Читать книгу Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto - Liz Fielding - Страница 7

LUCY was drowning in raw sensation. Lying in the arms of a total stranger, drowning in the quicksilver heat of his eyes, his touch, parting her lips to gasp in air, struggling to breathe as she went under for the third time.

What was she thinking? What was she doing?

For a moment her brain, its buffer overloaded with more information, more emotion, more of just about everything than a body was built to handle, had backed up, was refusing to compute.

On some distant level she knew she had to move, run, but here, now, only the most primitive sensations were getting through. Touch, warmth, confusion…

‘The bedroom department is on the fifth floor,’ someone said with a chuckle as she passed and Nat felt, rather than saw the sudden realisation hit her.

The sheer madness of it. But her reaction was not the same dazed feeling that had him staring at her like an idiot. Not even an embarrassed laugh.

Instead she emitted a little squeak of alarm and squirmed away from him, using her hands and feet to scrabble backwards up the steps before she got far enough away to turn, push herself to her feet and run.

‘No!’

It wasn’t a command, it was the cry of a man bereft.

‘Stop!’

But the urgency of his words spurred her on, giving her feet wings as she bolted, dodging through slower moving shoppers, taking the stairs two at a time, fear driving her escape.

Leaving him shaking, frozen to the spot while visitors to the store flowed around him. Not surprise, or pleasure, or even amusement at an unexpectedly close encounter with a stranger. Raw fear that dredged up the memory of another woman who’d run from his arms. Who, just for a moment, he’d forgotten.

Fear, and the bruise darkening her temple.

Someone tutted irritably at him for blocking the stairs and he forced himself to move, pick up the shoe that had tumbled, unnoticed, from her bag.

He turned it in his hand.

It bore an expensive high-end designer label at odds with the damp edge around the platform sole, splashes of pavement dirt on the slender and very high stiletto heel. This was not a shoe for walking in the rain. It had been made to ride in limousines, walk along red carpets, to be worn by the consort of a very rich man. The kind who employed bodyguards.

Could she be the one the two men on the ground floor were seeking? That might explain her fear, because she hadn’t run from his touch. On the contrary, she’d been equally lost, wrapped up in a sizzling moment of discovery until a crass comment had jolted her back to reality.

He didn’t know who she was or why they were looking for her, only that she was afraid, running perhaps for her life, and the last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to her. No one hunted a frightened woman in his store, not even him, and he clamped down on the swamping need to race after her, reassure her, know her.

Not that there was any need to hunt.

If she was looking for a hiding place, common sense suggested that she was heading for the nearest Ladies cloakroom, looking for somewhere to clean up, hide out for a while.

But why?

His jaw tightened as he continued up the stairs with rather more speed, fighting to hold back the memories of another frightened woman. Vowing to himself that, whoever she was, she’d find sanctuary within his walls. That history wouldn’t repeat itself.

He’d ask one of the senior floor managers to check on her, return her shoe, offer whatever assistance she felt appropriate. A new pair of tights with the compliments of the store. A discreet exit. A car, if necessary, to take her wherever she needed to go.

But his hand was shaking as he called Security again, wanting to know where the two men were now.

Before he could speak, he was practically knocked off his feet by one of them, racing up the stairs, heedless of the safety of the women and children in his way, running through, rather than around them, scattering bags, toys.

His first reaction was to go after him, toss him bodily out of the store, but a child was crying and he had no choice but to stop and ensure that no one was hurt, pick up scattered belongings and summon one of his staff to offer the courtesy of afternoon tea in the Garden Restaurant. Deal with the complaints before they were voiced. It was a point of honour that no one left Hastings & Hart unhappy.

But, all the time he was doing that, the questions were pounding at his brain.

Whose bodyguards? Who was her husband, lover? More to the point, who was she?

And why was she so scared?

While her face—what had been visible over the big, enveloping collar—had seemed vaguely familiar, she wasn’t some instantly recognizable celebrity or minor royal. If she had been, her bodyguards wouldn’t have wasted time scouring the store for her but would have gone straight to his security staff to enlist their help using CCTV. Keeping it low-key. No drama.

There was something very wrong about this and, moving with considerably more urgency now, he ordered Security to find and remove the two men from the store. He didn’t care who they worked for, or who they’d lost, they had worn out their welcome.

