by Liz Fielding
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Me, too.’
Nat switched on the radio as he drove back through thick swirling snowflakes that were beginning to pile up on the edges of the road. The footpaths were already white.
He’d hoped to catch an update about Henshawe’s missing fiancée-ex-fiancée-on the news, but it was all weather warnings and travel news and the bulletins focused on the mounting chaos as commuters tried to get home in weather that hadn’t been forecast.
She’d got lucky. But not as lucky as Henshawe. An embarrassing story was going to be buried under tomorrow’s headlines about drivers spending the night in their cars, complaints about incompetent weather forecasters and the lack of grit on the roads.
They’d probably be reunited and back on the front cover of some gossip magazine by next week, with whatever indiscretions she was accusing him of long forgotten, he told himself. Forget her.
By the time he returned to the store it was closing. The last few shoppers were being ushered through the doors, the cloakrooms and changing rooms thoroughly checked in a well rehearsed routine to flush out anyone who might harbour ideas of spending the night there.
He parked in the underground garage, removed the shoe from the glove compartment and walked through to the security office.
Bryan looked up as he entered.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘Not a sign. She probably slipped out under cover of the crowds. She’s certainly not in the store now.’
‘No.’ He looked at the shoe and, instead of dropping it in the lost property box, held onto it.
‘Are you going straight up to the tenth floor?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be in the office for a while. You’re working late?’
‘We’re a couple of men down with some bug that’s going around.’
‘Let me know if it becomes a problem.’
But it wasn’t the likelihood of staff shortages at their busiest time of year that was nagging at him as he headed for the lifts. It was something he’d seen, something telling him that, despite all evidence to the contrary, his fugitive hadn’t gone anywhere. That she was still here.
It was stupid, he knew.
She’d undoubtedly used the phone she’d been clutching in the hand she’d flung around his neck to call a friend, someone to bring her a change of clothes and whatever else she needed.
He needed to put the incident out of his mind. Forget the impact of her eyes, the flawless skin, long lashes that had been burned into his brain like a photograph in that long moment when he’d held her.
What was it? What was he missing?
He walked through the electrical department, but the television screens that had been filled with her larger-than-life-size image were all blank now.
Her hair had been darker in that photograph. She’d been wearing less make-up. It was almost like seeing a before and after photograph. The original and the made-over version. Thinner, the image expensively finished, refined, everything except a tiny beauty spot above her lip that could not be airbrushed out of reality…
He stopped.
The beauty spot. That was what he’d seen. He scanned his memory, fast-forwarding through everything he’d seen and done in the hours since that moment on the stairs.
And came skidding to a halt on the elf.
The one who’d been standing so still by the drinks machine while he was talking to Frank. She was the right height, the right shape-filling out the elf costume in a way it hadn’t been designed for. And she’d had a beauty spot in exactly the same place as the girl on the stairs.
Coincidence? Maybe, but he spun around and headed into the grotto.
While everyone else raced to change, get away as quickly as possible, Lucy dawdled and it had taken remarkably little time for the locker room to empty.
It was a little eerie being there on her own, the motion-sensitive lights shutting down all around her, leaving her in just a small area of light. And, while she was grateful to be off the streets, in the warm, she wasn’t entirely sure what to do next.
Where she would be safe.
While the locker rooms would be free of cameras-she was almost certain they would be free of cameras-there would undoubtedly be a security presence of some sort.
Would it be high-tech gadgetry? Motion sensors, that sort of thing. Patrols? Or just someone tucked up in an office with a flask of coffee, a pile of sandwiches and a good book while he monitored the store cameras?
At least she would be safe in here for a little while and she could use the time to take the shower she’d longed for. Wash off the whole hideous day. Wash off the last few months and reclaim herself.
And if someone did happen to come in, check that everyone had left, she could surely come up with some believable reason for staying behind to take a shower after work.
A hot date?
Actually, she did have one of those. Well, a date, anyway. Rupert didn’t do hot, but neither would he cancel the Lucy B launch dinner at The Ritz just because she’d caused him a little embarrassment. She had no doubt that his PR team had already put some kind of spin on that. Stress. Pre-wedding nerves.
Of course if she turned up in the elf costume-the paparazzi would certainly be on the job tonight-it would wipe the smug smile off all their faces.
For a moment she was sorely tempted but, recalling the scrum at the press conference, she decided to give it a miss.
No. If she needed an excuse for being in the shower so late, she’d stick to the second job story. Everyone needed extra money at Christmas and a waitress-her own particular preference when she’d needed the cash to finance her studies-had to be clean and fresh.
She reclaimed her dress from the locker and then, having folded her costume neatly and left it on the bench, she took a towel from the rack and stepped into one of the stalls.
The water was hot and there were shampoo and soap dispensers. Hastings & Hart staff were very well taken care of, she decided, as she pushed the pump for a dollop of soap. Maybe she should reconsider her career options.
Could being an elf in a department store be considered a career? What did Santa do for the rest of the year? And would she get to meet the boss again?
Cold shower, cold shower!
