Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto Page 11

  Lucy responded with a careless shrug and he found himself holding his breath, wondering what was coming next.

  ‘I happened to let it slip that Rudolph eats them to keep his nose bright. Dido promised to keep it secret but I can’t guarantee that she won’t try a little one-upmanship on her sister.’

  ‘What an interesting day you’ve had, Lucy Bright.’

  ‘It’s had its ups and its downs,’ she admitted. ‘That was definitely an up.’

  ‘Why cashew nuts?’

  ‘Oh, well, peanuts can be a problem. You know. Allergies…’ She regarded him steadily, waiting. Then, ‘Come on, Nathaniel Hart. Get with the plot.’

  Realising he’d missed something, he lifted his brows, inviting her to provide the punchline.

  ‘Elf and safety?’

  It took a moment but then he shook his head. ‘I do not believe you just said that, Lucy Bright.’

  ‘Actually, neither do I,’ she said solemnly. And then she snorted with laughter.

  The sound rippled around the kitchen, bouncing off doors, windows, an array of steel tools hanging from the four-sided rail above the island.

  Waking everything up, Nat thought, setting up a hum that seemed to vibrate through him until he was laughing, too.

  ‘Do you have a kettle, do you know?’ she asked once she’d recovered. Then, as he reached for it, ‘I don’t need to be waited on.’

  ‘I do know how to boil a kettle. Tea?’ he offered. ‘Or would you prefer coffee?’

  ‘Oh, tea, I think. Camomile, if you’ve got it. It’s a bit late for coffee.’

  Only if you were able to sleep.

  She transferred the eggs from the carton to the basket while he filled the kettle, switched it on. Stretched up on her toes to replace it.

  Her hair had dried into a froth of little tendrils that curled around her face, against her neck. All she needed were wings and a white dress and she’d look more at home on the top of a Christmas tree than dressed as an elf.

  Eggs safe, she picked up a punnet of baby plum tomatoes and looked at them for a moment, then at the plain white china mugs he’d taken from the cupboard, a tiny frown buckling her forehead.

  She wasn’t beautiful, there was nothing classic about her features, yet there was a sparkle in her green eyes that made everything right. Made something inside him begin to bubble, catch like a motor that hadn’t been used in a while, that had to be teased into life with a touch, a smile, laughing lips that begged to be kissed.

  Like a limb that had gone to sleep, the return to life hurt.

  He turned away, almost with relief, as the kettle boiled and reached for one of a row of polished black canisters.

  ‘It’s not camomile,’ he apologised, extracting a couple of tea bags. He rarely drank tea and discovered that they were disconcertingly beige in this monochrome world. ‘I’m afraid Earl Grey is the best I can do.’

  ‘That will be lovely,’ she said, joining him. A warm presence at his side.

  He dropped the bags into the mugs, poured on boiling water, looked up.

  ‘You’ve settled in?’ he asked, trying to forget about the kiss.

  She nodded.

  ‘You’ve got everything you need? Toothbrush? Toiletries?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Everything for the guest who forgot to pack her toilet bag,’ she assured him. ‘Even a bathrobe. I’ll replace the toothbrush.’

  ‘No need.’

  ‘I’d have to buy one, anyway.’

  ‘You’ll need more than a toothbrush. You’ll need some clothes.’ And, before she could object, ‘A change of underwear, at least.’

  ‘You have a washing machine, I imagine?’

  ‘There was one included in the specification,’ he admitted. ‘Along with every other modern convenience known to man.’

  ‘Specified by your cousin. The man with the Gothic taste.’

  ‘Gothic?’

  ‘How else would you describe that room upstairs? It’s pure Addams family. All it needs is a belfry for the bats.’

  ‘It would spoil the lines. And let in the rain.’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  He saw the question in her eyes, then the uncharacteristic hesitation as she decided against it.

  ‘Actually, it’s all black and white, glass and brushed stainless steel in the store, too, isn’t it?’ she said, changing tack. ‘I hadn’t realised before, but of course down there it’s a frame for all that colour. It works.’

