Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto

Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto
Liz Fielding
Chasing his Christmas Cinderella!Lucy Bright can’t believe it when she’s plucked from secretarial obscurity and transformed into the pampered fiancée of a slick retail guru. But then she discovers it was all a publicity stunt! Rushing away from the media frenzy, she bumps – literally – into delicious tycoon Nathaniel Hart…Spooked by their instantaneous chemistry, Lucy flees – but Nathaniel is determined to find his barefoot beauty. Though all he has is one very expensive red designer stiletto to help him!


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.
What was she thinking? What was she doing?

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

She squirmed away from him in alarm, using her hands and feet to scrabble backwards.

“No!”

It was the cry of a man bereft.

“Stop!”

But the urgency of Nathaniel’s words spurred her on, dodging through moving shoppers, taking the stairs two at a time, fear driving her escape.

Nathaniel 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, very slender 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 consorts of very rich men. The kind who employed bodyguards…

Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto
BY

Liz Fielding



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

About the Author
LIZ FIELDING was born with itchy feet. She made it to Zambia before her twenty-first birthday and, gathering her own special hero and a couple of children on the way, lived in Botswana, Kenya and Bahrain—with pauses for sightseeing pretty much everywhere in between. She finally came to a full stop in a tiny Welsh village cradled by misty hills, and these days mostly leaves her pen to do the travelling. When she’s not sorting out the lives and loves of her characters she potters in the garden, reads her favourite authors, and spends a lot of time wondering “What if…?” For news of upcoming books—and to sign up for her occasional newsletter—visit Liz’s website at www.lizfielding.com

Prologue
Wednesday, 1
December
Appointments for Miss Lucy Bright
09:30 Beauty salon
12:30 Lunch with Marji Hayes, editor, Celebrity magazine
14:30 Celebrity photoshoot (with my mum!)
16:00 Serafina March, Wedding Designer.
20:00 Dinner at Ritz, guest list attached
Lucy Bright diary entry, 1st December:
Wish I could be at press conference for the unveiling of the Lucy B fashion chain this afternoon but, according to Rupert’s dragon of a secretary, it’s for the financial rather than the gossip pages. Which put me in my place. I can’t even appeal to Rupert since he won’t be flying in until lunchtime. And how come he gets out of the meeting with the über scary Serafina March? It’s his wedding, too.
Stupid question. He’s too busy for ‘girl’ stuff. He’s been out of the country more than he’s been in it for the last month and at this rate I’ll be walking up the aisle on my own.
The celebration dinner tonight is, as I’m constantly reminded, my moment in the sun and, obviously,a morning being pampered, a luscious lunch with the editor of Celebrity and then a meeting with the wedding designer to the stars meets all the criteria for the fairy tale. I am Lucy Bright. It’s my name—Lucy B—that’s going to be above the doors of a hundred High Street shops come the spring. So why do I feel as if I’m on the outside looking in?
RUBBING at the base of her engagement ring with her thumb so that the huge diamond sparkled, Lucy Bright made an effort to shake off the feeling that things weren’t quite as fairy tale as media coverage of her romance with Rupert Henshawe would suggest. Determined to shake off the feeling, she logged into Twitter to update her followers on what she’d be doing for the rest of the day.
Morning, tweeps! Off to have the curls flattened. Again. I swear everyone hides when I turn up at the salon! #Cinderella
LucyB, Wed 1 Dec 08:22
Hair straight for the moment. Fab lunch at Ivy. Lots of celebs. Off to meet Mum for photoshoot. Will update blog later. #Cinderella
LucyB, Wed 1 Dec 14:16
PS Don’t miss Rupert’s Lucy B press launch live on website feed today, tweeps! 4 p.m. It’s going to be so exciting. #Cinderella.
LucyB, Wed 1 Dec 14:18
‘Is that the time?’ Lucy squeaked.
‘We are running a little late, miss.’ Rupert’s chauffeur held the umbrella aloft as she ran from the photoshoot to the car.
Little was an understatement. The photographer had been relentless in pursuit of the perfect photograph and she had less than twenty minutes to make the meeting with the wedding planner—sorry, make that wedding designer—to discuss a theme for the big day. While it was acceptable, even necessary, for the bride to arrive late at her wedding, Serafina March did not allow the same latitude where appointments with her were concerned.
‘There’s no time to go home for the wedding file, Gordon. We’ll have to stop by the office.’ Rupert’s deadly efficient PA maintained a duplicate in the office. She could borrow that.

