Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto

by Liz Fielding

  ‘It’s odd, Lucy, but that’s exactly what I told myself this afternoon when I delegated one of my staff to find you, return your shoe, offer you a pair of tights, whatever else you needed. Leave it to someone else to deal with, I thought. Don’t get involved.’

  ‘You did that?’ For a moment she felt as if she was bathed in a warm blast, like opening an oven door. ‘Well, I guess I will need a pair of tights-’

  ‘I was still saying it when I had Henshawe’s bullies evicted from the store,’ he continued, taking her face in his hands.

  ‘-and shoes. The boots are great, but-’

  ‘And all the time I was driving Pam home and couldn’t think of anything but the fear in your beautiful kitten eyes.’ Instinctively, she closed them and felt the butterfly touch of his thumbs brush across her lids. His fingers sliding through her hair as he cradled her head. ‘I was telling myself to forget it. Whatever it was. That it wasn’t my problem. Don’t get involved-’

  ‘But, as to the rest,’ she cut in, forcing her eyes open, refusing to succumb to his touch, his voice so soft that it seemed to be lost somewhere deep in his throat.

  Forcing herself to take responsibility for what had happened. Step away.

  ‘As to the rest,’ she said as her retreat was halted by the bulk of the island unit, ‘I’ll swallow my pride, borrow some clothes and call that taxi. Go to the nearest police station and tell them the truth.’

  It was fraud. A crime…

  He’d moved with her, his hands still cradled her head, his train of thought unbroken.

  ‘-don’t get involved. Telling myself that by the time I got back you’d be long gone.’

  ‘And in the morning,’ she persisted, shutting her ears to temptation, ‘you can tell the police that I’m not in the store.’

  ‘And that’s not being economical with the truth?’

  ‘Only slightly.’

  ‘The truth, since you’re so keen on it, Lucy Bright, is that I was involved from the moment I saw you ahead of me on the stairs. Your hair floating like a halo around your head.’

  ‘Well, that’s history…’

  She was trapped against the island. His hands were a gentle cradle for her face, his body was warming her from breast to knee, the silver glints in his eyes were molten.

  ‘Now I just look like Harpo Marx…’

  Not that she could have moved. Every cell in her body had given up, surrendered and, as his gaze slid down to her lips, it was only the counter at her back that was holding her up.

  ‘Your neck…’ His thumb brushed her jaw as his hand stroked her neck in a slow, lazy move that sent a wave of heat rippling down to her toes. ‘Did you know that the nape of the neck is considered so erotic that geishas leave it unpainted?’

  She managed a small noise, nothing that made any sense because, forget necks, napes or any other part of the anatomy, his voice, so low that only her hormones could hear, was doing it for her.

  ‘The way your dress was slipping from your shoulder-’

  ‘It was just a look,’ she said in a last-ditch attempt to hang onto whatever sense she possessed. ‘A once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated look-’

  ‘What are you prepared to risk on that, Lucy Bright? Truth, dare, kiss, promise…’

  Her desperate protestations died as, not waiting for her answer, his eyes never leaving her lips, Nathaniel looked at her with that same intensity, the same liquid silver eyes that had turned her core molten, before slowly lowering his mouth to hers.

  She watched in slow motion, knowing that it was going to happen, knowing that all she had to do to stop it was answer him.

  Say just one word.

  If only she could remember what it was. But her brain was lollygagging around somewhere. Out to lunch. Make that dinner…

  She slammed her eyes shut a second before he made contact and her world was reduced to touch. The soft warmth of a barely-there kiss. A tingle as her lips demanded more. A breath-his, not hers. She’d sucked air in and it was stuck there as she waited for the promise.

  The warmth became heat.

  Her lower lip began to tremble.

  Someone moaned and her tongue, too thick for her own mouth, reached for his. Touched his lip. Another moment of this torture and she was going to slither between his arms and melt into a messy puddle on the floor at his feet.

  Was this the kiss? The promise? Or was it about the truth?

