Fairytale Christmas: Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto / Her Holiday Prince Charming / A Princess by Christmas

‘And we do need to discuss your camping arrangements,’ he continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘because, even if you manage to evade the security cameras, I’m afraid the cleaners will spot you.’

‘They clean inside the tents?’

‘That’s probably a push of the vacuum too far,’ he admitted, ‘but they will certainly notice one zipped up from the inside. You don’t imagine you’re the first person to have that idea, do you?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. ‘Take your time. No rush,’ he said, surrendering her arm, leaving a cold spot where his hand had been, using it to take a phone from his pocket as he turned and walked away, finally leaving her to get dressed.

Appointments…

20:00 Camping out for the night in H&H outdoors

department.

20:30 Or maybe not.

Nat finished his call, then leaned back against the wall opposite the locker room door and waited, closing his eyes in an attempt to block out the image that was indelibly imprinted upon his mind.

Lucy Bright backing naked out of the shower stall, water pouring off her shoulders, back, the deliciously soft curve of her backside. Her determined chin as she’d faced him down despite the hot pink flush that had spread just about everywhere.

Her struggle not to smile, when a smile would, undoubtedly, have been in her best interests.

A drop of water sliding slowly around a curl released from its airy hold, hanging for a moment before it finally fell. Lying for a moment in the hollow above her collarbone before it was joined by another and had gathered sufficient weight to overcome inertia and trickle down between her breasts.

Smooth shoulders lifted in the merest shrug as she adopted a carelessly casual response to the awkwardness of the situation.

Like a swan, all appeared serene on the surface, while her brain had clearly been whirring like the freewheeling cogs of a machine as she tried to engage gear and figure out how to escape him for a second time. Work out her next move.

Or maybe his.

Good question. What exactly was he going to do?

Until five minutes ago, he’d thought it was simple. He would deliver her to friends and walk away. No more, no less complicated than driving Pam home this afternoon.

But it wasn’t simple. Simple had become a fantasy from the moment he’d touched her, looked into her green-gold eyes. From the moment he’d glimpsed her luscious curves.

While his head was demanding that he call a cab, dump her in it and send her on her way, do what he could to help without getting involved, his heart—mostly his heart—wasn’t having any of it.

That foolish organ demanded that he scoop her up, carry her to his apartment and keep her safe from harm.

Neither was an option.

It was clear that she didn’t trust him further than she could throw him, and why would she? In her shoes, he’d be expecting the police to arrive at any minute to remove her from the premises.

What he had to do was keep his head, keep his distance—despite arms aching to wrap her up, keep her safe—but, most important of all, keep her from running.

He had no idea what had caused the row with Rupert Henshawe, or why he’d sent his heavies after her, but he did know that while she was here, under his roof, no harm would come to her. And that, he told himself, was all that mattered.

He looked at the shoe he was still holding, hoping that without it she’d think twice about making a dash for it the first chance she got.

Not so easy with the store closed but she was right, she was smart and, like the involvement issue, he wasn’t banking on it.

We?

Lucy caught sight of herself in one of the mirrors and snapped her jaw shut. For a moment there she’d almost succumbed to the fantasy that he might be a good guy.

Perhaps the atmosphere in the grotto was rubbing off on her and, like the little girl in the lift, she wanted to believe.

Had they seen that in her? Rupert’s PR people. The longing for something that had always been out of reach. Not the glamour, the clothes, but something deeper. A need for love so desperate that she would be emotionally seduced by the fairy tale of the beast tamed by the innocent.

In other words, a sucker.

Because only an idiot would have fallen for it. She knew she wasn’t special. Not tall and elegant or the slightest bit gorgeous. She wasn’t an ‘It’ girl, or a model, or an actress. Nothing like the kind of woman billionaires were usually seen with. Not the kind of woman Rupert had dated in droves—even while remaining determinedly uncommitted—before he’d apparently been bowled over by her innocent charms.

So innocent that he’d insisted on waiting until they were married before they moved their relationship beyond a few kisses.

How many women would have been dumb enough to fall for that fairy tale?