Chapter One
‘LIAR!’
The only sound in the room was the clatter of motor drives as tycoon, Rupert—just-call-me-Prince-Charming—Henshawe’s press conference was hijacked by his fiancée, Lucy—I-feel-like-Cinderella—Bright as she tugged off her engagement ring and flung it at him.
‘Cheat!’
Every lens in the room zoomed in on the bright splash of blood where the huge diamond found its mark on Henshawe’s cheek.
The gathered press pack—city newsmen, financial pundits, television news teams—held their collective breath.
They’d been summoned to a full dress press conference by the Henshawe Corporation. Whatever Henshawe did was news. Good news if you were one of his shareholders. Bad news if you happened to be on the receiving end of one of his corporate raids. At least until recently.
The news now was all about how he’d changed. How, having met his ‘Cinderella’, he had been redeemed by love and was no longer Mr Nasty, but had been transformed into Prince Charming.
Boring.
This was much more like it.
‘Why?’ Lucy demanded, ignoring the cameras, the mikes, dangled overhead, pushed towards her face. The larger than life-sized images of herself, wearing her own custom-made originals of the Lucy B fashions, being flashed across a screen. All she could see was the man on the podium. ‘Why did you do it?’
Stupid question. It was all there in the file she’d found. The one she was never meant to see. All laid out in black and white.
‘Lucy! Darling…’ Rupert’s voice was deceptively soft as, using the power of the microphone in front of him, he drowned out her demand to know why her? ‘These are busy people and they’ve got deadlines to meet. They’ve come to listen to the plans I’ve been making, we’ve been making, for the future of the company,’ he stressed. ‘Not a domestic tiff.’
His smile was tender, all concern for her. It was familiar, reassuring and even now it would be so easy to be sucked in…
‘I don’t know what’s upset you but it’s obvious that you’re tired. Let Gordon take you home and we’ll talk about it later, hmm?’
She had to fight the almost hypnotic softness of his voice. Her own weakness. Her longing for the fairy tale that had overtaken her life, transformed her into a celebrity, to be true.
She had a Lucy B fan page on Facebook, half a million people following her every word on Twitter. She was a modern day Cinderella, whisked from the hearth to a palace, her rags replaced with silken gowns. But Prince Charming’s ‘bride ball’ had been a palace-generated crowd-pleaser, too. There was nothing like a royal wedding to keep the masses happy.
It was exactly the kind of stunt to appeal to some super-smart PR woman with a name to make for herself.
‘Talk!’ she hurled back as someone obligingly stuck a microphone in front of her, giving her equal voice power. ‘I don’t want to talk to you, Rupert Henshawe! I never even want to see you again.’ She held up the file for him to see. So that he would know that there was no point in denying it. ‘I know what you’ve done. I know everything!’
Even as the words left her mouth, Lucy sensed the mood in the room change. No one was looking at the podium now. Or Rupert. She’d stolen his limelight. She’d stormed into this plush hotel, her head exploding with the discovery that her new and exciting life, their engagement, the whole shooting match, was nothing more than a brilliantly executed marketing plan. The focus was now on her as she put an end to a sham smoke-and-mirrors engagement that was as false as his ‘new man’ change of heart.
