Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto Page 7

  ‘Hastings & Hart take a close interest in staff welfare. We have a cycle to work scheme-which is why you have the luxury of shower facilities-’

  ‘Luxury!’ Finally she got her voice back. But then there wasn’t much luxury in an unexpected ice-cold dunk.

  ‘-and subsidised gym membership as well as a healthy options menu in the staff canteen.’

  And he’d driven Pam Wootton home when she was taken ill, she reminded herself. That was taking staff welfare very seriously indeed. Not many men in his position would have done that. It suggested that he was unusually kind, thoughtful and, about to tell herself that Rupert would never have done that, it occurred to her that he had. Done exactly that. And, as she’d just discovered, he was neither kind nor thoughtful.

  ‘Impressive, Mr Hart, but I’m only a temp. Temps don’t get fringe benefits.’

  Not just a temp, but an illicit one at that. He might be a great employer but she had no more reason to trust him than he had to trust her.

  ‘Besides, the crisps are made from potatoes,’ she said, playing for time as she tried, desperately, to think what to do next. Pull away from his hand, for a start, obviously. Put some space between them…‘And they’re cheese and onion flavour.’

  There were no windows down here, but even in the basement there had to be a fire escape. Or would Rupert have learned from her last dash for freedom and have those covered before he moved in?

  Was that what all the time-wasting was about?

  ‘So potato and onion, that’s two of my five,’ she added, wishing she’d spent more time thinking about her escape instead of day-dreaming about a dishy stranger while she dressed teddy bears. ‘There’s the protein from the cheese, too, don’t forget.’ Think… Think!

  ‘And it’s an orange chocolate biscuit.’

  ‘Is that it?’ he asked. ‘All done?’

  ‘All done,’ she admitted. She was out of ideas. Out of excuses. Out of flavourings.

  ‘Nice try-’

  There was the smile again. The whole works. Crinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes, something magical happening to his mouth as the lower lip softened to reveal the merest glimpse of white teeth. And then there were his eyes…

  His eyes seemed to suggest that he was as surprised as she was to find he was smiling and, as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

  And she could breathe again.

  ‘-but no cigar,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but potatoes don’t count as a vegetable.’

  ‘They don’t?’ She made a good fist at surprised.

  ‘Not as one of your five-a-day.’

  He didn’t look sorry.

  ‘You’re telling me I’m going to have to stop counting fries?’ she demanded, hoping to make him forget himself again and actually laugh. Get him on her side. ‘Well, that’s a swizz.’

  ‘And you can forget the flavourings, too.’

  ‘I was afraid that might be stretching it. I did have orange juice with my breakfast,’ she assured him, as if determined to prove that she wasn’t a complete dietary failure. Playing the fool in an attempt to lull him into believing that she’d bought his act.

  ‘Good start. And since breakfast?’

  ‘I had green beans with my lunch and I’m fairly sure that the fruit in the dessert was the real thing.’

  ‘Apple tart, right?’

  ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘The cinnamon was the giveaway.’

  ‘Cinnamon?’ Had he been that close? Mortified, she smothered a groan. Time to put a stop to this. ‘What about you, Mr Hart?’

  ‘Nat.’

  ‘Nat?’

  ‘Short for Nathaniel. A bit of a mouthful.’

  ‘But nicer than Nat, which is a small spiteful insect which takes lumps out of you when you’re innocently enjoying a sunset.’

  ‘Very nearly,’ he agreed, rewarding her with a flicker of a smile that went straight to her blush. And too late she realised her mistake. ‘What about me?’

  She’d thought she was being clever, keeping him talking, while she scoped out the shower room, hoping to pick up the faint illumination of an emergency exit, but it was hopeless. This was the basement and there was no escape, but she could still let everyone know where she was. What was happening. If only she could convince him that she wasn’t going to make a run for it so he’d leave her to get dressed…

  She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. My name is Lucy, by the way. Lucy Bright. But you already know that.’

  ‘I caught the Lucy on the news. Not the Bright. It explains the B in Lucy B.’ News?

  That hideous scene had been on the news? Well, of course it had. The unveiling of the new look for his fashion chain, taking it upmarket, providing aspirational clothes for the career-minded woman. Clothes for work and play. Clothes with a touch of class and a fair trade label was a big story. Providing new jobs both here and in the Third World.

  ‘How d’you do, Lucy Bright?’ he said, finally removing his hand from her arm and offering it to her.

  She clutched the towel with one hand, placed her other in his, watching as his long fingers and broad palm swallowed up her own small hand. A rush of warmth warned her she was doing the head to toe blush again.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve had better days, Nathaniel Hart.’

  ‘Maybe I can help. Why don’t you get dressed and then we’ll go and see what’s good in the Food Hall? I’m sure I can find something more enticing than crisps and chocolate for your supper.’ What?

  ‘There is nothing more enticing than crisps and chocolate.’

  Healthier, maybe, but right now she was in the market for high carb, high calorie comfort food.

  ‘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 f
antasy 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 blacked-out 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 b
ag, 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.