Bride On Loan. Leigh Michaels

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the time, Sabrina had agreed, but after her first encounter with Caleb’s bimbo of the week, she’d had a change of heart. It was more likely, it seemed to her, that anything Rent-A-Wife came up with would look anemic to a man who was used to the celebrations thrown by a woman who obviously had no hesitation about spending his bank balance.

      But Paige was right; there was quite a difference between the two situations. And it was too late for modifications now. They’d just have to impress Caleb the old-fashioned way.

      Though it was an hour till the start of the party, Sabrina changed into her sleek black cat costume in the ladies’ lounge before she started to fill the dozens of black and orange helium balloons that would finish off the atrium’s decor. She knew from experience how easily time slipped by when she was busy and how hard it was to break away from a half-finished task, with party pressure already under way, to change clothes. This way, if the kids started arriving before she was finished, they’d think that helping blow up balloons was simply part of the planned entertainment.

      Pumping helium into what seemed to be a million individual balloons was not Sabrina’s idea of high enjoyment. By the time the first hundred were filled, tied and bobbing from a hook on the side of the rocket-shaped helium tank, she was reminding herself that the occasional tedium of her job was more than offset by the daily advantages of flexibility, frequent change and lack of pressure.

      By the time the second hundred were finished, she was regretting that she hadn’t kept her coat handy; the delivery company had left the helium tank right inside the main door, and every time an employee or visitor came in or out, Sabrina got a blast of chilly air. But since the tank was almost as tall as she was, at least twice as heavy and awkward to boot, she didn’t have the option of moving it.

      “At this rate,” she mused, “even Eileen will have to concede me the title of sore-throat queen.”

      She decided to take a break from filling and started to untangle the blown-up balloons from the hook on the side of the tank; she’d tie them into clusters so as soon as Paige showed up she could start placing them strategically around the atrium to complete the decorations.

      And just where was Paige, anyway, she wondered. Kids in costumes were going to start drifting in at any minute.

      Sabrina counted out fifteen balloons and began tugging them free from the anchoring hook on the side of the tank, intending to haul them out of the draft from the doorway so she could work more easily.

      Her attention was focused on untangling the balloon strings, and when one unexpectedly gave way Sabrina took an unplanned step backward, directly into the doorway. Directly into a brick pillar—or at least that’s what it felt like to Sabrina. Only there weren’t any brick pillars in the atrium—and even if there had been, brick pillars didn’t swear.

      The impact jolted her, and fifteen orange and black balloons soared free from her grip and bounded to the high ceiling. Short of driving a fire-department snorkel truck into the building, Sabrina bet they’d stay up there till they withered with age. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said, and turned to face the object she’d collided with.

      He was a big man, lean but broad-shouldered and a couple of inches over six feet. His size seemed to be magnified by his attire—a close-fitting black-and-silver motorcycle suit, complete with a dark-visored helmet, which completely hid his face.

      “Nice costume,” she said almost automatically. “But you’re a bit early. The kids’ party won’t actually start for half an hour or so, and the adult version won’t get rolling till—”

      “I’m not here for the party.” His voice wasn’t much more than a growl. Or was she hearing the effect of the helmet?

      “You mean you always go around looking like a cross between Don Quixote and a Hell’s Angel?”

      “I mean I was merely walking in with an armload of mail when I got tackled by—of all things—an ill-mannered cat.”

      “You’d better be referring to my outfit,” Sabrina said pleasantly. “Because if you’re accusing me personally of being an ill-mannered cat—”

      “I’m not the one who called you Don Quixote.”

      Interesting, Sabrina thought. It almost sounded like he’d taken the Hell’s Angel part as a compliment.

      “Just look at the mess you made.” He waved a black-gloved hand at the floor.

      Sabrina looked down. What would have been a respectable pile of envelopes, catalogs and folders, probably a hundred in all, had scattered like a shotgun blast across the granite floor, some skittering as much as ten feet across the slick stone. “I’ll admit to being a bit clumsy,” she said. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t see you, but you must have noticed me. And you could have walked around me, you know.”

      “How? You’re right in the middle of the doorway, as much in the way as it’s possible to be. Can’t that project be done somewhere else?”

      “It could,” Sabrina said, “if the delivery company hadn’t planted the tank right here.”

      “It’s on wheels.”

      “Yes, but wheels or not it’s too heavy for me to move. If you’d like to lend a hand—”

      He moved quickly for a big man, Sabrina had to give him credit for that. So quickly, in fact, that before she’d even realized what he intended to do, he had seized the tank and tipped it back, nudging the wheels into motion with the toe of his boot.

      The bunch of balloons she’d tied haphazardly to the hook on the side of the tank floated loose. Desperate not to see the rest of her work escape to the ceiling, Sabrina made a wild leap for the trailing strings.

      Her foot hit one of the scattered envelopes, which slid like an ice skate across the smooth floor. She missed the balloons, and her shoulder hit the top of the tank and over-balanced it. All three of them—motorcyclist, tank and Sabrina—spun out of control and hit the polished granite.

      The crash echoed around the atrium for what seemed hours.

      Sabrina lay still for a long moment, trying to gather her wits and catch her breath, afraid to open her eyes. She’d hit the granite with only a glancing blow, she knew—probably because the motorcyclist’s body had broken her fall. But what about him? If, in addition to her, the tank had landed on him—

      After the echo of the crash died, all she could hear at first was a faint hiss. Was that him, or had the valve on the helium tank ruptured at impact?

      She rolled clear and sat up. The hissing stopped. Now he was groaning—but that was good, wasn’t it? At least he was alive, though it was hard to tell through the darkened visor of his helmet whether he was conscious or not.

      Mixed with the groans, she began to make out words. He was conscious, she concluded. And—judging by his choice of vocabulary—he was not very happy. Well, she couldn’t exactly blame him for being upset.

      His muttering was getting louder, she noted.

      “Excuse me,” Sabrina said. “But the kids are starting to come in for this party, so if you could modify the language—”

      He stopped talking for a moment, and even through the darkened visor there was no mistaking the glare he sent СКАЧАТЬ