Rupert Henshawe had no heart.
But, as the attention of the room shifted to her, it belatedly occurred to Lucy that this might not have been her best move.
In the months following her whirlwind romance with her billionaire boss she had become used to the press, but this was different. Until now she’d been supported every step of the way, whether the interviews had been personal or about her new role as the face, and name, on his re-branded chain of fashion stores.
When she’d gate-crashed this press conference, she hadn’t had a thought in her but to confront the man who had so shamelessly used her.
Now the focus point of every lens, every eye in the room, she suddenly felt alone, vulnerable and all she wanted to do was escape. Escape from the lies, the cameras, the microphones. Disappear. But, as she stepped back, attempting to distance herself from Rupert, from everyone, she stumbled over someone’s foot.
She put out a hand to stop herself from falling, grabbing at someone’s lapel. There was the ominous sound of cloth ripping and, as she turned, instinctively, to apologise, she discovered that her retreat was blocked by a wall of bodies.
And the man whose lapel she was clinging to was now hanging onto her, pulling her towards him, shouting something into her ear as she was jostled, pushed by other newsmen trying to get closer, photographers shouting to attract her attention.
She forgot all about apologising, instead yanking her arm free. Someone tried to grab the file she was carrying. She used it to beat him off, swinging the tote bag she was carrying to clear a space, provoking a blinding series of flashes as the photographers caught the action.
Another hand made a grab for her in the scrum, catching the back of her coat. One of the buttons flew off and she nearly went down again, but the sight of two of Rupert’s bodyguards elbowing aside journalists and cameramen alike as they made their way towards her sent a shot of adrenalin surging through her veins.
Until now she’d only seen the gentle side of Rupert Henshawe, had believed that he was truly her Prince Charming. But she was carrying proof of just how ruthless the man could be in pursuit of his ends and he wasn’t going to let her leave with that.
Of course they would make it look as if they were rescuing her from the press scrum, but denouncing him in public, on camera, had put her on the other side.
She’d seen his eyes, the truth behind the soft words, the smile, and she knew that he’d do whatever it took to keep her quiet.
Swinging her tote again in an attempt to batter her way through the enclosing wall of bodies, she managed to make a little headway but then someone grabbed her wrist, a camera lens caught her a sharp blow on the temple and, head spinning, she staggered back.
There was a yelp loud enough to be heard over the bedlam as her stiletto heel encountered something soft and yielding.
As the man behind her backed off, swearing creatively, an apology was the furthest thing from her mind. A gap opened up and she didn’t hesitate. She dived through it.