  Right now, it didn’t seem to matter much. It might be ‘just a kiss’ but she wanted it. Wanted it and everything that followed.

  ‘You win,’ she murmured against his mouth, her eyes still closed.

  ‘Not entirely,’ he replied, his voice more a growl than a purr as his hand abandoned her neck to capture her hip, pull her close, as the kiss became the briefest reality before he took a step back, leaving her hot and hungry for more. ‘But you most certainly lost and I’m not going to be a gentleman about it. I’m claiming my forfeit.’

  At which point her knees gave up the struggle and buckled beneath her.

  Nat caught her as she slithered into his arms. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘it isn’t going to be that bad.’

  Her throat was thick and she had to clear it. ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘What did you think? That I was going to demand your body?’

  ‘Noooo…’ Dry and thick with disappointment which if she could hear, so could he…’ The police,’ she muttered, grabbing for reality. ‘We have to call them now.’

  ‘You surrendered, Lucy. I won. Remember? Or shall we try that again?’ He mistook her hesitation for reluctance. ‘I’m going to call my lawyer,’ he said, one arm propping her up, the other retrieving his phone from his jacket pocket. ‘He’ll call the police, reassure them that you’re safe. That you’ll be available for an interview, at a time convenient to you, if they want to talk to you.’

  ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘I can do that.’

  And he did. Right after he’d caught her behind the knees and carried her through to her bedroom, set her down on the bed and pulled off the boots, taking the three pairs of socks she was wearing with them.

  He’d stared at her toes for a moment, then flipped open the phone, got some lawyer out of his bed and told him exactly what he wanted. Not just straightening things out with the police-without revealing her whereabouts-but the retrieval of her belongings from the apartment in the Henshawe house.

  ‘I’m running up a big bill, here,’ she said when he’d finished.

  ‘True. You’re going to have to work right through until Christmas Eve.’

  ‘That’s not work. That’s fun.’

  He grinned. ‘Christmas Eve two thousand and twenty.’

  ‘That big, huh? And if I volunteer to cook Christmas lunch for you?’

  ‘Christmas Eve two thousand and fifty.’ And his smile faded. ‘Here,’ he said, handing her the phone. ‘Keep this with you. Post the rest of your photographs. Give Henshawe a sleepless night.’

  She would rather give Nathaniel one, she thought, but for once held her tongue, just watching him as he adjusted a dial on the wall and the glass darkened, blotting out the lights, the planes passing overhead.

  ‘I’ll find you something to sleep in.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘No doubt, but I’m not sure my blood pressure can take the strain.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Diary update: Okay, this is the last entry for today. I just peeled off the jeans, which were pretty wet around the knees. The snow had got down my neck, too. I hadn’t noticed until Nathaniel left me and suddenly I felt horribly cold, so now I’m dictating this as I lie back in a gorgeously scented bubble bath…

  LUCY paused as she heard a tap on her bedroom door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Room service.’

  ‘I didn’t-’ she began, but the bathroom door opened a crack-it hadn’t occurred to her to lock it-and a glossy Hastings & Hart carrier appeared, dangling from long masculine fingers.


  ‘Pyjamas, slippers and a selection of other female necessities, madam.’

  She swallowed. ‘Nathaniel…’

  ‘Two thousand and fifty-one,’ he said, before any of the things bubbling up from her heart could spill over and embarrass them both.

  ‘Two thousand and fifty-one? They had better be designer necessities,’ she replied. Keeping it light, light, light…

  ‘Down to the last button,’ he assured her, slipping the handles over the door knob, where it would be safe from accidental spills-the man learned fast-and closing the door. She slid down a little lower in the bath, grinning to herself.

  She waited a minute, then clicked ‘record’ and continued her diary update.

  Right, where was I? Oh, thawing out in the bath. It’s impossible to describe today, except that I’d be happy to cook Nathaniel Hart’s Christmas dinner until the end of time. He is unbelievably special. And, I’m certain, deeply unhappy but tomorrow, as Scarlett O’Hara so famously said, is another day. Maybe it will bring a few answers. To my problems. And to his.

