by Anne Stuart
The cop’s broad, Irish forehead creased. “The what? Better ask over at the information desk, miss. They’ll help you.”
She chuckled, moving past him, ignoring the elegant desk that was now placed near the front of the store, where a deferential gentleman in a double-breasted suit waited to assist customers. Where had they ever found so many authentic 1940s costumes? If she’d had the budget for something like this, she might actually enjoy her job.
She couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard even a whisper of this living fantasia that Macy’s was creating. Usually Epithet knew of things months in advance, and it would definitely have taken months to pull this thing off, but there hadn’t been a word. Major mistake on the store’s part. Unless this was going on for more than a day, most people were going to miss it.
The deeper she moved into the store, the more the charade continued, leaving her in awe. She couldn’t even find the center escalators—they were somehow disguised by the antique displays, so instead, she headed for one of the ancient wooden ones still in service. The crowds were thinning out, and for a moment she wondered what time it was, then relaxed. It was only about five-thirty now—she had at least three and a half more hours.
Electronics were up on the eighth floor, and she simply stayed in the narrow corridors that held the old wooden escalator system until she reached it. As usual, the upper floors were less crowded, and when she stepped off there was, surprisingly, no one in sight. Christmas season and no shoppers in the Notre Dame of American department stores? Unthinkable. Pushing through the swinging doors that separated the two sections of the massive building, she stepped into the bright electronic glare of technology heaven.
Or at least, she should have. There was no large bank of digital screens staring at her, no thumping bass advertising the latest in stereo equipment, even if they’d stopped selling CDs. In fact, it was no misperception—the room really was full of shadows, curtains draping counters, covering displays, lights on dim. The place was deserted, almost eerie, and Madison could feel her stomach knot in pain, like she was being squeezed by a boa constrictor.
And then someone moved, detaching himself from the shadows, straightening to his full height and looking at her with nothing but irritation. “Store’s closing,” he announced flatly. “And this floor’s under construction. Time to leave, lady.”
She stared at him, momentarily gobsmacked. He was a god—tall and blond and gorgeous despite his glower, and the period detail on his costume was so damned good she was jealous. He was in shirtsleeves, those white sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, and his tailored tweed pants were held up by leather suspenders. His hair was brushed back from his striking face so that he would have looked more like an old-school matinee idol if it weren’t for his forbidding expression. He crossed his arms across his chest, further drawing her attention to those muscles, while he stared at her, waiting for something.
And then she jerked, startled. She’d never let beautiful men intimidate her—if she did, she would have lost the battle long ago. New York was filled with aspiring actors, and this prime specimen would be one of them, hired for this special promotion. She drew herself up.
“The store is open until ten,” she said loftily. In fact, it might close at nine or nine-thirty, but she was willing to hazard a guess rather than back down. However, there was no question that this floor wasn’t open for business. Usually they locked the doors and put up a sign to keep curious customers from wandering in.
“Since when? Macy’s has closed at five-thirty for the last forty years—they’re not about to change now.”
In fact, it had kept those antiquated hours for almost a hundred years, changing only a few decades ago, but the man didn’t seem particularly interested in a conversation. “Well, they have changed,” she said, somewhat lamely. “Just ask anyone who works here.”
“I work here.”
“For one day,” she scoffed.
“For nineteen months, two weeks, six days and...” he glanced at the old-fashioned wristwatch on his arm “...four hours.”
“You’re not an actor?” she said, surprised. Men with faces like that, not to mention arms like that, usually exploited their natural gifts.
He lifted his head and took a few steps toward her. Damn, he was tall, too. Her kryptonite, if he weren’t such a grump.
Before he’d simply been dismissing her—now his razor-sharp gaze had focused on her. “I’m not an actor—I told you, I work here, where you’re not supposed to be. Do I need to call the security guard, or are you going to turn that sweet little fanny around and go away?”
Her fleeting trace of interest dissolved into irritation. “You can leave my sweet little fanny out of it, asshole. I wouldn’t be caught dead here.” She had time to catch his astonished reaction before she stalked toward the doors.
His voice stopped her just as she reached them. “Lady, just who the hell are you?”
“A customer,” she said icily, stepping into the passageway.
It was still and quiet, with only the sound of the well-oiled doors closing behind her, and she headed for the escalator, then stopped in dismay. It was no longer running—no clackety-clack of the ancient machinery, and there was no way she was going to walk down seven uneven flights on the damned thing. She looked around her, then moved to the other side of the floor, pushing against those doors, which were, of course, firmly locked.
Typical, she thought. Despite the brief wonder of the historical reenactment going on way below her, she should have known that she wasn’t going to get out of her funk so easily. There were elevators at each end of the massive building, as well as in the center, and she had no choice but to face old Grouchy Pants again. Or would have, if those doors hadn’t been locked as well.
He must have done it the moment she left, she thought, disgruntled, and banged on the door with one fist. “I need to use the elevator!” she called.
No response of course. She banged again, knowing it was useless, before she gave up and went back to the escalator, staring down at the graduated wooden slats in dismay. Thank God she had her running shoes on—her stilettos could have gotten her killed.