‘Hold the lift!’ Lucy, trembling more now than when she’d run from the press conference, heart pounding beyond anything she’d ever experienced, sprinted for the closing doors. ‘Thanks,’ she gasped as someone held them and she dived in, squeezing into a corner, her back to the door where she wouldn’t be instantly visible when they opened again. Her brain working logically on one level, while everything else was saying, no…Go back…

‘Doors closing. Going down…’

She snapped out of the mental dream state in which she was floating above the stairs, her whole world contained in a stranger’s eyes.

Nooooo! Up, up…

The recorded announcement listed the departments as, despairing, she was carried back down to the ground floor. ‘Perfumery, accessories, leather goods, stationery. Ground floor. Doors opening.’

As the doors slid open, she risked a glance, then froze as she caught sight of one of Rupert’s bodyguards scanning the surge of passengers making a beeline for the exit.

She pressed herself back into the corner of the lift, keeping her head down, drawing a curious glance from a child who looked up at her as the lift rapidly filled. Holding her breath until the doors finally closed, aware that it wasn’t just the people she recognized who would be searching for her.

She’d got used to the front page—she’d been booked for a photoshoot this afternoon just to show off her new haircut, for heaven’s sake—but this was different.

She’d announced to the world that she had the goods on Rupert Henshawe and it wouldn’t be just the gossip magazines who’d want to know where she was.

Within hours there would be a press-orchestrated manhunt. It was probably already underway. And there was the risk that any minute now someone was going to say Excuse me, but aren’t you, Lucy B?

It had happened before when she’d been shopping and the result tended to be mayhem. It was as if everyone wanted to touch her, capture a little of the magic.

Rupert’s marketing men had got that right, but it was the last thing she wanted now so she kept her head tucked well down, desperate not to catch anyone’s eye.

Not all eyes were over five feet from the ground, however, and she found herself being scrutinised by the little girl, who continued to stare at her as the recorded announcement said, ‘Going down…Sporting goods, gardening and recreation, electrical. And…’ there was a pause. ’…The North Pole…’

The rest was drowned out by whoops of excitement.

‘Are you going to see Santa?’ the child asked her as the doors closed.

Santa?

Well, that explained why the North Pole had been relocated to a department store basement.

‘We’re going on a sleigh ride to see him at the North Pole,’ she confided.

‘Well, golly…What a treat.’

Right now a sleigh ride to the North Pole was exactly what she could do with. She’d planned to clean herself up, certain she’d be safe for a while in the Ladies. She didn’t know what had made her look back. Just a feeling, a prickle on the back of her neck…

The man following her hadn’t been a bodyguard. She knew them all and that wasn’t a face she would have forgotten.

Eyes grey as granite, with just a spark of silver to lighten an overall sense of darkness; a reflection from the store’s silver and white decorations, no doubt. That moment of magic was all in her imagination. It had to be. Whoever he was, he’d oozed the kind of power and arrogance she’d come to associate with Rupert’s most intimate circle.

He was a power broker, the kind of man who took orders rather than giving them. She’d learned to recognise the type. Mostly they ignored her and she was happy about that, but there had been an intensity in his look as he’d caught her, held her, that had turned her bones to putty. And not with fear.

A déjà vu moment if ever there was one, the difference being that whatever Rupert had been feeling on the day he’d picked her up, dusted her off, all concern and charm, her heart rate hadn’t gone through the roof. The air hadn’t crackled, sizzled, fried her brains. He’d taken his time, wooed her so gently, so…so damn sweetly that she’d fallen for every scummy lie. Hook, link and sinker.

She’d thought he was the genuine article, a real Prince Charming, when the truth was he hadn’t actually fancied her enough to jump her bones.

The grey-eyed stranger, on the other hand, had made her forget everything with a look. It was as if his touch had fired up some deep, untapped sexual charge and she felt her skin flush with heat from head to toe at the memory, the promise of the kiss that she’d been waiting for all her life. The real thing.

Maybe.

She shivered. Shook her head. She’d been drawn into a web of lies and deceit and she would never be able to trust anyone ever again. Never be able to take anyone at face value.