Christmas.
‘Twas the season to make money.
Nathaniel Hart paused at the brushed stainless steel rail of the department store founded two hundred years earlier by another Nathaniel Hart, looking back down into the swirling mayhem of spend, spend, spend.
It was a scene being replicated in Hastings & Hart stores in major cities throughout the country as money was poured out on those small luxury items that made such easy and portable gifts. Scent, jewellery, silk scarves, all perfectly placed on the ground floor to be within easy reach for the desperate shop-and-run male.
Women, fortunately, were prepared to put real effort into shopping. They thronged the glass escalators that rose into the atrium as if ascending to the sky. An architectural illusion created by light, glass, mirrors.
He knew it was an illusion because he’d created it, just as he knew it to be a cage. One he was trapped inside.

Lucy’s shoulder hurt where she’d charged the emergency exit, setting off a barrage of alarms that lent wind to her heels as she raced down the narrow, darkening streets behind the hotel.
She had no idea where she was heading, only that there were men on her heels, all of them wanting her, all of them with their own agendas. But she was done with being used.
‘Aaargh!’ She let out a wail of fury as her heel caught and snapped in a grating, bringing her up with a painful jerk. Someone yelled behind her, closing fast, and she paused only long enough to kick her foot free of the grating, leaving the shoe behind, and race on, casting around desperately for a cruising cab. But there was never one when you were desperate!
Idiot, idiot, idiot…
The words hammered in her head in time to the jarring of her feet on the freezing wet pavement as she ran, dot-and-carry-one lopsidedly on one heel.
She’d just made the biggest mistake of her life. Make that the second biggest. She’d made the first when she’d fallen into the fairy tale trap.
In retrospect, she could see that calling her erstwhile Prince Charming a liar and cheat in front of the nation’s assembled press pack had not been her brightest move. But what was a girl to do when her magic castle-in-the-air had just turned into one of those blow-up bouncy things they had at kids’ parties?
Stop and think?
Stand back, line up her allies before firing her ammunition from a safe distance? Hardly the action of the girl Rupert had proclaimed to love for her spontaneity, her passion.
That was the difference between them.
The woman who’d appeared on the cover of Celebrity wasn’t some figment of a PR man’s imagination. She was real. Capable of feeling not just joy but pain. Which was why she’d leapt in with both feet, puncturing the fake castle with the four-inch heels of her Louboutins, letting out the hot air and bringing it down around her.
Idiot was right but who, having just discovered that she was the victim of the most cynical, manipulative, emotional fraud imaginable, would be thinking rationally?
As for allies, there was no one she could turn to. The press had already bought everyone who’d known her since she was a baby—anyone who had a photograph or a story to tell. Every moment of her life was now public property and what they didn’t know they’d made up.
And Rupert owned the rest.
All those people who had fawned over her, pretended to be her friend, there wasn’t one she could trust or be sure was genuine rather than someone on his PR company’s payroll.
As for her mother…
She had no one and, run as hard as she might, nowhere to go. Her legs were buckling beneath her, lungs straining as she headed instinctively for the sparkle of Christmas lights and crowds of shoppers in which to lose herself, but she couldn’t stop.
In moments her pursuers would be on her and she didn’t need the dropping temperature, the huge white flakes that had begun to swirl from a leaden sky, to send a shiver up her spine. Then, as she rounded a corner seeking the safety of the crowds of Christmas shoppers, she saw the soaring asymmetrical glass pyramid of Hastings & Hart lighting up the winter gloom like a beacon.
She’d been in the store just the day before on a mission from Rupert to choose luscious Christmas gifts for his staff. Giving the gossip mag photographers who followed her everywhere their photo opportunities. It was all there in the files.
The plan to keep her fully occupied. Too busy to think.
The store seemed to mock her now and yet inside were nine warm and welcoming floors, each offering a hundred places to hide. Within its walls she would be off the street, safe for a while, and she flew across the street, dodging through the snarled-up traffic, heading towards the main entrance, slithering to a halt as she saw the doorman guarding the entrance.
Only yesterday he’d tipped his top hat to her in deference to her chauffeur-driven status.
He wouldn’t be so impressed by her arrival today but, dishevelled and limping, he would certainly remember her and, pulling her coat tidily around her and shouldering her bag, she teetered precariously on her bare toe as she slowed down to saunter past him, doing her best to look as if she was out for a little shopping.
‘You’ll find footwear on the ground floor, ma’am,’ he said, face absolutely straight, as he opened the door. And tipped his hat.

Scanning the ground floor from his bird’s-eye view, Nat’s attention was caught by two burly men in dark suits who’d paused in the entrance. They were looking about them, but not in the baffled, slightly desperate way of men trying to decide what gift would make their Christmas a memorable one.
Men didn’t shop in pairs and he could tell at a glance that these two weren’t here to pick out scents for the women in their life.
He’d seen the type often enough to recognise them as either close protection officers or bodyguards.
The doorman, well used to welcoming anyone from a royal to a pop star, would have alerted the store’s security staff to the arrival of a celebrity, but curiosity held him for the moment, interested to see who would follow them through the doors.
No one.
At least no one requiring a bodyguard, just the usual stream of visitors to the store, excited or harassed, who broke around the pair and joined the throng in the main hall.
Frowning now, he remained where he was, watching as the two men exchanged a word, then split up and began to work their way around the glittering counters, eyes everywhere, clearly looking for someone.
Make that a charge who had given her bodyguards the slip.

