodies. The fragrance alone tickled every taste bud in her mouth, and simply inhaling was worth a good fifty calories or so.
She gathered a handful of spices and flavorings and tossed them into a sturdy metal cart, which doubled as a step stool, along with five pounds of flour and five pounds each of white and brown sugar. She had several ideas, but she knew her banana-cream pudding would knock Mr. Bentley’s socks off.
Her train of thought led her to imagine other articles of his clothing being knocked off, but she immediately put on the brakes and reviewed necessary ingredients in her head. So absorbed was she with her mental shopping list that when she heard his voice behind her, she froze.