Mortified as she’d been at being discovered as good as kissing a total stranger on the stairs, that remark had jolted her back to reality. Common sense and self-preservation had kicked in and she’d run because there were some mistakes a smart woman didn’t make twice.

Some she didn’t make once.

She’d thought the Ladies room would provide a safe haven but, even as she’d bolted, she’d realised her mistake. It would be obvious to anyone with half a brain cell that was where she’d take cover and in the nick of time she’d seen the trap. That it was a dead end with only one exit.

It was several hours until the store closed, but Rupert was a patient man. He’d wait, call up female reinforcements to keep an eye on her until she had no choice but to emerge.

He had enough of them.

All those women in his office who’d collaborated with him in the make-believe.

What she needed was somewhere to hide, a bolt-hole where no one would ever think of looking for her while she considered her options. Easier said than done.

All she possessed in the world was what she currently wore. She’d been too shocked to plan anything. To even think of going back to the little apartment at the top of Rupert’s London house. Packing the gorgeous wardrobe that was all part of the fantasy. Always supposing she’d got out with a suitcase.

No doubt someone would have delayed her while the alarm was raised and Rupert was warned that the game was up.

And she’d bet the farm that the platinum credit cards Rupert had showered on her would go uh-uh if she attempted to use them.

Or maybe not. Could he use them to track her movements? Or was that just something they did in TV thrillers?

Either way, they were useless. Not that she wanted anything from him. Right now she wished she could rip off the clothes she was wearing and toss them in the nearest bin.

Since she was trying not to draw attention to herself, that probably wasn’t her best option.

Not that she’d done such a good job of keeping a low profile, she thought, still aware of the tingling imprint of a stranger’s kiss.

‘Do you think there’ll be room on the sleigh for me?’ she asked the little girl.

She lifted her shoulders in a don’t-know shrug, then said, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus?’

Tough question. Right now, she was having trouble believing that the sky was blue.

‘My big sister said there’s no such person,’ she added, then stuck her thumb in her mouth, clearly afraid that it might be true.

Okay, not that tough.

In her years working in the day-care nursery, she’d come across this one plenty of times. Big sisters could be the pits, although right now she wished she had one. A really cynical, know-it-all big sister who would have ripped away the rose-tinted spectacles, shattered her naivety, said, Prince Charming? Are you kidding? What are the odds?

She wasn’t about to let that happen for this little girl, though. Not yet.

‘Your sister only told you that because she thinks that if you don’t write to Santa she’ll get more presents.’

The thumb popped out. ‘Really?’

Before she could reply, the lift came to a halt and the doors opened, sending her heart racing up into her mouth. Under cover of the mothers, dads, children pouring out, she risked a glance.

There were no dark-eyed men lying in wait for her, only more parents with hyped-up children, clutching gifts from Santa, waiting in a magical snowy landscape to be whisked back up to the real world. Which was where she’d go if she didn’t make a move and get out of the lift. And that was not an appealing place right now.

Nowhere near as attractive as the North Pole, which the finger-post sticking out at an angle from a designer snowdrift suggested was somewhere to her right. As if to confirm that fact, an ornate sleigh was waiting in a glittering ice cave, ready to whisk the children away.

They stampeded towards it, climbing aboard while their mothers dealt with the more mundane matter of checking in with the elf in charge of the departure gate. Trips to the North Pole did not, after all, come cheap.

She barely hesitated.

She could do with a little magic herself right now and Santa’s Grotto had to be just about the last place anyone would think of looking for her.

As she stood in the queue she nervously checked her phone—it was as good a way to keep her head down as any.

There were half a dozen texts, voicemail messages and the twittersphere had apparently gone mad. WelshWitch had started it with—

Where is Cinderella? What have you done to her?

Tell the truth, Your Frogginess! RT@LucyB Kissed

prince, got frog. #Cinderella

WelshWitch, [+] Wed 1 Dec 17:01

It had already been replied to by dozens of people. Rupert was going to be furious, but since this—unlike all her other social media stuff set up by his PR team—was her personal account, there wasn’t a thing His Frogginess could do about it. At least not while she managed to stay out of his way.

What he might do if he caught up with her was something else. She shivered involuntarily as she continued to scroll through the tweets.

There was another one from Jen.

@LucyB If you need a bolt-hole, DM me.