In the main hall, mobbed in the run-up to Christmas as shoppers desperately tried to tick names off their gift lists and stocked up on exotic, once-a-year luxuries, Lucy had hoped that no one would notice her. That once she was inside the store she’d be safe.
She’d been fooling herself.
She did her best to style it out, but she hadn’t fooled the doorman and several people turned to look as she tried—and failed—to keep herself on an even keel. And then looked again, trying to think where they’d seen her before.
The answer was everywhere.
Rupert was Celebrity magazine’s new best friend and his and her—mostly her—faces had been plastered over it for weeks. Their romance was news and cameras had followed her every move.
Everything she’d done, everywhere she’d been was a story and, as she tried to ease through the crowd, eyes down, she knew she was being stared at.
Then, from somewhere at the bottom of her bag, her phone began to belt out her I’m In Love With a Wonderful Guy ringtone.
Could anything be any less appropriate?
Or loud.
She might as well put a great big sign over her head, lit up and flashing ‘Dumb blonde here!’
Hampered by the file, she hunted for the wretched thing but, by the time she’d dug it out of the bottom of the bag, it had gone to voicemail. Not for the first time.
There had been half a dozen missed calls while she’d been making her escape and, as she looked at it, it beeped at her, warning that she now had a text, adding to her sense of being hunted.
She had to get off the ground floor and out of sight—now—and, giving up on the attempt to look casual, she kicked off her remaining shoe—after all, if she was four inches shorter she’d be less noticeable—and stuffed it, along with the file, in her bag.
As far as she could recall, the nearest powder room was on the third floor. If she made that without being discovered, she could hole up there for a while, lock herself in a cubicle and think. Something she should have done before barging into that press conference.
Avoiding the glass lifts and escalators—her red coat was too bright, too noticeable and the people following her had been close enough, smart enough to have figured out where she’d gone to earth—she hurried towards the stairs.
It was a good plan. The only problem with it was that by the time she’d reached the first floor she had a stitch in her side, her legs felt like jelly and her head was swimming from the crack on the temple.
For a moment she bent double as she tried to ease the pain.
‘Are you all right?’ A sweet lady was looking at her with concern.
‘Fine,’ she lied. ‘Just a stitch.’ But the minute the woman was out of sight she slithered behind a floor-to-ceiling arrangement of silver and white snowflakes that had been constructed in the corner where the stairs turned. Safely out of sight, she sank down onto the floor and used her free hand to massage her ankles, which were aching from the strain. She pulled a face as she saw the state of her foot. Her shredded tights. But there was nothing she could do about that now.
Instead, she leaned back against the wall to catch her breath, regarding the state-of-the-art all-singing, alldancing phone that had so quickly become a part of her new life with uncertainty.
It held all her contacts, appointments. She dictated her thoughts into it. Her private diary. The elation, the disbelief, the occasional doubt. And it was her connection to a world that seemed endlessly fascinated by her.
Her Facebook page, the YouTube videos, her Twitter account.
Rupert’s PR people hadn’t been happy when they’d discovered that she’d signed up to Twitter all by herself. Actually, it had been her hairdresser who’d told her that she was being tweeted about and showed her how to set up her own account while waiting for her highlights to take.
That had been the first warning that she wasn’t supposed to have a mind of her own, but keep to the script.
Once they’d realised how well it was working, though, they’d encouraged her to tweet her every thought, every action, using the Cinderella hashtag, to her hundreds of thousands of followers. Keep them up to date with her transformation from Cinderella into Rupert’s fairy tale princess.
Innocently selling the illusion. Doing their dirty work for them.
But it was a two-way thing.
Right now her in-box was filling up with messages from followers who had watched the web feed, seen the ruckus and, despite everything, she smiled as she read them.
@LucyB Nice bag work, Cinders! What’s occurring?
#Cinderella
WelshWitch, [+] Wed 1 Dec 16:08
@LucyB What’s the b*****d done, sweetie?
#Cinderella
jenpb, [+] Wed 1 Dec 16:09
@LucyB DM me a contact number. You’re going to
