Caught against his chest, she watched in horror as metal ground down against metal. The forklift shuddered, crumpling slowly, with her mixer caught firmly beneath.
The man blew out a breath. “Something tells me I’m going to regret this.” He set Gina back on her feet, scanned the out-of-season tools and supplies lining the walls and grabbed a thick rope.
He circled the mixer and pulled hard, bending to the task, his face taut and arms rigid. As the door came lower, the space was plunged into shadow.
Gina heard the scrape of metal as she searched vainly for any kind of wall control panel or power button, but finally she had to give up. “Forget it,” she called. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He didn’t seem to hear, so she gripped his shoulder and yelled over the growl and grind of metal. “Let it go. It’s not your problem.”
As her eyes grew accustomed to the shadowed light, she saw that he had worked the big steel mixer several inches closer, but it wasn’t far enough. She flinched as the crucial piece of equipment was mangled by the door.
Finally the metal stopped moving. She took a shaky breath and sank against the wall, frantically trying to plan around the loss of the mixer.
“Are you okay?” The man’s voice was cool, precise. He’d recovered incredibly fast, Gina noticed. He wasn’t even breathing hard now. She, on the other hand, was a total wreck.
“Okay as in not hurt or maimed? I think so. Okay as in anticipating a happy life and a prosperous future? Definitely not. I’ve got two hundred people upstairs waiting for me and that mixer, and I am so screwed.” She looked up, stabbing a hand through her hair. “Thanks for trying, Mr.—”
“Trace.”
“Gina,” she said without really thinking. She stuck out one hand and felt a tug at her sleeve. Furious, she tried again.
No luck.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t move, that’s what’s wrong.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
SHE LEANED RIGHT and left. This time there was a definite snag on her right side.
Trace moved closer. “Stay still.”
“But I—”
His hard body nudged hers. “Stop twisting around.” He ran a hand along the wall and then across her shoulders.
“What’s wrong? What did you find?”
“Give me a minute here. The light’s not great,” he said shortly. “I’ll get my cell phone.”
“Check the left pocket of my skirt,” Gina shot back. “Outside corner right under the snap.”
She felt his hand slide along her arm and into her pocket, searching to the bottom.
“How deep are these pockets?” He searched some more. “This feels like plastic. Do you always carry thermometers in your cargo pockets?”
“Knitting needles. Hand them over.” Gina turned a knob on the bottom of the long piece of plastic and instantly her hand was bathed in a blue-white glow. “They’re for knitting in the dark. I never leave home without them.” She held up the bright needle, trying to look over her shoulder, but Trace moved her back against the wall and angled the needle downward.
“I think I see the problem. A big piece of your sweater is caught in the joints of the loading-bay door. It must have happened when you were trying to find the control.”
She would never, ever knit bell sleeves again, Gina swore. She gave an experimental tug with her arm.
The man was right. Her sleeve was caught in the cross joint.
“You want me to cut it?”
Her heart fluttered. “Hand dyed cashmere yarn? I don’t think so. Do you have any idea what cashmere costs?”
His lips curved slightly. “In that case, I guess we’re stuck here until someone comes.”
We. Not you.
That was nice.
Gina’s eyes narrowed. Only maybe the man wasn’t heroic. Maybe he was a psychotic stalker who waited for opportunities to get women in deserted places and this was definitely deserted. After that he’d—
She remembered how he’d caught her cake boxes and balanced both of them carefully.
Nah. He was hero material, all right.
“Actually, there is another way to handle this,” he said thoughtfully.
“Anything. I’ve got a master class to give upstairs.” Desperation made her voice shrill.
He crossed his arms. She felt his gaze brush her face, her chest.
“Then take off the sweater.”
She stared at him. This was heading right into psycho territory after all. He even had a faint smile playing around his lips. Better nip this line of thought in the bud.
“Forget it. I can’t take the sweater off.”
“Why? I’ll help you. The sleeve doesn’t look that tight.”
“It’s not the sleeve.” Gina took an angry breath. “There’s not—I’m not—” She frowned at the wall. “I’m not wearing anything underneath the sweater. Is that clear enough for you?”
His mouth twitched. “I can see how that would be a little problem.”
If the man laughed, she was going to hit him in the face.
But he tilted up her knitting needle, studied the sweater and rubbed his jaw. “When did you say your class was supposed to start?”
“Five minutes ago.” Damn, damn, damn. She had to think. “My cell phone is in my purse. Call security and get them down here.”
He fumbled for her phone. “I don’t think they’ll get here fast enough to be much help.”
Gina blew a strand of hair off her forehead. “I can’t walk into my class naked. Well, half naked.”
“Wear my jacket. You can find a cook’s uniform somewhere in the kitchen, can’t you? That should tide you over.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that? It just might work.
“That’s good. But my sweater will still be hanging here.” No way was she losing all that excellent cashmere. The yarn had been worth a week’s wages.
“I’ll come back for it. I’ve got to track down a case of vintage champagne. After that I’ll drop off your sweater wherever your class is meeting.”
She