Forget the still small voice in the back of her head. The fact that he found it so easy to resist temptation, the fact that she was perfectly happy to go along with it, wasn’t panting with frustration, should have sent not just warning bells clanging but klaxons wailing an ear-splitting warning.

It was so obvious, faced with reality, that she was in love with the idea of being in love, the fairy tale, rather than the man. While Rupert…

Well, his motives were clear enough.

He could have paid a celebrity to be the face, the figure to relaunch his fashion chain, but he wanted a real woman who he would transform with his new ‘look’. An ordinary woman.

Apparently she was a breath of fresh air. Real. That was how the PR people had described her in their report. Not a model or a star, but someone who every women in their sales demographic would instantly relate to, aspire to be. Would believe.

So far, so simple. And the rest of it had started as a throwaway line scribbled in the margins of a report.

And she’d fallen for it, believed him, because it had never once occurred to her that it was all a big fat lie. What, for heaven’s sake, would be the point of that?

Innocent was right.

The point, of course, was money. A lot of money. Now she knew the truth, she could bring the whole edifice crashing down. It would cost him millions and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

She dug out her phone and with shaky fingers she keyed in a tweet while she had a chance.

Lies, lies, lies…

She stopped. There was no signal. Had she been cut off? Or was it just because she was in the deepest part of the basement, surrounded by concrete? She’d had one a couple of hours ago by the coffee machine…

It didn’t matter. Whatever the cause, she was, for the moment at least, totally on her own.

Nothing new there. She’d been on her own for most of her life. And if she was trembling by the time she tugged a comb through her damp hair it was with anger rather than fear.

She was absolutely furious with Rupert for lying to her, with Nathaniel Hart for making her want to believe him, but most of all with herself for being so gullible, so stupid.

Diary update: Everything was going so well. I was safe for the night. All I had to do was keep my head down, stay out of the way of security patrols and I was home dry. Well, wet, actually, because I couldn’t resist taking a shower…

Oh, for goodness’ sake, she thought, closing the phone. What was the point?

She was up the creek without a paddle and going nowhere. At least not for the moment. Once she was out of the basement all bets were off, but for now the best she could do was get dressed and be ready to take advantage of the slightest opportunity.

She lifted the towel from her shoulders and began vigorously rubbing at her hair. The last thing she needed was pneumonia. In fact…She gave up on the hair and sorted through the pile of discarded elf clothes, picking out the tights, bootees and even the hat, pushing them into the depths of her bag.

The bootees weren’t going to be snow-proof, but they would be a lot better than bare feet.

Guilt warred with a sense of triumph as she finished towelling herself off. Triumph won as she stepped into fragile lacy underwear which would do nothing to keep the cold out. She fastened her bra and then reached for her dress.

Her hand met the bare slats of the bench and she turned to look.

Her dress, along with the towel tossed aside by Nathaniel Hart, had slipped to the floor.

She made a wild grab for it but both dress and towel had been lying there quite long enough to soak up water like a sponge and, as she lifted it from the floor, it dripped icy-cold water down her legs.

In desperation she squeezed it. Rolled it up in a dry towel. The towel got wet. The dress did not get noticeably drier.

It was the elf costume or nothing.

She groaned. She might be in a mess but the dress did things to her figure that the elf costume could never hope to achieve. She knew what effect the dress had on Nathaniel Hart. Wearing that, she had a chance of distracting him but, while her underwear would have undoubtedly done the job with bells on, she could hardly make her escape in a couple of scraps of lace.

Too late to do any good, she moved to the far end of the bench where it was dry and climbed back into the only warm clothes she possessed. The elf suit. The gorgeous stripy green tights. The tunic that was a little too tight. The neat little belt with the pouch to keep her acorns in. Or whatever it was that elves ate. The flat, floppy around the ankles bootees.

Terrific.

At least she could put on some make-up. And she wasn’t talking about freckles.

Five minutes later, lips pink, eyes smudgy, blusher discreetly applied and her damp hair released from the iron grip of hair straighteners and curling ridiculously around her head, she tugged on the tunic and sighed.

