Rescued by the Millionaire. Cara Colter

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СКАЧАТЬ the more it eluded her like a ghostly vision, growing dimmer with each passing day of her life.

      As it turned out, her nieces preferred their finger painting on the walls. And on each other’s faces. And on the cat. They liked eating Play-Doh and they loved that this unusual dietary choice made for very colorful poop.

      They didn’t listen to Trixie ever, they were up all night and the man in the apartment below her—it couldn’t be that Daniel Riverton, could it?—was complaining. In a voice so sexy it made Trixie’s heart hurt!

      “Enough,” she snapped at herself, out loud. It occurred to her it was night and her apartment was eerily silent.

      Plus enough did not come out enough. It came out a garbled eblubluk. There was something in her mouth. It felt almost as if her cat, Freddy, a long-haired Persian, was nestled close to her face. She went to brush him away.

      And that’s when Trixie realized she was trapped. Her arms wouldn’t move. And neither would her legs.

      Suddenly, panic rising, it came back to her.

      “Auntie,” Molly said, blinking her huge brown eyes at her, “this is our favorite game. Our mommy lets us play it. You sit in the chair, and Pauline and I go around and around you with the roll of toilet tissue.”

      It had seemed harmless enough. And quiet, too. What she had not been counting on was the almost hypnotic effect of her nieces moving silently around and around her, pink tongues caught between little teeth in concentration.

      What she hadn’t realized was the depths of her own exhaustion, and how relieved she was that they were being quiet.

      What she hadn’t realized was that enough of that tissue could bind like steel. It wasn’t just tissue. She could taste the fluff of quilting batting in her mouth.

      Frantically, Trixie pulled at her limbs. She was stuck fast to the chair.

      Endless scenarios began to run through her head. None of them had a happy ending. She was going to die. She just knew it. Her whole life was flashing before her eyes: she and Abby growing up in their matching clothes, unwrapping gifts at the Christmas tree, baking cookies with their mother, at the cottage...and then the knock on the door.

      So sorry, an accident.

      And Abby marrying and moving to Australia.

      And Trixie being so alone.

      And so when Miles, her one and only boyfriend, had said, Move in with me, I’ll look after you, there had been no choice involved, really.

      And when he left, he hadn’t given her a choice, either.

      For a moment, she pictured him bursting through the door, rescuing her, admitting the error of his ways, giving her back her dreams.

      Trixie blinked hard. That’s how she had gone through her whole life. Acting like someone else was in charge of her dreams. Acting as though she had no choice.

      Now was she going to die the same way? As if she was powerless? As if she had no choice. No! She was going to fight and fight hard.

      It wasn’t just about her. Her nieces were in peril, too. They could all perish here if Trixie didn’t act and act quickly.

      She began to rock the chair.

      Bang.

      It sounded like an explosion, not a subdued pop, more like a mortar round had gone off right in Daniel’s trench. Whatever had hit the floor above his head had hit it so loudly the crystals in the chandelier clanged against each other dangerously. Daniel jumped up off the sofa, his heart beating fast.

      He waited for the sound of running feet to start again.

      Nothing.

      The hair on the back of his neck rose. And he knew, to the pit of his stomach, something was wrong upstairs, in the apartment above him.

      He paused only at his own door to shove shoes on his bare feet and then Daniel raced out of his apartment, down the hallway and up the steps.

      Outside 602, he asked himself what he was doing. If he was so sure something was wrong, why not call 911?

      And say what? I was busy composing a list of inane sayings and then, guess what? I heard a bump in the night!

      He stood outside the door for a moment, listening. He found the silence eerie, and the hair on the back of his neck would not sit down. He knocked on the door. There it was—the pitter-patter of running little feet. But nothing else. No other sounds, including the one he was listening for, the husky, lovely notes of an adult voice, someone in charge.

      He knocked again, louder, more insistent.

      After a long pause, and more of the pitter-patter, the door handle squeaked. The door slid open two inches, catching on the chain lock.

      Nobody appeared to be there.

      And then he looked down.

      Two identical solemn faces, smeared with tears and what appeared to be red berry juice, were pressed against the crack in the doorway, and the tiny girls regarded him warily.

      “Is your, uh, mommy here?”

      “Mama goned.”

      The Australian accent was noticeable. It looked like they were going to close the door.

      “Aunt!” he remembered. “Is your aunt Patricia here?”

      “Auntie’s name Trixie.”

      He was starting to feel exasperated, but a sound from in the apartment, muted, but very much like a whimper, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up higher.

      “Get your aunt for me,” he said, trying for a note of both sternness, to instill obedience, and friendliness to try and overcome whatever they had heard about the danger of strangers.

      Two sets of identical liquid dark eyes exchanged a look.

      “She’s dead,” one offered.

      “Unlock the door. Right now.” He fumbled for his cell phone, always in his shirt pocket, and realized he wasn’t even in a shirt. He was standing in the hallway in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms, and his best shoes and nothing else.

      Not exactly the person children would or should unlock the door for.

      “Please?” He tried for a sweet note. It came as unnaturally to him as if he was speaking through the sickening fluff of candy floss. He tried to smile in a friendly fashion.

      The children were fooled—it made him uncomfortably aware of how totally vulnerable children were—and one of them ventured a tiny smile in return while the other stood on tiptoes and tried to reach the chain that barred the door.

      “Can’t reach.” And that was that. The little minx looked as if, now that she had made somewhat of an effort, she was going to shut the door.

      “Get out of the way,” he ordered. “Stand way back from СКАЧАТЬ