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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, virtual y black around the edges, and brimming with anger. Childlike long lashes.
    Chiseled, smal 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 Mudvil e hoping to forget about women for a while, and within hours of arriving, he already had his hands ful …literal y.
    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. Thankful y, the doors slid open automatical y.
    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 tal desk sat unattended in the reception area. He looked around for a place to set down his load, and moved toward a smal 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 al the water dripping from her onto the slick floor.
    She refused to behave. Stil 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 swel . 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 cal ed 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 rol ed her eyes toward Ian. “I was told that I’m accident prone.”
    The man turned to Ian, then his face lit up in surprise. “Wel , Mr. Bentley! I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon, but it’s good to see you.”
    Ian took the beefy hand Edmund proffered. “Hel o 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