need help. #Cinderella
prguru, [+] Wed 1 Dec 16:12
Too true, she thought, the smile fading. But not from ‘prguru’, aka Mr Public Relations, the man famous for selling grubby secrets to grubby newspapers and gossip mags. It didn’t matter to him if you were a model in rehab, a politician having an affair with his PA or the victim of some terrible tragedy. He’d sell your story for hard cash and turn you into a celebrity overnight.
Nor any of the other public relations types lining up to jump in and feed off her story. As if she’d trust anyone in the PR business ever again.
She wasn’t sure how long the phone would function—Rupert would surely pull the plug the minute he thought of it—so she quickly thumbed in a message to her followers while she had the chance.
And maybe she should update her diary, too. Just in case anything happened to her. Something else her hairdresser had clued her up on. That she could set up a private web document, record her thoughts on her phone and then send it to be stored on her own private Internet space.
‘Think of it as your pension, princess,’ he’d said.
She’d thought him cynical, but she had started keeping a diary, mostly because there were some things she hadn’t been able to confide to anyone else.
Diary update: Day hit the skids after the photoshoot when I realised I’d forgotten the wedding file and went to the office to borrow R’s copy. His dragon of a personal assistant had gone with him to the Lucy B press launch and her assistant is on holiday so there was a temp holding the fort or I would never have been handed the key to his private filing cabinet.
I had my hand on the wedding file when I spotted the one next to it. The one labelled ‘The Cinderella Project’.
Well, of course I opened it. Wouldn’t you?
Now meeting with wedding planner off. Celebration off. Dinner at Ritz most definitely off. As for wedding…Off, off, off.
Time to Tweet the good news.
Thanks for concern, tweeps. Fairy tale fractured—kissed prince, got frog. HEA cancelled. End of story.
#Cinderella
LucyB, [+] Wed 1 Dec 16:41
The phone belted out the ghastly ringtone again just as she clicked ‘send’ and made her jump nearly out of her skin. It was a sharp reminder of the need to keep her head down and she switched it to silent, unable to cut herself off entirely.
There had to be someone she could ring. Someone she could trust. But not from here.
This was no haven.
She had to move before someone spotted her, but first she had to do something to change her appearance.
She’d felt so utterly Christmassy when she’d set off in her bright red coat that morning. Utterly full of the joys of a season that had never before felt so exciting, so full of promise.
Now she felt as conspicuous as Santa in a snowdrift.
She would have liked to abandon it. Abandon everything. Strip off, change back into who she was. Her real self, not this manufactured ‘princess’.
Easier said than done.
This morning she’d had everything a woman could possibly want. This afternoon she had nothing in the world except what she stood up in and it was going to be freezing tonight.
But she could manage without the coat for now and, easing it off in the cramped space, she folded it inside out so that only the black lining showed. Better, although she could have done with a hat to cover her head.
She didn’t even have a scarf. Why would she? Until half an hour ago she was being chauffeured everywhere, an umbrella held over her head at the slightest suggestion of anything damp descending from the sky whenever she stepped onto a pavement. Cosseted. Precious.
Very precious. A lot of time and money had been invested in her. And Rupert—not the fantasy figure of her dreams, but the real one—would expect, demand a profit for all that effort, cost.
Legs still a little shaky, she shouldered her bag, tucked her coat over her arm and, still clutching her phone in her hand, peered cautiously around the display.
No sign of any big scary men, or journalists, hunting her down, just shoppers preoccupied with what to wear at a Christmas party or buying gifts for their loved ones. Taking a deep breath and doing her best to look as if it was the most normal thing in the world, she eased herself back into the flow.
It took all her nerve to take one ladylike step after the other, matching her pace to those around her and trying to look as if walking barefoot through the poshest store in London in December was absolutely normal, when what she really wanted to do was take off, race up the stairs two at a time and get out of sight.
She kept her eyes straight ahead instead of looking about her to check for anything suspicious, doing absolutely nothing that might draw attention to herself.