She glanced down at her feet, past the pastel flowered dress that went just below her knees, down the shimmering silk stockings to the navy-blue spectator pumps she was wearing. What...the...hell...?
A bolt of pain shot through her head, disbelief exploding through her synapses, the constriction in her stomach clamped down, and darkness closed in around her. She was falling, falling...
Chapter 2
Strong arms caught her, pulling her away from the frozen escalator—she was dimly aware of her close call as her mind struggled to right itself. There was a roaring in her ears, and for some reason she wanted to cry. She didn’t bother opening her eyes for a moment, determined to calm down and center herself. Everything would be fine, she told herself as things slowly resettled into order. It was just a quirk of imagination, a brain fart, a trick of the shadows...
The floor was hard beneath her—she was lying on it, she realized. Not completely on it, actually. Someone was holding her in his lap, and she could feel the vibrations of his voice in the chest she was leaning against, breaking through the noise. “Easy,” said that voice in her ear, and it was calm, reassuring, safe. “I’ve got you.”
She was going to cry. Why did she need to hear those words, so badly? No one had had her back in so long that she felt like a flower in the desert, opening up to a gentle rain.
And then she recognized his voice, and her eyes flew open to stare up at the jerk from the closed area. He looked down at her, and his eyes were almost impossibly blue. And absolutely expressionless. “Had enough drama for the day, lady?”
She scrambled from his lap. She should stand, but she was still feeling shaky. Which was ridiculous, considering that she must have imagined...
The flowered dress flowed around her, a hat with a veil lay on the floor near her, and she’d lost one of t
hose shoes that she’d never worn in her life. She reached up to push the hair away from her face, the long hair, and saw the glove on her hand. The noise started again, and she swayed...
“Snap out of it, sugar,” the man said again, but his voice was unexpectedly gentle. “This floor is filthy, and that dress must have cost at least thirty bucks.”
Her eyes flew open in outrage. She’d never worn a thirty-dollar dress in her life. Pulling away from him, she scrambled onto her knees on the very dusty floor and tried to stand, but she was still too wobbly.
He caught her before she fell again, surging upward, and damn, he was tall, she thought dazedly. Yanking her arm out of his supporting one, she leaned back against the wall while she tried to catch her breath.
“Better?” His voice was low and deep—in a nicer person, she might have thought he even sounded concerned.
“Just fine,” she said briskly. “I don’t know what came over me.”
Skepticism was clear in those bright blue eyes. “You’re too skinny, but anyone with expensive clothes wouldn’t be going without meals.”
She glared at him. She ought to be grateful, and flattered, considering all the effort keeping this weight required, but his sarcastic comment about her cheap wardrobe overruled courtesy. “Thanks so much. I must have forgotten to eat.” In fact she’d skipped both breakfast and lunch, and hadn’t eaten much for dinner last night—that must be why she was so disoriented.
“What kind of idiot forgets to eat?”
Okay, enough was enough. She plastered a phony smile on her face. “I wasn’t hungry. Thank you for helping me, but I think the best thing I could do is get a taxi and go home. I’ll just use the elevator at the end of the building...”
“There are no elevators at the end of the building. There are the freight elevators, but they’re locked by now. The only ones for customers are in the middle, and they’re locked on this floor.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—there are elevators all over the place.”
“One bank,” he said.
She wasn’t going to argue with him—she didn’t have the strength. She needed fresh air, the cold, crowded streets of New York to get her back to normal. “What about the other escalators?”
His previously cranky face was now shadowed with a reluctant concern. “Lady, there’s only the one set of escalators. If you’d been here before, you’d know that.”
“I’ve been here a thousand times.”
“Well, then, you’ve got a hell of a bad memory. Sorry,” he added.
That distracted her. “What are you sorry about?”
“Swearing.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
He didn’t look as if he was. “Listen, I think you need to sit down for a little bit before you attempt that escalator. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You don’t look much like a ghost.” Indeed, he was a little too solid, a little too there. She hadn’t been this aware of another physical body in months, maybe years. Then again, he was worth the attention, a really impressive sight with his broad shoulders, his height, his forearms... Why was she so obsessed with his arms? She’d never even paid attention to those in any of her former lovers.
She choked. Former lovers? What the hell was she doing equating this emotional turd of a man with someone she’d slept with?
“Glad to hear it. I’m not sure I agree with you.” Before she could respond to that odd comment, he went on. “Much as I’d like to get rid of you, I don’t want you breaking your neck on those steps. Come and sit down and I’ll get you a glass of water.”
She wanted to refuse. She just wanted to get away, away from this Twilight Zone existence, but when she pushed away from the wall, she felt the dizziness hit her again. “Okay,” she said reluctantly.
He held out his arm, the perfect gentleman, and she didn’t want to take it, but she didn’t want to collapse at his feet either. Touching him reluctantly, her dove-gray glove made her wince. Glancing around, she looked for her missing shoe.
