Manhunting in Mississippi. Stephanie Bond

      Piper conjured up a smirk. “What are my options?”

      “I could carry you,” he said simply, one side of his mouth drawing up into a lopsided smile.

      Her heart lodged near her throat at the prospect and time stood still for an instant. His gaze locked with hers and Piper swallowed painfully. They might have been captured in their own little snow globe, separated from the rest of the world by some transparent barrier. Rain drummed on the umbrella and water ran around their feet. Piper’s tongue felt thick, but she wasn’t sure if it was swollen from biting herself or if she’d suffered brain damage from the combined knocks to her head.

      “N-no,” she stammered. She would already be the laughingstock when she walked into her office—she’d never live it down if she arrived high in the arms of a stranger. “I’ll walk.”

      “That might be difficult.” He shifted and fighting a smile, he held up the heel to one of her pumps.

      Her heart sank. “I’ll crawl,” she amended.

      “Come on,” he urged, turning her toward the building. “I owe you one.”

      “You certainly do,” Piper said briskly, but his throaty chuckle relaxed her slightly. He bore more of her weight than she did as they made their way across the short walkway and up a sweeping set of limestone steps. Piper’s vital signs went haywire and she fluctuated between wanting the encounter to end and wishing for another lap around the grounds on the arm of this man.

      His driving skills aside, this was a man worth hunting. Tall, solidly built from what she could see, nice dresser. Piper frowned. He obviously was not from Mudville—hmm, that could be a problem. Still, she was thrilled that she’d managed to stumble over such a prize specimen so early in her hunt. Phrases from her grandmother’s guide popped into her head and she searched for something brilliant to say that would erase the impression she’d given him.

      But her romantic musings came to a screeching halt when she glanced down at his left hand. Winking back at her, mocking her from his third finger was a very gold, very sparkly, very substantial-looking wedding band.

      Her quarry had been bagged by someone else.

      Piper suddenly felt cold, wet and miserable. Even if she did need the practice, she wasn’t inclined to waste her fledgling feminine wiles on a married man. She set down her foot wearing the good shoe on the top step, then felt the rain-soaked heel snap off. The pain in her ankle surpassed any of the injuries she’d received in the last fifteen minutes. She howled, her dignity long gone.

      Ian felt his clumsy companion lurch sideways, and bent his knees to accommodate her weight, such as it was. His flash of irritation was replaced by concern at her high-pitched yelp. At least they had progressed to an overhang, so he abandoned the umbrella to clasp her other arm.

      “My ankle, my ankle, ow, ow, ow,” she whimpered, holding her right foot off the ground. With the white plastic bag tied around her head, her shimmering eyes and her drenched, dripping clothes, she looked pitiful.

      “Hold still,” he said, bending to lift her into his arms.

      “No,” she protested, pushing at his chest with laughably tiny hands.

      “Hold still,” he insisted, swinging her up, “before you break your little neck.” She gasped with indignation. Ian pressed his lips together and stared straight ahead. He concentrated on the few remaining steps into the building to keep his mind off the fact that his hands were full of very attractive woman. The “little” had just popped out. Petite and elflike, she could be anywhere between her early twenties and mid-thirties. But she had a mouth like a teenager, and seemed just as flighty.

      If Blythe Industries was riddled with ditzy employees, maybe he should rethink their business liaison. Perhaps this project would be better off in the hands of the midsize food plant he worked with in Peoria.

      “I can walk, thank you.” She moved against him, struggling like a soaked kitten.

      Glancing at her was a mistake—he nearly stumbled when he looked into her eyes. Pale blue, virtually black around the edges, and brimming with anger. Childlike long lashes. Chiseled, small features, with dark, spiky hair sticking out from under her makeshift rain bonnet. And her wet wriggling was doing things to his body. “We’re almost there—you’re making things worse,” he said tightly. Much worse. He’d come to Mudville hoping to forget about women for a while, and within hours of arriving, he already had his hands full…literally.

      He dragged away his gaze to look around for someone to open the double doors heralding the entrance to Blythe Industries, but no one else was in sight. Thankfully, the doors slid open automatically.

      About two dozen people loitered in the two-story lobby, talking, waiting for the elevator, stamping the rain from their feet onto pale marble tile. A few people drifted in through another entrance, directly opposite the one he and Miss Mishap had chosen. A tall desk sat unattended in the reception area. He looked around for a place to set down his load, and moved toward a small cluster of couches and chairs.

      Meanwhile, his load was caterwauling, “Put…me…down!”

      A few heads turned at the obvious distress in her voice, and his irritation flared. How like a woman to bite the hand trying to feed her.

      “Be quiet,” he snapped, “before I drop you on your wet backside.” Indeed, the going was precarious with all the water dripping from her onto the slick floor.

      She refused to behave. Still pressing against his chest, she shouted, “Put me down!”

      He did. Ian dropped her unceremoniously onto the most absorbent-looking couch in the lobby. She bounced twice on her behind, arms flailing, eyes angry.

      “There,” he pronounced, removing a handkerchief to wipe his own hands. His wet suit sleeves and the front of his shirt, however, were beyond patting dry.

      “Thank you,” she said with a clenched jaw, trying to sit up. She reached forward to massage her ankle, which had already begun to swell. Despite her ungrateful attitude, Ian winced in sympathy. She needed medical attention.

      A stout, middle-aged man broke from the staring crowd at the elevators, his stride purposeful. Ian recognized Edmund Blythe from the meetings in Chicago, where they had signed a sizable contract. “Piper, is that you? Good Lord, what happened?”

      In wet stocking feet, the woman he called Piper looked up from the couch. She tore off the plastic bag, revealing choppy short, dark hair. Only someone with her incredible bone structure could have carried off the minimal hairstyle. “Good morning, Edmund.” She rolled her eyes toward Ian. “I was told that I’m accident prone.”

      The man turned to Ian, then his face lit up in surprise. “Well, Mr. Bentley! I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon, but it’s good to see you.”

      Ian took the beefy hand Edmund proffered. “Hello again, Mr. Blythe. I suppose I was anxious to see your operation firsthand.”

      “And oversee the creation of your new dessert,” Mr. Blythe added with a knowing smile.

      Relenting with a nod, Ian said, “This is an important project.”

      Blythe grinned. “That’s why we have our chief food scientist ready to begin work on your assignment today—under your supervision, of course.”

      “I’m impressed with the quality of my Italian restaurants’ desserts. I’m anxious to meet him.”

      Ian hadn’t meant to ignore the wet bundle he’d carried into the building, but he was eager to get on with business. At the sound of her clearing her throat rather loudly, though, he glanced down to find her staring at him, wide-eyed.

      “Her,” she said, smirking.

      “I beg your pardon?” Ian asked.

      “The chief food scientist,” she said, still smiling. “It’s a her.” She slung moisture off her