She squeezed some shampoo. Her hair didn’t need washing-she’d spent two hours in the salon having it cut and pampered earlier in the day-but she felt the need to cleanse herself from top to toe, rid herself of the past few months, and she dug in deep with her fingers, washing away the scent of betrayal, rinsing it down the drain.
Then, in no hurry to stop, she reached out to adjust the temperature a touch.
The grotto, Santa’s workshop, was deserted. Nat walked through to Frank’s office, hoping he might find a staff list, but the man was too well organised to leave such things lying about. Besides, he knew he had to be wrong. It had to be a coincidence. There was no way Lucy could have transformed herself into an elf.
It was ridiculous. He was becoming obsessed, seeing things.
Hearing things…
A deluge of ice water hit Lucy and she let out a shriek that would have woken the dead. She groped blindly for the control which, having spun at the merest touch, was now stuck stubbornly on cold.
She gave one last tug. The control knob came off in her hand and, freezing, she burst out of the shower stall, dripping, naked, eyes closed as she grabbed for the towel.
She wiped her face, took a breath, opened her eyes and discovered that she was not alone.
Nathaniel Hart-the man with his name above the front door-had obviously heard her yell. More of her ‘openness and lack of guile’, obviously. Not her best move if she wanted to keep below the radar.
She didn’t scream, despite the shock. Her mouth opened; her brain was sending all the right signals but nothing was getting past the big thick lump that was blocking her throat.
He took the control from her hand, reached into the shower stall, screwed it deftly back into place and turne
d off the water, giving her a chance to gather her wits and wrap the towel around her before he closed the door.
Then he helped himself to one, dried his hands and only when he’d tossed it onto the bench behind her did he give her his full attention.
‘Making yourself at home, Cinderella?’ he enquired after what felt like the longest moment in her life while a slow blush spread from her cheeks and down her neck, heating all points south until it reached her toes.
Cinderella.
He knew…
It took forever to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth, making her lips work.
She took a step back, slipped on a floor awash with cold water. Torn between grabbing for safety and hanging onto the towel, she made a grab for the shower door.
No doubt afraid that she’d bring that down on them, Nathaniel Hart reached for her arm, steadying her before the towel had slipped more than an inch.
An inch was way too much. The towel, which when she’d first picked it up had seemed perfectly adequate for decency, now felt like a pocket handkerchief.
‘This is the women’s locker room,’ she finally managed.
As if that was going to make any difference. This was his store and she was trapped. Not just shoeless this time, but ‘less’ just about everything except for a teeny, tiny towel that just about covered her from breast to thigh. Not nearly enough when this close to a man who’d sizzled her with a look when she’d been fully dressed.
He was looking now-which dealt with freezing…
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, finally managing to get her voice to work and going for indignant. She failed miserably. She just sounded breathless. She felt breathless…
With good reason.
She was naked, alone and at the mercy of a man who almost certainly meant her no good. But, far from fleeing, his touch was like an electric charge and all her instincts were telling her to forget modesty, let the towel fall and cooperate with whatever he had in mind. One hundred per cent. Nooooo!
She forced herself to take a step away, put some distance between them, get a grip. Regretting it the minute she did. There was something about his touch that made her feel safe. Made her feel…
‘And that’s not my name,’ she added, cutting off the thought before she lost it entirely.
‘No?’ He flipped something from his pocket and offered it to her. ‘If the shoe fits…’
He was still carrying her shoe?
‘What do you think this is?’ she demanded, ignoring the shoe. ‘A pantomime? I’m all through with the Cinderella thing, Mr Hart.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘Mr Alyson told me. You’re Nathaniel Hart and you own this store.’
‘I run it. Not the same thing.’
‘Oh.’ She wasn’t sure why that was better, but somehow it was. She was totally off billionaire tycoons. ‘I just assumed…’
‘Most people do.’
‘Well, if the name fits,’ she said and thought she got the tiniest response. Just a hint of a smile. But maybe she was imagining it. ‘What do you want, Mr Hart?’
‘Nothing. On the contrary, I’m your fairy godmother.’
She stared at him but said nothing. She was in enough trouble without stating the obvious.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘I promise you, you haven’t got a clue.’
‘You’re thinking where is the frilly skirt? Where are the wings?’
No… Not even close. ‘Trust me, it would not be a good look for you. Take my advice, stick with the pin-stripes.’
‘Well, I’m glad you take that view.’
The barest suspicion of a smile became a twitch of the lips, curling around her, warm, enticing. Tempting. Heating up bits that it would take a very long cold shower to beat into line and she was very glad indeed that he hadn’t got a clue.
‘Hastings & Hart takes its role as an equal opportunities employer very seriously,’ he assured her.
‘We have to take our fairy godmothers wherever we can find them in these enlightened days,’ she agreed, firmly resisting the temptation to fling herself into his arms and invite him to make free with his magic wand. Instead, she tightened her lips, keeping them pressed down in a straight line. A smile meant nothing, she told herself. Anyone could smile. It was easy. You just stretched your lips wide…
But he was really good at it. It wasn’t just the corner of his mouth doing something that hit all the right buttons. It had reached all the way up to his eyes and the warmth of it reached deep within her, turning her insides liquid.
