Baby, It's Cold Outside by Heidi Rice, Kate Hardy, Aimee Carson, Amy Andrews Page A

of the staff entrance.
    A sense of calm and purpose settled over her as she pressed the button on the intercom. Maybe it was a little sad and pathetic to be coming into work on Christmas Day because she couldn’t quite face her empty apartment. But so what? Work had always been what grounded and sustained her, and she had an invaluable opportunity to start working on her pitch for next month’s PR forum while the store was blessedly quiet.
    Charles, the store’s chief of security, answered on the second ring. “Oh my, Ms. Braithwaite, what happened?” he clucked as she stepped out of the rain. “You want me to get you a towel?”
    “Don’t worry, Charles, I’ll be fine. I have some dry clothes in my office.” Or at least she hoped she did.
    “What you doing here on Christmas Day, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    She did mind a little bit, but pasted on a smile regardless. Americans had a habit of asking what they wanted to know and didn’t tend to see it as rude. So she wouldn’t either. That said, she didn’t plan to give Charles the real reason she’d walked six blocks in a freezing monsoon.
    “I thought I’d take the opportunity to work uninterrupted, while there are no distractions.”
    Charles’s warm brown eyes crinkled around the edges as he sent her a curious smile. “Well, it sure is quiet today. But you don’t want to stay too long, Ms. Braithwaite. Weatherman says the blizzard’s gonna hit soon.”
    Ah yes, the mythical blizzard that the hysterical local weathermen had been banging on about for weeks.
    “Don’t worry, Charles, I’m sure I’ll be fine. My apartment’s only six blocks from…”
    “Six blocks is a mighty long way in a blizzard,” Charles interrupted in an ominous tone. “I already told Mr. Ryder he should light out before it gets dark, so I’ll say the same to you.”
    “Mr. Ryder?” she asked confused. She didn’t know anyone on the staff by that name—or anyone else who was sad enough to be at work on Christmas Day.
    “Mr. Ryder Sinclair,” Charles clarified. “He flew into JFK an hour ago. He called to say he’s stopping by to pick up a last-minute Christmas gift.”
    “Oh, all right.” Of course, Mr. Ryder would be Lachlan Sinclair’s prodigal playboy son, named on the store’s website and letterhead as a “company director”—and whom every member of the female staff appeared to have a crush on—but whom Kate herself had never actually met.
    Because apparently Ryder Sinclair’s definition of a “company director’s” job involved drawing a six-figure salary from the landmark department store that had been in his family for three generations and then disappearing for months on end on some mysterious undisclosed business. And getting photographed by paparazzi in his spare time with a parade of anorexic models, pinheaded actresses, and underdressed rock chicks surgically attached to his arm.
    His impromptu shopping trip today neatly confirmed all Kate’s suspicions about the man. How irresponsible did you have to be to be buying a last-minute Christmas gift on Christmas Day? And how exactly did Mr. Ryder plan to pay for his gift, she wondered resentfully, given that all the tills were currently closed?
    A gush of air from the loading bay made her shudder, all the reminder she needed that she was soaking wet. “I better go, Charles,” she said, deciding that Ryder Sinclair’s ethical turpitude and lack of foresight weren’t her problem—because unless she was extremely unlucky, she would be highly unlikely to bump into him. There were five floors of gift opportunities at Sinclair’s, and she was making a beeline straight to her office on sixth next to the toy department. Knowing the sort of woman Sinclair appeared to prefer, he’d probably be heading for lingerie on third. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on the weather from my office window and head out if it worsens.”
    After she reached her office, she stripped off her wet coat,