Nat called down to his head of security to brief him on the fact that they might have a ‘situation’; something to keep an eye on. That done, he continued his afternoon walk through the store, conscientiously looking in on each department before heading for the stairs to the next floor.
Even at the height of the Christmas buying frenzy the H&H reputation for perfection had to be maintained. He might not want to be here, but no one would ever be able to accuse him of letting standards slip and he was alert for anything that jarred on the eye, anything out of place.
Why, for instance, had the woman ahead of him taken off her coat? Was the store too warm? It was essential that shoppers had both hands free, but it was a delicate balancing act keeping the store comfortable for both staff and customers who were dressed for outdoors.
Not that he was complaining about the view.
She had pale blonde hair cut in soft, corn silk layers that seemed to float around her head, stirring a thousand memories. Despite the fact that they were in the middle of the busiest shopping season of the year, he wanted to slow the world down, call out her name so that she’d turn to him with an unguarded smile…
He slammed the door on the thought but, even while his brain was urging him to pass her, move on, the rest of him refused to listen, hanging back so that he could hold on to the illusion for a moment longer.
Foolish.
She was nothing like the fragile woman whose memory she’d evoked. On the contrary, the black cashmere sweaterdress she was wearing clung enticingly to a figure that curved rather more than was fashionable. No snow queen, this. Inches shorter, she was an altogether earthier armful. Not the kind of woman you worshipped from afar, but the kind built for long, dark winter nights in front of an open fire.
Then, as his gaze followed the pleasing curve of her hip to the hem of her short skirt and he found himself enjoying the fact that her legs lived up to the rest of the package, he realised that she wasn’t wearing any shoes.
She might have taken them off for a moment’s relief. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen a woman walking barefoot through the store carrying shoes that were pinching after a hard day’s shopping. But she wasn’t laden with glossy carriers. The only bag she was carrying was a soft leather tote clutched close to her side beneath the coat, heavy, but with the weight of a protruding file rather than parcels, gift-wrapped by his staff.
But what really jarred, jolting him out of the firelight fantasy, was the fact that one foot of the ultra-fine black tights she was wearing had all but disintegrated. That her slender ankles had been splashed with dirt thrown up from the wet pavements.
As if sensing him staring, she turned, still moving, and almost in slow motion he saw her foot miss the step and she flung out her arm, grabbing for him as she stumbled backwards.
He caught her before she hit the stairs and for a moment they seemed to hang there, suspended above them, his hand beneath her as she peered up at him with startled kitten eyes, her arm flung around his neck.
His head filled with the jarringly familiar scent of warm skin overlaid with some subtle, expensive perfume that jumped to his senses, intensified colour, sound, touch…the softness of the cashmere, the curve of her back, her weight against his palm as he supported her, kissing close to full, soft lips, slightly parted as she caught her breath.
His world was reduced to the pounding of his heart, her breath against his cheek, her gold-green eyes peering up at him over a voluptuous cowl collar that was sliding, seductively, off one shoulder.
She smelled like a summer garden, of apples and spice and, as he held her, a rare, forgotten warmth rippled through him.