“It’s down at the bottom of the escalator,” he said, reading her mind. Before she knew what, he was doing he’d pushed her against the wall, gently, leaned down and taken her ankle in one strong, warm hand. She jumped, but he had her, and he pulled off the other shoe, dropping it on the floor. She looked at her foot, at the dark, reinforced toe and heel of her pantyhose, and wanted to moan.
“You need me to carry you?” the man asked with little grace. “I can promise there are no nails or anything on the floor—I keep a clean workspace.”
“No!” she said a little too quickly. She was feeling lost and helpless already—being carted around by a blond giant would be the finishing blow. “Workspace?”
“I’m a dresser. I set up the window displays, the various arrangements around the store.”
He was far from her idea of a window dresser, and her mouth dropped open, but by then he’d escorted her back into the shadowy room where he’d been working, behind another set of doors to a back room with an old, beaten-down sofa. He settled her into it with surprisingly gentle hands. “I’ll get you some water.”
“A bottle of spring water if you have it,” she said wearily. “I’m allergic to some of the chemicals in the purified stuff.”
He spun back around, looking at her like she had two heads. “Water doesn’t come in bottles,” he said. “It comes from a tap. It’s that or nothing.”
“Water would be very nice,” she said weakly, refusing to think about New York City’s water supply.
He was back a moment later, an honest-to-God glass of water in his hand. Gorgeous hands, of course, she noticed as she stripped off the stupid gloves and took it from him. She shouldn’t be surprised.
She leaned back on the lumpy couch, letting out a deep breath. Her nemesis/savior grabbed a straight chair, flipped it on one leg and straddled it, setting his sharp blue gaze on her.
“So what’s the deal, lady?” he said. “You in trouble?”
“Stop calling me ‘lady.’ My name is Madison.”
He wasn’t impressed. “Like the avenue? That’s a stupid name.”
“What’s yours?”
“John.”
“That’s a boring name.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” he responded, unmoved. “So, Madison, answer me. Are you in trouble?”
She was in very deep trouble, if her silky dress and gray gloves and peculiar shoes had anything to do with it. “If I was?”
A shadow crossed his face. “Where’s the father?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“If he’s run out on you I’ve got some cop friends who can find him for you, make him do the right thing. You can’t have a baby on your own and you know it. You wouldn’t be able to get a job, live anywhere decent, your whole family would disown you.”
She blinked again. “I don’t have any family.” It was a ridiculous thing to say in the face of his bizarre warning.
There was still a cloud in his eyes. “That makes it easier. Tell me his name and they’ll find him for you. I mind my own business, but I draw the line when someone runs out on their responsibilities. Kids matter.”
“But...”
“A year ago, you could have said you’re a war widow—lots of girls did—but that’s not going to fly at this point. You’ve got no choice—”
“I’m not pregnant,” she finally managed to say.
The word seemed to startle him. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Then why are you fainting all over the place. Are you sick?”
In fact, she had to be out of her mind—she could think of no answer for her current situation, or anything to say to this man, and he shook his head pityingly.
“No family? You got any friends who can help you?”
She didn’t. That was the dismal, depressing truth—there was no one she could call to tell them she’d fallen down the rabbit hole. She automatically reached for her iPhone, but the slim pants she’d been wear
ing were gone, as was the incredibly expensive vintage Adrienne Vittadini leather satchel she’d carried. She looked around her. “Where’s my purse?”
“You didn’t have one. You just showed up looking like a lost waif. Is that it? Did someone rob you? Hurt you?” There was sudden icy-sharp tension in the room as his eyes raked down her legs. “Did someone...” Words seemed to fail him, and he let out an angry breath. “Did someone...hurt you?”
He looked like he was ready to do battle at the very thought, which should have warmed her, but she expected it had nothing to do with her. She was about to tell him that no one had robbed her, when she thought twice. Why didn’t she have her purse. What the hell is going on?
He was waiting for her answer. “I’m fine,” she said, a total lie. “I just blacked out. I need to go home.”
He looked unconvinced. “I’ll take you,” he said finally.
That was the last thing she wanted. She needed her life, familiar surroundings, not this strange man watching her out of far too knowing eyes. “I don’t...”
“I’m not letting you out on your own—next thing you know, you’ll be passed out in the middle of Thirty-Fourth Street. So, Miss Madison who says she’s not in trouble, you’re going to finish that water, wait right here while I get my coat, and I’ll escort you home. Where do you live?”
As if she’d tell the giant white rabbit where she lived! She picked the most exclusive neighborhood she could think of to throw him off. “Park Slope, Brooklyn.”
He cast another critical eye down her body. “You look a little too fancy for that part of town, sugar.”
“Do not call me sugar,” she said with a definite edge.
Shrugging, he rose, and even in the stupid high-waisted trousers with the leather suspenders he was quite...stimulating. Too bad he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a nice guy or an asshole. “Wait right here. It’ll take me a minute to get my jacket and coat, and I’ve got to shut down a few things. Can’t leave lights blazing while the store is closed.” There was something just the tiniest bit furtive in his eyes, and all Madison’s spidey senses started to tingle.