This was so not a good look. Her only hope was that some persistent paparazzo would snatch a snap of her leaving the store, being bundled into Rupert’s car.

Or did that come under the realms of fantasy, too? There was an underground car park and that was where he’d pick her up, out of sight. Drive her away in a car with blackedout windows. Or just shoved to the floor out of sight. No need for pretence.

She gathered her coat and bag, scared but determined not to let it show. Then, with her hand on the door, she paused. She still had the file and that gave her an edge. Bargaining power. Removing it from her bag, she stowed it in an empty locker, then looked around for a place to hide the key.

Once that was done, there was nothing more she could do but face the music—or, more accurately, the deliciously elegant Nathaniel Hart.

She gave one more tug on the hem of the tunic, reminding herself that it could be worse—at least she was wearing more than a damp towel. Actually, come to think of it, that might not be…

No. Telling herself to behave, be brave—she had more to worry about than how she looked—she took a deep breath and opened the door.

No poker face this time.

Between the elf costume and her wet hair sticking out at all angles, it was not her finest fashion hour, at least if the eyebrow gymnastics were anything to go by.

Making the most of a bad job, she pasted on a bright smile and gave him a twirl. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Does my bum look big in this?’

There was a long moment—too long-while he considered the matter and her smile began to wobble. What kind of idiot drew attention to her worst bits?

‘What happened to your dress?’ he finally asked, avoiding her question.

‘Are you referring to the world’s most expensive floor cloth?’ she responded, giving herself a mental slap for asking a question to which she already knew the answer.

‘I don’t know. Am I?’

‘The dress that some idiot man managed to knock into a freezing puddle with a badly tossed towel?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer that one. ‘You don’t think I’d be wearing this if there was any choice, do you?’

‘You were happy enough to grab it this afternoon,’ he reminded her, ‘although I have admit that it is rather—’

She glared at him, daring him to say the word tight.

‘—green.’ He opened the door that led into the electrical department. ‘It goes with your eyes,’ he added, taking her elbow as he fell in beside her. Not in a frog-marching way. Just a touch, a guiding hand, rather like a gentleman escorting a lady in to dinner in some Jane Austen movie, but she wasn’t fooled by that. Or his attempt at gallantry. She knew he was simply keeping contact so that if she decided to make a run for it all he had to do was tighten his grip.

She’d do it, too, at the first chance of escape.

For the moment, however, she forced herself to relax so that she wouldn’t telegraph her intentions. She’d already witnessed the lightning speed of his reactions when he’d stopped her from falling on the stairs. Lightning in every sense of the word. That moment while something seemed to fuse between them had been like a lightning strike. For a moment they had both been a little dazed. She wasn’t dazed now, though—well, not much—and carrying her kicking and screaming through the store was an entirely different kettle of fish. And if she decided to play hide and seek she might be able to hold out until morning.

Not so easy when the store was empty. There were cameras everywhere. But that worked both ways. His security people, the ones he’d warned her about, would be watching…

She realised that he was looking at her.

‘What?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing. I was just speculating on Frank Alyson’s response to the liberties you’ve taken with your elf costume.’ He sounded grave, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Your belt is a little too tight and your make-up is definitely non-regulation. Where are the rosy cheeks and freckles?’ he asked. ‘And you must know that you’re improperly dressed without your hat.’

Okay, he was teasing and, despite everything, she was sorely tempted to smile. Instead, she reminded herself that they were his security people. They would believe whatever he told them and she couldn’t deny that she was on the premises illegally.

Cool. She had to play it cool. Wait her chance.

‘So…what? He’ll feed me to the troll?’

‘Troll?’ he asked, startled into a grin and set off a whole new wave of sparks flaring through her body.

Maybe she could set off a fire alarm, she thought desperately, doing her best to ignore them. Or there were the cleaners. They would be arriving soon; he’d said so. They had to get in. And get out again.

‘It’s what he does to underachieving elves,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘But I’m off duty so I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with “improper”, at least until my dress dries,’ she said, as if her clothing disaster was the only thing on her mind. ‘Always supposing it survives the dunking.’