Chapter Two
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…

Chapter Three
‘DIDN’T Garlands explain?’ Pam asked.
‘It was a bad connection…’ so bad it was non-existent ‘…I must have missed that bit. But I have been CRB checked,’ she said. ‘I worked in a day-care nursery before…Well, until recently.’
Oh, boy, Lucy Bright. The ability to look someone in the eye and tell a big fat lie had to be catching. His Frogginess would be proud of her.
Not that she’d lied about having a CRB Certificate. It wasn’t under the name Louise Braithwaite, of course, but it was the real deal. She’d had to have one for the day job at the nursery while she’d been studying at night school. She’d worked as a waitress in the local pizza parlour on her free evenings and at the weekends to earn the money to pay for her course.
Much good it had done her.
She’d applied for hundreds of jobs before she’d got an interview for a clerical assistant post at the Henshawe Corporation. The fact that there had been an interview panel for such a junior position had thrown her, but it had been very informal. They’d been incredibly impressed at how hard she’d worked and encouraged her to talk about her ambitions.
She still remembered the stunned silence when she’d finished telling them passionately that she wanted to prove herself. Make something of herself, be someone. And then they’d applauded her.
When, the following day, they had called her to offer her a job, she’d thought herself the luckiest woman in the world.
‘I realise that Garlands know what they’re doing, but I still have to ask,’ Pam muttered. ‘It’s been so difficult since the new laws about working with children were introduced. We normally get in drama students at Christmas but not too many of them have had the foresight to get a CRBC. I don’t suppose they see themselves doing a Christmas gig as one of Santa’s Little Helpers when they get a place at RADA. That’s why I called Garlands.’
‘They supply elves?’ she asked, which got her an odd look.
‘They place temporary nannies.’
‘Just kidding.’ Whew…
Pam stared down at her feet. ‘What happened to your shoes?’
‘I broke a heel in a grating.’ The truth, the whole truth and almost nothing but the truth…
‘Oh, bad luck.’ They shared a moment of silent mourning, then, pressing on, ‘You’re a bit buxom for an elf,’ she said, looking at her doubtfully, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers. There should be something that fits.’ She held one of the tunics up against her, then thrust it at her, piling the rest of the costume on top. ‘You’ve got small feet. These should do.’ She put a pair of soft felt bootees on top of the pile and then took a small plastic pouch out of a box and added that to the pile. ‘The elf make-up pack. Rouge for your cheeks, a pencil for freckles—you’ll find a picture of what’s required inside. And there’s a pad to remove your nail polish. You can change down here,’ she said, leading the way down a short flight of steps. ‘Find a spare locker for your clothes and be as quick as you can.’
She opened a door and Lucy found herself confronted on one side by a vast locker room that seemed to stretch to infinity and on the other by a room providing not only loos and basins, but showers, too.
She quickly crammed her coat and bag into an empty locker, stripped off her dress, tossed the shredded tights in a bin. There was no time for a shower so she dunked her feet, one at a time, in a basin of warm water to wash off the street dirt, half expecting Pam to burst in with the real elf at any minute.
She didn’t but, until she did, she was grateful for being in the warm and, more importantly, in a very neat disguise.
She dabbed circles of rouge on her cheeks, scattered a few freckles across her nose, then a few more, before removing the nail polish that had been applied at great expense just hours ago. A shame, but clearly elves didn’t have bright red nails.
Finally, she donned the costume, tucking her hair out of sight under the pointy felt hat and regarded herself in a handily placed mirror.
It wasn’t a good look.
The green and white striped tights made her legs look fat and the tunic was doing her bum no favours. Right now, she didn’t care.
Diary update: The day has gone from bad to surreal. I’ve been mistaken for an elf. Not an entirely bad thing since I’m off the streets and I’ve been supplied, free of charge, with a neat disguise. It’s just temporary, of course, like the new name. What I’m going to do when Hastings & Hart closes at eight o’clock is my next problem. But with luck I’ve got three hoursbreathing space to work on a plan, always assuming the real elf doesn’t turn up in the meantime.
Three hours to get my breath back after a very close encounter with Mr Tall, Dark and Dangerous.
Lucy ran her tongue over her lips to cool them, then shook her head and stuffed her phone and her locker key into the little leather pouch on her belt before presenting herself for inspection.
Pam sighed, adjusted the hat so that a little more of her hair showed. ‘You’ve been a little heavy-handed with the freckles.’ Then, frowning, ‘Is that a bruise?’
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Someone caught me with a bag,’ she said.
‘The Underground just gets worse…Never mind.’ She took a small camera from her pocket. ‘I’ll just take a picture for your ID. Say cheese…’
‘Cheese.’
‘Great. I’ll log you into the system later. Sort you out a swipe card.’
‘Swipe card?’
‘It’s how we keep track of staff. How we know who is working, how long they’ve worked and that they’ve left the premises at the end of the day. You’ll need it to get out and, hopefully, get in again tomorrow.’
‘Oh, right. Absolutely.’
‘Come on. I’ll take you to meet Frank Alyson, Deputy Manager of the toy department and Chief Elf, and then you can get started.’
She passed her over to a tall lugubrious man wearing a long green tunic. She sort of sympathised with him. It couldn’t be much fun being a middle-aged man with his dignity in shreds, but walking around Santa’s grotto in a suit and tie would undoubtedly compromise the illusion.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/liz-fielding/mistletoe-and-the-lost-stiletto-39918242/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.