  That done, she checked her tweets.

  @LucyB Loved the snow lady! One of the London Parks, right? Hyde, Regency, Green? More clues! #findLucyB

  jenpb , [+] Wed 1 Dec 23:16

  @LucyB Hyde Park. I can just make out the Serpentine Bridge in the background. U okay, sweetie? #findLucyB

  WelshWitch , [+] Wed 1 Dec 23:17

  She blinked, then quickly keyed in a response, posting the pictures Nathaniel had taken.

  @jenpb Hyde Park it is. Here’s a pic of a snow angel I made. Tucked up safe, thanx, WW. #findLucyB

  LucyB , Wed 1 Dec 23:51

  @WelshWitch Safe & well fed as u can see in this pic. Who needs dinner at the Ritz? Night tweeps. More in the morning. #findLucyB

  LucyB , Wed 1 Dec 23:54

  Lucy climbed out of the bath, wrapped herself in the bathrobe, brushed her teeth, did the whole cleanse, tone, moisturise thing with the stuff provided.

  Only when she was done with all that did she allow herself the pleasure of opening the carrier.

  The pyjamas were white-obviously-but they were spattered with candy-red hearts and she couldn’t wait to scramble into them. Fasten the heart-shaped buttons.

  The slippers, fuzzy soft ones that you pushed your feet into, matched them. There was even a wrap that tied with a big red bow.

  Further down the bag she found underwear. Yummy, silky, lacy underwear. And, right at the bottom, wrapped in tissue, a pair of shoes. Red suede with peep toes, a saucy bow and very high heels.

  Not exactly like the ones she’d been wearing, but she couldn’t have chosen anything better for herself and she was wearing a great big grin as, her arms full of wrap and undies and shoes, she opened the door. And, for the second time that day, had a heart-stop moment as she saw Nathaniel, this time stretched out on her bed in a pair of worn-thin joggers, a T-shirt so old that whatever had been written on it had long since faded out, hair damp from the shower, bare feet crossed at the ankle.

  Exactly the kind of eye candy that any woman would be delighted to find waiting for her after a delicious soak in a scented bath.

  Her pleasure was somewhat dimmed by the fact that he was reading the file she’d carefully hidden in the locker room, although she had to admit that the glossy black cover nicely matched the decor.

  ‘I could have been naked,’ she exclaimed. Again.

  ‘A man doesn’t get that lucky twice in one day,’ he said, looking up, holding her gaze for so long that she forgot all about the file. ‘But cute will do to be going on with.’

  ‘The jammies are sweet,’ she said when her heart had settled back into something like its normal rhythm and she could breathe again. ‘I particularly love the red. It exactly matches my toenails.’ She wiggled them. ‘I had these done this morning. Pam made me remove the colour from my fingernails, but she missed these.’

  ‘I can’t think how,’ he said, ‘but I’m glad she did.’ Then, ‘Tell me, do you talk to yourself in the bath?’

  ‘I was updating my diary. There was a lot to say.’

  ‘It’s been a busy day for Lucy B.’

  ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz… Do you want to hear what I said about you?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  She told him anyway. ‘I said that you were a great kisser, unbelievably special and deeply unhappy. I seem to have missed your talent with a lock pick.’

  ‘I’m working on the happiness thing,’ Nat said, grateful for the distraction of the file. ‘And I didn’t have to pick the lock. We keep a duplicate set of keys to the lockers. People are always losing them.’

  ‘So? What? You wanted to check my story? See if I was telling the truth?’ Her grin was long since history.

  ‘If I’d even suspected that you were lying, Lucy, I’d have read the file in my office. I simply wanted to be sure that you had cast iron proof of Henshawe’s guilt.’

  ‘And have I?’

  ‘Yes, fortunately. It’s in the focus group section. The part where someone raised the fair trade question. There are detailed notes from the individual tasked to look into it and come up with a plan that would make them look good without compromising profits.’