  ‘Thanks for that. I think,’ he said, but it gave him an opportunity to revisit the subject of clothes. ‘Actually, I was wondering, in the interests of aesthetics, if I could encourage you to change into something a little less…green.’

  ‘In the interests of aesthetics?’ Her exquisitely threaded eyebrows rose in a pair of questioning little arches. ‘Is that an architectural get-out-of-your-kit line, Nathaniel Hart?’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting you stripped off here and now.’ Although the idea had considerable appeal.

  ‘Are you sure? It sounded rather like it.’

  He managed a shrug. ‘I was merely pointing out that they’re working clothes. If you’re planning to keep up the act, continue to hide out in the grotto, you’re going to need them fresh and clean in the morning. House rule,’ he said.

  ‘Is that right?’ For a moment he thought she was truly offended. Then she grinned. ‘Well, snap, Mr Pinstriped Suit. Off with your jacket. Off with your tie and cufflinks!’

  Grinning back, he said, ‘I’ll change if you will. Let’s go shopping.’

  She was still smiling, but she was shaking her head. ‘Until I get a proper job, I won’t have any money. And I can’t take anything from you, Nathaniel.’

  Why not? Presumably, she’d allowed Henshawe to dress her. Which answered that question. But didn’t help with the problem.

  ‘Be reasonable, Lucy. You can’t live in that.’

  ‘It will be a challenge,’ she admitted, but there was a steely glint in those green eyes now, and he battled down the frustration of having an entire store full of clothes he would happily give her, aware that this wasn’t about him. This was about her. Her need to re-establish her self-esteem. Recover what had been stolen from her.

  ‘You’ve got a proper job,’ he reminded her, ‘at least until Christmas. I’ll sub you until the end of the week.’

  ‘You’re really going to let me work here?’

  ‘Why not? You seem to have nothing better to do and an elf with a close personal relationship with Rudolph is a real find. Besides,’ he pointed out, ‘you owe Pam.’ It wasn’t playing fair, but he was prepared to use every trick in the book to keep her safe. Keep her close.

  ‘Pam might have other ideas if she knew the truth,’ she reminded him as she opened a carton of milk, poured a little into each mug. ‘What is the going rate for an elf?’

  He told her.

  ‘Sorry…’ she was going to turn him down? ‘…that’s actually not bad, but even so I wouldn’t be able to afford your prices.’

  ‘There’s a generous staff discount,’ he said.

  ‘For temps?’

  ‘I’m a temp, too.’ Long-term, until death us do part…

  ‘Are you?’ For a moment it was all there in her eyes. The questions that were piling up, but when he didn’t answer all she said was, ‘I bet you’re on a better hourly rate than me.’

  She handed him one of the mugs and turned to lean back against the counter to sip at her tea. He could feel the warmth of her body and he wished he’d taken her advice, taken off his jacket so that there was only his shirt sleeve between them.

  ‘I wonder what happened to the real elf?’ she said after a moment. ‘The one from Garlands.’

  ‘Maybe, given time to think about it, she didn’t want to spend December in a windowless basement,’ he said, sipping at his own tea and deciding there were more interesting ways of heating up his, her lips. How close had they been to a kiss on the stairs? An inch, two?

  ‘Maybe.
Or maybe, when it started to snow, she decided she’d rather go home and make a snowman.’

  ‘Is that what you’d have done, Lucy?’

  ‘Me? Fat chance. Every minute of every day is fully booked. Or it was. This afternoon I had a meeting with a wedding designer to explore ideas for my fantasy wedding.’

  ‘It may still happen,’ he said, glancing down at her, the words like ashes in his mouth.

  ‘Nope. The word “fantasy” is the clue. It means illusory. A supposition resting on no solid ground.’

  He wanted to tell her that he was sorry. But it would be a lie and actually she didn’t look that upset. The brightness in her green eyes was not a tear but a flash of anger.

  ‘So what should you be doing this evening? If you weren’t here, tearing my life’s work to shreds.’

  ‘Now?’ She pulled a face. ‘I should be gussied up in full princess mode for a gala dinner at the Ritz, to celebrate the unveiling today of Lucy B.’

