“Hey, don’t cry. It’s going to be all right.”
Daniel Riverton put his arms underneath her. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of him and feel the banded muscle of his arms as he slid them beneath her.
For a moment Trixie had to shut her eyes against a wave of dizziness. When she opened them she expected she would have a more realistic perspective of her rescuer.
Instead her first impression deepened. Now she could see him fully, and he really was the most mouthwatering man she had ever seen.
She knew he really was incredibly, heart-stoppingly handsome. Add to that her every sense tingling with the blissful awareness of life’s glories that a close brush with catastrophe could bring, and Daniel Riverton was irresistible.
“Please stop crying. I’ve got you.”
Rescued by the Millionaire
Cara Colter
CARA COLTER lives in British Columbia with her partner, Rob, and eleven horses. She has three grown children and a grandson. She is a recent recipient of an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award in the Love and Laughter category. Cara loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her or learn more about her through her website: www.cara-colter.com.
To my friend Debbie Kepke, who put the “try” in triathalon. Thanks for allowing me to be part of the journey.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
THE PITTER-PATTER of little feet.
Daniel Riverton lay on the sofa contemplating that saying with utter dislike. It seemed to him he had always heard that expression spoken with affection, usually by his mother who seemed to hold out the hope, despite all the evidence to the contrary—and her considerable contribution to his cynicism about romance—that he was going to provide her with grandchildren someday.
His mother. Twenty-two text messages today. Who on earth had taught her to text, anyway?
Urgent. Please call. Are you avoiding me?
At least the pitter-patter of little feet was providing something of a distraction from that. But obviously that expression would never be used with affection by anyone who had tried living below apartment 602 Harrington Place for the past four days.
Obviously that expression would never be used, period, by anyone being subjected to the actual pitter-patter of little feet. At three in the morning, when the owners of said little feet should be in bed, fast asleep.
As far as Daniel could tell, the owners of said little feet had woken up at about the same time he was getting home from a long, productive and wonderfully challenging day of avoiding his mother’s phone calls and looking after business at his company, River’s Edge Enterprises. Today, he had put in fourteen hours, had a light dinner with friends and come home just wanting the most simple of pleasures: a good night’s sleep.
At two in the morning he had moved from his bedroom after it had become evident the little monsters from upstairs were jumping on a bed located somewhere directly above his head.
But the pitter-patter of little feet had followed him. For the past hour they had been running in a frantic, tight circle right above his new location on the sofa. The light fixture above him—Swarovski, apparently—was trembling and shuddering ominously.
The condominium manager, Mrs. Bulittle, had been unsympathetic about his complaints. “Yes, Mr. Riverton, it is an adult only building, but people are allowed to have children visit.”
This said as if he, Daniel, the victim of the pitter-pattering, was the nuisance, as if he had said children shouldn’t be allowed in the world, not asked for the right to quiet enjoyment in his own premises, heavy emphasis on the quiet.
Temporary premises, thank goodness. The Harrington was an older building, surrounded with lilacs, rather than the more modern aesthetic for landscaping. Still, it had a sought-after southwest Calgary location right on the edge of lower Mount Royal.
The circa 1970 apartments had been converted to condos. Despite Kevin’s extravagant upgrades to this unit, it was more than evident no one had given soundproofing a thought back in the good old days.
Was it even possible to soundproof against such an onslaught?
While he was feeling annoyed with expressions, Daniel decided to add “never look a gift horse in the mouth” to his list. Three in the morning was a great time to compile lists of trivial sayings and to look gift horses in the mouth.
It had seemed serendipitous when his best friend Kevin Wilson, owner of 502, had been going overseas on a photography assignment for three months at the very same time Daniel’s own premises—a very upscale loft conversion that was completely soundproof—was undergoing a major renovation.
At the very same time he was going into hiding from his mother.
He owned the building. His loft apartment was right above his business, and he was the only person who lived in the building, a fact he would be a great deal more grateful for