by Liz Fielding
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 n
o 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.’
They’d reached the Food Hall and he released her elbow, snagged a trolley and headed down the nearest aisle. Not Rupert?
Lucy firmly smothered the little flicker of hope that he was for real, ate the second finger of biscuit for comfort and went after him.
‘Nice try,’ she said when she caught up, ‘but you were following me. On the stairs.’
‘We were going in the same direction,’ he conceded, picking up a box of eggs, glancing back at her. ‘What made you look back?’
‘Sheer paranoia? When I ran out of that hotel I had a dozen or so people on my tail. I knew I wasn’t far enough ahead to have evaded all of them. I was trying not to draw attention to myself,’ she said. ‘Waiting for the hand on my shoulder.’
‘And you thought I was the hand?’
‘Aren’t you? I heard you tell Frank Alyson to keep a look out…‘ She faltered as he stopped by a shelf containing breakfast cereals. She was beginning to sound paranoid. Could she have got it wrong? That he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about…‘You will tell me if I’m making a total idiot of myself, won’t you?’
CHAPTER SIX
‘YOU’RE making a total idiot of yourself,’ Nathaniel said obligingly, ‘but it’s okay. You’re scared. I don’t know why and you don’t have to tell me. And I had the people following you escorted from the store.’
‘You did? But how did you know?’
‘They weren’t discreet.’ The muscles in his jaw tightened momentarily. ‘Of course it’s likely they were replaced but you should be safe enough now that the store is closed. They’ll have to accept that you aren’t inside and go away.’ He continued to examine the shelf. ‘Be glad to in this weather, I should think.’
‘I suppose.’
‘As for me, I was just doing my afternoon round of the store. It was pure chance that I happened to be following you up the stairs. What’s your favourite cereal?’ he asked, looking back at her.
‘Mr Hart…’
‘Nat. This one looks interesting,’ he said, taking a box from the shelf. ‘It has fruit pieces and something called clusters.’
‘Nathaniel…’
‘What are “clusters”?’
‘Not one of your five-a-day,’ she snapped, beginning to lose it. No. She’d lost it the minute he’d looked at her. He was looking at her now and her mouth dried. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I’ve never bought fancy breakfast cereals in my life. I always have porridge.’
‘Always?’
‘It’s cheap, filling and good for you.’ And, even when you had a platinum credit card with your name on it, old habits died hard.
‘It also requires a saucepan and heat,’ he pointed out.
‘I was quite content with the crisps and the chocolate.’
‘You’ve eaten the chocolate,’ he reminded her, replacing the fancy cereal with its fruit and clusters on the shelf. ‘Porridge it is.’
‘No! I don’t want anything.’
But he’d tossed a smart tartan box into the trolley.
It bore about as much similarity to the jumbo pack of own-brand oats she bought from the supermarket as the Lucy B version of the cashmere dress she’d abandoned, and she was sure the packaging reflected the price.
‘And, just so there’s no misunderstanding,’ he continued, scanning the shelves as they moved on, ‘the only thing I was asking Frank to keep an eye open for was anyone else showing signs of the bug that laid Pam low.’
‘But-’
‘The last thing I need at this time of year is an epidemic. Staff passing it on to the children visiting the grotto.’
She looked up at him, searched his face. He submitted patiently to her scrutiny, as if he understood what she was doing. He looked genuine but so had everyone else she’d met in the last few months. All those nice people who had been lying to her.
She could no longer trust her own judgement.
‘Can I believe you?’
‘It doesn’t really matter what I say, does it? If I’ve called Henshawe to tell him where you are there is no escape. If I haven’t, then you’re safe. Only time can set your mind at rest.’
‘So,’ she asked, a wry smile pulling at her lip, ‘is that a yes or a no?’
His only response was to reach for a bottle of maple syrup and add it to the trolley.
‘Suppose I insisted on leaving?’ she persisted. ‘Right this minute.’
‘I’d find yo
u some warm clothes and then drive you wherever you wanted to go.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, interesting though that outfit is, I imagine you’d rather leave wearing something that doesn’t look as if you’ve escaped from a pantomime.’
Lucy discovered that she couldn’t speak.
‘Because you’re under my roof, Lucy. Staff, temp, customer, you’re my responsibility.’
She shook her head in disbelief.
‘You’re afraid I’d trick you? That I’d take you to him?’
He didn’t appear to take offence which, considering the way she’d been casting doubt on his character, was suspicious in itself and Lucy shook her head again. Her entire world had been turned upside down for the second time in months, but this time not for the good.
‘I can’t trust anyone. I thought I knew Rupert. I thought he cared for me. I don’t and he doesn’t. The only thing he appears to care about is his profit and loss statement.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t know Henshawe, other than by reputation,’ he continued when she didn’t say anything. ‘What I’ve read in the financial pages. Frankly, he’s not a man I’d want to do business with, but love can change a man.’
‘Well, that’s just rubbish and you know it,’ she declared. ‘The only time you can change a man is when he’s in nappies.’
She saw him pull his lips back tight against his teeth, doing his best not to smile. His eyes let him down.
‘It’s not funny!’ But she found herself struggling with a giggle. ‘Rupert Henshawe is not, and never was, in love with me. What we had was not a romance, I discovered today, but a marketing campaign. That’s why I gave him back his ring.’
‘A masterpiece in understatement, if I might say so. You have a good throwing arm, by the way. Have you ever played cricket?’
‘They showed that on the news?’ She groaned, mortified at the spectacle she’d made of herself. Then she sighed. ‘What does it matter? It’ll be on the front page of every newspaper tomorrow morning. The only story about our relationship that wasn’t carefully stage-managed by his PR team.’