  ‘With you as the star? Well, obviously, that would have been no fun,’ he teased.

  ‘Not nearly as much as you’d think. Speeches, smug PR men and endless photographs,’ she said. ‘Being an elf beats it into a cocked hat.’

  ‘So you’re saying that your day hasn’t been a total write-off?’

  ‘No,’ she said, looking right at him. ‘Hand on my heart, I’d have to say that my day hasn’t been a total write-off.’

  Any other woman and he’d have said she was putting a brave face on it, but something in her expression suggested that she was in earnest.

  ‘Shame about the snowman, though,’ she said, turning away as if afraid she’d revealed more of herself than she’d intended. She abandoned her mug. ‘It doesn’t often snow in London, not like this. I hope the missing elf did seize the day and go out to play.’

  ‘It’s not too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’

  ‘To go out to play.’ And where the hell had that come from? ‘Build a snowman of your own.’

  ‘Nathaniel!’ she protested, but she was laughing and her eyes, which he’d seen filled with fear, mistrust, uncertainty, were now looking out at the falling snow with a childlike yearning and, crazy as it was, he knew he’d said the right thing. And, as if to prove it, she put a hand behind her head, a hand on her hip, arched a brow and, with a wiggle that did his blood pressure no good, said, ‘Great idea, honey, but I haven’t got a thing to wear.’

  ‘Honey,’ he replied, arching right back at her. ‘You seem to be forgetting that I’m your fairy godmother.’

  Before he could think about what he was going to do, he caught her hand and raced up the stairs with her.

  The emptiness hit him as he opened the door, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Lucy was right. This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a mausoleum. And that hideous rose…

  ‘Nathaniel…’ Her voice was soft behind him, filling the room with life, banishing the shadows. Her warm fingers tightened on his as if she understood. ‘It doesn’t matter. Leave it.’

  ‘No. Seize the day,’ he said, flinging open the door to the dressing room with its huge walk-in wardrobe filled with plastic-covered ghosts. The colours muted. No scent. Nothing.

  He pulled off covers, seeking out warm clothes. Trousers. He pulled half a dozen pairs from hangers. A thick padded jacket. Opened drawers, hunting out shirts, socks. Sweaters. Something thick, warm…

  As his hand came down on thistledown wool, it seemed to release a scent that had once been as familiar as the air he breathed and, for a moment, he froze. Carpe diem.

  The words mocked him.

  When had he ever seized the day? Just gone for it without a thought for the consequences; been irresponsible? Selfish? Maybe when he’d been eighteen and told his father that he wasn’t interested in running a department store, that he was going to be an architect?

  Had it taken all the courage, all the strength he possessed to defy, disappoint the man he loved, that he had never been able to summon up the courage to do it again?

  ‘Nathaniel, this is madness,’ Lucy called from the bedroom. ‘I can’t go outside. I don’t have any shoes.’

  He picked up the sweater, gathered everything else she was likely to need, including a pair of snow boots that he dropped at her feet, doing his best to ignore her wiggling toes with their candy nails.

  ‘They’ll be too big,’ she protested.

  ‘Wear a couple of pairs of socks.’ Then, ‘What are you waiting for? It’ll all have disappeared by morning.’

  ‘Madness,’ she said, but she leapt to her feet and gave him an impulsive hug that took his breath away. She didn’t notice, was already grinning as she began to tug the tunic over her head, offering him another glimpse of those full, creamy breasts, this time encased in gossamer-fine black lace.

  Breathless? He’d thought he was breathless?

  ‘Downstairs in two minutes,’ he said, beating a hasty retreat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LUCY scrambled into a shirt that didn’t quite do up across the bust. Trousers that didn’t quite meet around the waist, were too long in the leg. It was crazy stupid. But in a totally wonderful way.

  She picked up the thistledown sweater, held it to her cheek for a moment, trying to catch a hint of the woman-thinner, taller than her-who’d owned it. What was she to Nathaniel? Where was she?

  Nothing. Not even a trace of scent.

  Relieved, she pulled it over her head. It was baggy and long enough to cover the gaps. She tucked the trousers into a pair of snow boots that swallowed the excess and the feather-light down-filled coat, the kind you might wear on a skiing holiday, had room enough to spare.