‘I’m sorry about the dress. For some reason I didn’t notice it.’

Well, no. He’d been too busy not noticing her towel slipping all over the place…

‘I’ll replace it, of course.’

‘It was a one-off. A designer original.’

‘Oh. Well, let’s hope it dries out.’

‘It had better. Everything else I own is packed up in a couple of boxes. Along with my life.’

The life she’d had before she met Rupert Henshawe. It hadn’t been very exciting, but it had been real. Honest. Truthful.

Her clothes, including the most expensive suit she’d ever bought, the one she’d bought for her interview at the Henshawe Corporation—she’d been so determined to make a good impression. It had done its job, but of course it hadn’t been good enough for Lucy B.

There was an ancient laptop she’d bought second-hand. All the letters were worn off the keys but it had seen her through her business course. A box of books for her college work. A few precious memories from her childhood.

She’d left pretty much everything else behind when the constant presence of the media on the doorstep of the tiny flat she’d shared with two other girls had made it impossible to do even the simplest thing. When even a trip to the corner shop for a bottle of milk had become a media scrum.

Her kettle, radio, her crocks and pots. The bits and pieces she’d accumulated since she’d left the care system.

She was now worse off than she’d ever been. No job, nowhere to live. She was going to have to start again from scratch.

How much did she have left in her old account? Enough for the deposit on a room in a flat share?

There had been a time when she’d have known to the last penny.

‘I didn’t plan this very well, did I?’ she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

‘I’ve no idea what you’ve done, Lucy.’

Nothing. She hadn’t done a thing…

‘I missed the start of the news bulletin but you wield a mean handbag.’

‘That man grabbed me,’ she protested. ‘He wouldn’t let me go.’

‘I wasn’t criticising. It must have been terrifying to be caught up in that kind of media mayhem. I didn’t catch the wrap up,’ he prompted. ‘As you’re aware, Pam collapsed and I was called away.’

‘Is she going to be okay?’ Lucy asked.

‘Just a seasonal bug. She should have stayed at home, but it tends to get hectic at this time of year.’

She glanced at him. ‘You saw me, didn’t you? When you were talking to Mr Alyson.’

‘I saw the costume,’ he said. ‘Not you. I was looking for a girl in a very sexy black dress.’

At least he didn’t deny that he’d been looking for her.

‘It was only later,’ he added, glancing down at her, ‘when I remembered your beauty spot, that I realised it was you.’

‘My what?’

‘Your beauty spot,’ he repeated, pausing, turning to face her. ‘Here.’

‘That’s not…’

Her voice dried as he touched his fingertip to the corner of her lip. He was close, his eyes were dark, slumberous as he looked down at her, and for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, finish what he’d started on the stairs.

Her heart rate picked up, hammering in her throat; all she could see was his mouth, bracketed by a pair of deep lines and, as his lower lip softened, she finally understood the depth of Rupert’s betrayal. Just how shockingly she had been fooled. Because this was how it should be. The entire body engaged, every cell focused on the desire for the touch, the taste of that mouth against hers. Nothing else. And, as a finger of heat spiralled through her, a tiny, urgent gasp escaped her lips.

The sound, barely audible, was enough to shatter the spell. He raised heavy lids, lifting his gaze from her mouth to her eyes and dropped his hand.

‘It’s j-just a mole,’ she said quickly, taking a step back, putting an arm’s length between them before straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin. ‘Rupert wanted me to have it removed. Just a little bit too warts-and-all ordinary for him, apparently.’

‘If Henshawe thinks you’re ordinary he needs to get his eyes tested.’

‘Does he?’ she asked, for a moment distracted by the unexpected compliment. But only for a moment. ‘Well, green striped tights do tend to make you stand out from the crowd,’ she said in an attempt at carelessness that she was a long way from feeling. And then wished she hadn’t as he gave her legs the kind of attention that they could do without at the moment.

‘True,’ he said, finally dragging his gaze away from them, ‘but I noticed you before you morphed into an elf,’ he reminded her as he retrieved her elbow and headed briskly for the stairs.