She clutched the towel a little tighter. ‘I guess the real test comes with Santa Claus? Would you employ a woman for that role?’ she asked a touch desperately.
The lines carved into his cheeks became deeper, bracketing his mouth. And the silver sparks in his eyes had not been reflections of the Christmas decorations, she realised, but were all his own. It was all there now. Every part of his face was engaged and while it wasn’t a pretty smile, it was all the more dangerous for that.
‘Not my decision, thank goodness. Human Resources have the responsibility of employing the best person for the job and keeping me on the right side of the law.’
She tutted. ‘Passing the buck.’
‘There has to be some advantage to go with the name,’ he replied, ‘but, as far as fairy godmothers go, right now I’m not just your best option, I appear to be the only one.’
‘Oh?’ she said, putting on a brave front. If she was going down, she refused to be a pushover. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because if there had been anyone you could ask for help you wouldn’t be hiding out in Santa’s grotto dressed as an elf. You’d have used the phone you were carrying to call them.’
‘Who says I’m hiding?’ she demanded. ‘That I need help.’
‘The fact that you’re here, prepared to risk getting caught on the premises after closing, speaks for itself.’
She couldn’t argue with his logic. He had it, spot on, but she still had the backup excuse. ‘I’m just late leaving,’ she said. ‘I needed a shower before I start my other job.’
He shook his head.
‘You’re not buying it?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Oh, well. It was worth a shot.’ She managed a shrug even though her heart was hammering in her mouth. ‘So. What happens now?’
‘I congratulate you on your ingenuity?’ he suggested. ‘Ask how you managed to get yourself kitted out with an elf costume so that you could hide out in Santa’s grotto?’
‘I’m smart?’
‘Obviously. But, if you managed it, there are security issues involved.’
‘Oh, look, it wasn’t anyone’s fault,’ she said quickly. Clearly the game was up for her, but she couldn’t allow anyone else to suffer. ‘I was mistaken for a temp who was expected but never turned up and it was too good an opportunity to miss. Pam won’t get into trouble, will she? She was desperate. Not just desperate but sick,’ she stressed. ‘Well, you know that since you took her home.’
‘Don’t worry about Pam, worry about yourself,’ he said, the smile fading.
She shivered. Not from fear. This man was not a bully. He wasn’t crowding her, there was no suggestion of the physical threat that had seemed so real in the press conference. Why she’d run.
He was much more dangerous than that.
He could bring her down with a look. As if to prove it, he reached for a dry towel and draped it around her shoulders, assuming that she was cold. His touch tingled through her and she knew that all he had to do was put his hand to her back and she’d put up her hands, surrender without a struggle.
Fortunately, he didn’t know that.
‘What were you planning to do next?’ he asked, not lingering, but taking a step back, putting clear air between them.
‘Get dressed?’ she suggested.
‘And then?’ he persisted.
‘I thought I might bed do
wn in one of your tents.’ There seemed little point in lying about it. ‘I noticed them yesterday when I was Christmas shopping. I’ve never been camping,’ she added.
‘It’s overrated. Especially in the middle of winter.’
‘I don’t know. I could brew myself some tea on one of those little camp stoves. Fry a few sausages for my supper. I’d leave the money for the food on the till in the food hall.’ She clutched the towel a little more tightly against her bosom. ‘Maybe have a bit of a sing-song to keep my spirits up,’ she added a touch recklessly. ‘I did work for three hours for nothing. And I was planning to work tomorrow on the same terms. Bed and breakfast seems a reasonable exchange.’
‘More than reasonable,’ he agreed. ‘Which one did you have your eye on?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Which tent? I can recommend the one-man Himalayan. I’m told that it’s absolutely draught-proof.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, thanks.’
‘I’d strongly advise against the cooking, though. The security staff are based on the same floor and the smoke alarms are extremely sensitive.’
CHAPTER FIVE
LUCY swallowed hard. Was he joking? It was impossible to tell. When he wasn’t smiling, Nathaniel Hart could give lessons in how to do a poker face.
‘Well, thanks for the tip,’ she managed. ‘I’ve got a bag of crisps and a chocolate biscuit that I bought from the machine. They’ll keep me going.’
He shook his head and a lick of thick dark hair slid across his forehead.
‘That won’t do,’ he said, combing it back with long fingers. ‘Chocolate biscuits and crisps aren’t going to provide you with your five-a-day.’
Her five-a-day? She stared him. Unreal. The man was not only conspiring with her to trespass in his department store, but he was concerned that she was eating healthily. Consuming the government’s daily recommended five portions of fruit and vegetables…
Or had he already summoned Rupert and was simply amusing himself at her expense while he waited for him to arrive and remove her?
Of course he was. Why was she even wasting time thinking about it?
‘Who are you? The food police?’ she demanded crossly. At least that was the intent but his hand was still on her arm, his fingers warm against her goosepimply skin and she didn’t sound cross. She sounded breathless.