  Hat, scarf.

  She didn’t bother to check her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t need confirmation that she looked a mess. Some things it was better not to know. Instead, she picked up the gloves and, leaving behind her a room that no longer looked cold but resembled the aftermath of a jumble sale, she stomped down the stairs in her too-big boots.

  By the time she’d re-applied lipstick to protect her lips from the cold, picked up her phone and purse, Nathaniel was impatiently pacing the living room.

  ‘Two minutes, I said!’

  About to reiterate that this was madness, the words died on her lips. He’d abandoned the pinstripes for jeans, a jacket similar to the one she was wearing. The focused, controlled businessman had been replaced by a caged tiger scenting escape.

  ‘Yes, boss,’ she said cheekily, pulling on her gloves as they used the private lift which took them straight to the underground car park.

  He boosted her up into the seat of a black Range Rover, climbed up beside her.

  ‘Better duck down,’ he said as they approached the barrier.

  ‘You don’t think…?’

  ‘Unlikely, but better safe than sorry.’

  The traffic was light; no one with any sense would be out in this weather unless is was absolutely necessary.

  ‘I think you might be optimistic about it thawing by morning,’ she said.

  ‘Want to risk leaving it for another day?’

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Thought not.’

  Neither of them spoke again until he’d driven through Hyde Park and parked near the Serpentine Bridge.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, staring across the utterly still, freezing waters of the lake. The acres of white, disappearing into the thick, whirling snow. ‘Just…wow,’ again as she unclipped the seat belt, opened the door, letting in a flurry of snow.

  She didn’t stop to think, but slid down, spun around in it, grinning as Nathaniel caught her hand and they ran across the blank canvas, leaving their footprints in the snow.

  She picked up a handful and flung a snowball at him, yelling as he retaliated, scoring a hit as snow found its way inside her jacket.

  Lucy was right, Nat thought as they gathered snow, piling it up, laughing like a couple of kids. This was crazy. But in the best possible way. A little bit of magic that, like the kids vis
iting the grotto, was making a memory that would stay with him.

  They rolled a giant snowball into a body, piling up more snow around its base before adding a head.

  Drivers, making their way through the park, hooted encouragement but, as Lucy waved back, he caught her hand, afraid that someone might decide to stop and crash their snowman party.

  He wasn’t afraid that she’d be recognized. They were far enough from the street lights and the snow blurred everything. It was just that, selfishly, he didn’t want to share it, share her, with anyone.

  She looked up, eyes shining, snowflakes sticking to her lashes, the curls sticking out from beneath her hat, clinging for a moment to her lips before melting against their warmth.

  ‘Are we done?’ he said before he completely lost it and did in reality what he’d imagined in his head a dozen times: kiss her senseless. Or maybe that was him. The one without any sense. ‘Is it big enough?’

  ‘Not it. She. Lily.’

  ‘A girl snowman?’

  She added two handfuls of snow, patting it into shape, giving her curves.

  ‘She is now.’ She grinned up at him. ‘Equal opportunities for all. Fairy godmothers. Santas. Snowmen. I wish we’d brought some dressing up clothes for her.’

  He removed the pull-on fleece hat he was wearing and tucked it onto Lily’s head.

  ‘Oh, cute,’ she said and draped the scarf she was wearing around her like a stole. Then she took her phone from her pocket and took a picture.

  ‘Give it to me. I’ll take a picture of both of you.’

  She crouched down, her arm around the snow lady, and gave him a hundred watt smile. Then she said, ‘No, wait, you should be in it, too. A reminder of how much trouble you can get into when you catch a stranger on the stairs.’

  ‘You think?’ he said, folding himself up beside her, holding the phone at arm’s length. ‘Closer,’ he said, putting his arm around her, pulling her close so that her cheek was pressed against his and he could feel her giggling.

  ‘We must look like a couple of Michelin men.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ he said, turning to look at her. Her eyes were shining, lit up, her mouth just inches from his own in a rerun of that moment on the stairs when the world went away.