‘It’s hard to miss someone falling over their own feet right in front of you,’ she said, stumbling a little in the soft boots as she struggled to keep up with him.

He slowed, a consideration that she was sure neither Rupert nor his men would show her.

‘Of course I have spent the last few months being buffed and polished and waxed,’ she rushed on, trying not to think about how much ‘notice’ he’d taken of her. How close he’d just come to ‘noticing’ her again—this time in an empty store with none of the constraints of shoppers pounding past them. He was the enemy, for heaven’s sake, and while she wanted to throw him off the scent, she wasn’t entirely sure who would be distracting who…‘My hair has been streaked, my eyelashes dyed, my eyebrows threaded and I’ve lost weight, too.’

‘Don’t tell me. You had a personal trainer.’

‘Good grief, no. I’ve just been too busy to snack between meals.’ She gave him an arch look, ran a finger over one of her well-tended brows. ‘You have no idea how much time it takes to look this groomed.’

He glanced at her, taking a long look at her messy hair and clothes that not even a catwalk model could make look good.

‘Forget I said that,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ve been deprived of chocolate for too long and it’s affecting my brain.’

Suddenly desperate for the instant gratification of chocolate melting on the tongue, she stopped, forcing him to do the same, dug the chocolate finger biscuit out of her elf pouch—so much more satisfying than acorns—and unwrapped it. As she raised it to her mouth she realised that she had an audience and she snapped it in half, offering one of the fingers to Nathaniel Hart.

He shook his head, not bothering to hide a smile. And she was right. The distraction was mutual. ‘Your need is greater.’

She wasn’t arguing and she bit into it, struggling to contain a groan of sheer pleasure.

‘Better?’

‘Marginally. Don’t get me wrong,’ she said, licking her fingers—she’d been carrying the chocolate next to her body and it was soft. ‘I enjoyed it all. The gorgeous clothes. Being made over, every single bit of me being made as perfect as humanly possible without the intervention of surgery. Who wouldn’t?’

That, after all, was the dream she was selling. Buy your clothes from this store and you too can have all this.

‘Surgery?’

‘I drew the line at the boob job. And the spray tan. I like my orange in a glass. Or chocolate-flavoured.’

She tossed a glance in his direction, but he shook his head. ‘No comment.’

‘Oh, please. Everyone has an opinion.’ From the editor of a magazine who was desperate to do a step-by-step photo feature of a silicone implant—and had really struggled to hide her annoyance when she’d refused to play along—to the woman who did her nails. Everyone, apparently, wanted a bigger cup size. Everyone except her. She put her hands to her waist and pushed out her chest, straining the buttons to the limit. ‘Apparently my naturalness and lack of guile wasn’t, when push came to shove, quite enough. But that’s the Cinderella story, isn’t it? She had to be transformed before she was fit for the prince. All imperfections disappearing with a wave of a magic wand. Or the modern equivalent.’

He lifted an eyebrow.

‘Photoshop.’

‘But he still wanted her when he saw her as she really was. In her rags and covered with ashes from the hearth.’

‘Oh, please! He didn’t even recognise her.’ She looked at the elegant red suede shoe he was still carrying, then up at Nathaniel Hart. ‘Do you want to risk it?’ she asked. ‘If the shoe doesn’t fit, will you let me go?’

‘The shoe fell out of your bag, Lucy.’

‘Did you see it fall?’

‘Well, no…’

‘Then I believe that is what’s known in legal circles as circumstantial evidence.’

‘Not if I find the matching one in there.’

‘The matching one is jammed in a grating two streets away.’ Then, unable to bear the suspense, the teasing pretence a moment longer, ‘Shall we cut the pretence? How long have I got?’

His dark brows drew together in a puzzled frown. ‘I’m sorry? How long have you got for what?’

‘There’s no need to pretend. I know you’ve called him. Rupert,’ she added when his frown only deepened. ‘I saw you. As you left the locker room.’

‘The only person I’ve spoken to in the last twenty minutes—apart from you—is my chief security officer. To inform him that, rather than going straight to my office, I was still in the store.’