#Cinderella

jenpb, [+] Wed 1 Dec 17:03

In a moment of weakness she almost did send her a direct message. But then she came to her senses and shut the phone.

That was what was so horrible about this. It wasn’t just Rupert she couldn’t trust.

She’d chatted daily on Twitter. She had nearly half a million ‘followers’, an army of fans on Facebook, all apparently fascinated by her story, her amazing new life. But who were they really?

Jen had seemed like a genuine friend, one of a few people who, like WelshWitch, she constantly tweeted with, but suppose she was just another of Rupert’s people? Someone the PR company had delegated to stay close. Be her ‘friend’, guide her tweets, distract her if necessary, steer her away from anything controversial? She was well aware that not everyone in the Twittersphere was who or what they seemed. Logging into her appointments, she scrolled down and, under the crossed-through entry for Dinner at Ritz, she added another entry—

Rest of life: up the creek.

And then her thoughts shifted back to the man on the stairs. His face forever imprinted on her memory. The strong jaw, high cheekbones, the sensuous curve of his lower lip…

‘Can I help?’

She jumped, looked up to discover that everyone else had moved off and she was being regarded by a young elf.

‘Oh…um…one adult to the North Pole, please,’ she said, closing her phone and reaching for her purse, wondering belatedly how much it would cost. She didn’t have that much cash. With a fistful of credit and charge cards, she hadn’t needed it. ‘A single will do,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I can walk back.’

He grinned appreciatively but said, ‘Sorry. This flight has closed.’

‘Oh.’ It hadn’t occurred to her that there wouldn’t be any room. ‘How long until the next one?’

‘Forty minutes, but you have to have a pre-booked ticket to see Santa,’ he explained.

‘You have to book in advance?’ Forty minutes! She couldn’t wait that long. ‘Where’s the magic in that?’ she demanded.

‘There’s not much magical about dozens of disappointed kids screaming their heads off,’ he pointed out.

‘True…’ She had enough experience with screaming children not to argue. ‘Look, I don’t actually want to have a one-to-one with the man himself. I just need to get to the North Pole,’ she pressed as the doors to the ice cave began to close. ‘It’s really urgent…’

It occurred to her that she must sound totally crazy. That, shoeless and apparently raving, she was going to be escorted from the premises.

It didn’t happen. Apparently, someone who could cite ‘elf’ as his day job took crazy in his stride because, instead of summoning Security, he said, ‘Oh, right. I was told to look out for you.’

What…? Nooooo!

‘You’re from Garlands, right? Pam’s been going crazy,’ he added before the frantic message from her brain to flee could reach her feet. ‘She expected you ages ago.’

‘Garlands…’

What the heck was that? The department responsible for store decorations? Did a snowflake need straightening? A tree trimming?

Whatever.

She was up for it, just as long as she was out of sight of the lift.

‘You’ve got me,’ she said, neither confirming nor denying it. ‘So, now do I get a ride on the sleigh?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, grinning. ‘The sleigh is for paying customers only. Staff have to put on their snow shoes and walk. Both ways,’ he added with relish. Clearly this was a young man who enjoyed his job. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m kidding about the snow shoes.’ He looked at her feet and, for a moment, lost the thread.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

‘Er…right. Well, you’re in luck. There’s a short cut.’ He opened a door, hidden in the side of a snow bank and tucked behind the kind of huge Christmas tree that you only ever saw in story books. Smothered with striped candy canes, toys, beautiful vintage decorations. ‘Turn left, ask for Pam Wootton. She’ll sort you out.’

‘Left…Pam…Got it. Thanks.’

Better and better. She’d be much safer behind the scenes in the staff area.

Forget Pam whatever-her-name-was. She’d keep her head down until closing time and then leave through the staff entrance with everyone else. By then, she might even have worked out where she could go.

‘She’s not in there, Mr Hart.’

‘Are you sure? She hasn’t locked herself in one of the cubicles?’

‘All checked. That’s what took me so long.’

‘Well, thanks for looking,’ he said, outwardly calm.

‘No problem.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘The lifts are right opposite the stairs. If she got lucky with the timing, she might have doubled straight back down to the ground floor and left the store.’