  ‘But-’

  ‘There were a number of options. Higher prices. Lower margins. Cheaper materials. Or the handy solution that he went for. There’s a handwritten note at the bottom over Henshawe’s initials. “Option Four. Get on with it.”’

  Nat held it up for her to see and she sat down heavily on the side of the bed. ‘So that’s it, then. Lucy B down the pan.’

  ‘Wishing you hadn’t opened Pandora’s box?’ he asked.

  ‘Good grief, no.’ She looked down at him. ‘You can’t think that.’

  ‘But you’re not happy,’ he said, leaving the question unanswered.

  ‘How can I be? People are going to get hurt. Not Rupert. I don’t care if he rots in jail,’ she declared fervently and the last shreds of tension, doubt left him. She wasn’t going to be seduced by the glamour, the millions. Her only thought was for the people who would be hurt when she brought the company down.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he urged, dropping the folder and stretching out an arm, inviting her to lean back against his shoulder.

  ‘It’s always the innocents who pay,’ she said, snuggling against him. ‘I may have hated working there but hundreds of people-ordinary people-rely on the Henshawe Corporation to feed their families.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And it isn’t just them. There are the shops. If they’re not rebranded, they’ll close. Hundreds of women will lose their jobs. I’ve met some of them and they’re all so enthusiastic. So excited…’

  She slipped down a little, getting more comfortable, her body heavier against him.

  ‘Even the poor devils in the sweatshops will lose out,’ he said, resting his chin on her head.

  The scent of the soap she’d used was familiar, but on Lucy it was different, somehow.

  ‘I know. But what choice do I have?’ She fought a yawn. ‘The man’s a liar, a cheat and a crook.’

  ‘List your options,’ he suggested. ‘One, you go to the police. Bring him and his company down.’

  ‘It’s too horrible to think about. Can I go to sleep now?’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘Okay. Two, you could sell him out to the tabloids, write a book, make a fortune.’

  ‘Same result, except I get rich.’

  ‘You could share the money amongst the people who lose their jobs.’

  ‘Not rich enough to make a difference to them,’ she said, her cheek pressed into his chest.

  ‘No, not rich enough for that. There’s option three, the one where you walk away and let him get on with it.’

  ‘Nnngg.’

  ‘No? How about threatening him with exposure? You could force him to clean up his act in return for playing out the role as written? Number four, sticking with the plan, but with you in the driving seat.’

  ‘Wd
ntrstim,’ she mumbled.

  ‘No. Neither would I.’ Then, ‘What about me, Lucy? Could you trust me?’ No answer.

  He didn’t need one. She was curled up against him, defenceless as a baby. She’d seen through his guard, peered into his darkest places, knew him as few people did.

  And he knew her, too. She lived who she was. Caring for others. even when her own world was crumbling around her.

  He was, without question…involved.

  And deeply happy to be so.

  The engine had caught, the motor was running and the road ahead might have bumps in it but it was leading exactly where he wanted to be.

  ‘Hey, into bed with you,’ he said, tearing himself away. He didn’t want to leave her, lose the soft warmth of her breast, her thighs curled against him. He wanted, for the first time in as long as he could remember, to lie beside a woman, sleep with her.

  Just sleep.

  Close his eyes and know she was there. Know she would be the first thing he saw when he woke. Know that he would be the first thing she saw when she opened her green-gold eyes and smile because that one thing made her happy.

  But this wasn’t about him. He pulled the cover from beneath her and she rolled into the warm space where he’d been lying, her face in the pillow.

  ‘Big day tomorrow.’

  ‘T’day…’

  She was right. It was gone midnight. Or did she mean that it had been a big day today? Not just for her.

  ‘Furs day rest life,’ she mumbled.

  He stood for a moment watching every scrap of tension leave her body as she melted into sleep almost before the jumble of words had left her mouth.

  Today was the first day of the rest of her life. Or did she mean his?

  He looked around at the room that, just hours before, had been sterile and empty. Clothes dropped where she’d left them. The bright red splash of her coat across the chair. A muddle. Untidy. Just like life.