‘It’s possible,’ Nat agreed, although he doubted it. He had her shoe and no one with a lick of sense would choose to go barefoot from the warmth of the store into the street. She was still in the store; he was certain of it. And, with nine sales floors, she had plenty of places to hide.

In her shoes—or, rather, lack of them—where would he go? What would he do?

If it was serious—and her fear suggested that this wasn’t just some rich woman wanting a little time out—changing her appearance had to be the first priority. Not a problem when she had a store full of clothes and accessories to help her, except that would mean exposing herself while she stood in line to pay for them.

Maybe.

Just how desperate was she?

Desperate enough to grab something from a rail, switch clothes in one of the changing rooms? When they were this busy it wouldn’t be that difficult and she could rip out the security tags without a second thought. It wouldn’t matter to her if the clothes were damaged, only that they didn’t set off the alarms when she walked out of the store.

‘I’ll put the shoe in Lost Property, shall I?’

‘No!’ Realising that he’d overreacted, that she was looking at him at little oddly, he said, taking the shoe from her, ‘I’ll do it. I’ve already wasted enough of your time. Thanks for your help.’

‘No problem, Mr Hart. I’ll keep my eyes open.’

He nodded, but doubted she’d see her and, more in hope than expectation of finding some clue, he retraced his steps back down to the first floor, where he stopped to take another look out over the busy ground floor.

As the afternoon had shifted into evening and offices had emptied, it had become even more frantic, but he would have spotted that black dress amid the madness, the pale blonde swish of hair. That was a real giveaway, one that she should cover up as quickly as possible.

She’d need a scarf, he thought. Or a hat. A hat would be better. It would not only cover her hair, but throw a shadow over her face where a scarf would only draw attention to it.

And once she’d changed her appearance she could risk the shoe department. He’d wait there.

As he started down the stairs, he noticed a display slightly out of alignment, stopped to adjust it and saw a lace-trimmed handkerchief lying on the floor.

He bent to pick it up and caught again that faint, subtle scent that hadn’t come out of any bottle.

Had she dashed in from the street to take cover, bolted up the stairs, paused here for a moment to catch her breath, get her bearings?

Where was she now?

Famous last thoughts.

The minute Lucy opened the door to the staff area she was leapt upon by a flushed and harassed-looking woman wearing a security badge proclaiming her to be Pam Wootton, Human Resources.

‘At last! The agency said you’d be here an hour ago. I’d just about given up hope.’

Agency? Oh, good grief, the elf hadn’t been talking about Christmas garlands but the Garland Agency. The suppliers of the crème de la crème of secretarial staff. She’d had an interview with them when she was looking for a job but she didn’t have the kind of experience it took to be a ‘Garland Girl’.

There was a certain irony in being mistaken for one now, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from grabbing the opportunity with both hands.

‘I’m soooo sorry. The Underground…’ She didn’t have to say another word. It was the excuse that just gave and gave. ‘And it’s started to snow,’ she threw in for good measure.

‘Snow! Oh, great,’ Pam said. ‘That’s all I need. Getting home tonight is going to be a nightmare.’ And she pressed her hand to her forehead as if trying to keep her brain in.

‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked, forgetting her own worries for a moment. The woman looked flushed and not at all well.

‘Ask me again in February,’ she replied with a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘When the January sales are over.’ Then, pulling herself together, ‘It’s just a bit of a headache. I’ll take something for it when I get back to the office. Come on, there’s no time to waste. Let’s get you changed.’

‘Changed?’

‘Into your costume,’ she said, opening a cupboard and revealing a rail of short green tunics. Then, glancing back at her, ‘Didn’t they tell you anything…’ she looked at her clipboard ‘…I don’t seem to have your name.’

‘Lu…’ Noooooo!

Pam looked up. ‘Lou? As in Louise?’

Gulp.

‘Yes! Louise.’ Whew. Pam was still waiting. ‘Louise…Braithwaite.’ It was the first name that came into her head.

‘And you have got a CRB Certificate, Louise?’ Pam asked, pen poised to tick boxes, going through the motions.

‘A CRB Certificate?’

She sighed. ‘You can’t work in the grotto without a criminal records check. I did explain the situation to Garlands. If you haven’t got one…’

Grotto?

The penny dropped.

Pam had mistaken her for an elf.

Out of the fairy tale frying pan, into the…um…fairy tale fire…