Liz Fielding – Fairytale Christmas: Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto / Her Holiday Prince Charming / A Princess by Christmas (страница 16)
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.
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
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 blackedout 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 bag, 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
‘—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.
She’d do it, too, at the first chance of escape.
For the moment, however, she forced herself to relax so that she wouldn’t telegraph her intentions. She’d already witnessed the lightning speed of his reactions when he’d stopped her from falling on the stairs. Lightning in every sense of the word. That moment while something seemed to fuse between them had been like a lightning strike. For a moment they had both been a little dazed. She wasn’t dazed now, though—well, not much—and carrying her kicking and screaming through the store was an entirely different kettle of fish. And if she decided to play hide and seek she might be able to hold out until morning.
Not so easy when the store was empty. There were cameras everywhere. But that worked both ways. His security people, the ones he’d warned her about, would be watching…
She realised that he was looking at her.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. I was just speculating on Frank Alyson’s response to the liberties you’ve taken with your elf costume.’ He sounded grave, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Your belt is a little too tight and your make-up is definitely non-regulation. Where are the rosy cheeks and freckles?’ he asked. ‘And you must know that you’re improperly dressed without your hat.’
Okay, he was teasing and, despite everything, she was sorely tempted to smile. Instead, she reminded herself that they were
Cool. She had to play it cool. Wait her chance.
‘So…what? He’ll feed me to the troll?’
‘Troll?’ he asked, startled into a grin and set off a whole new wave of sparks flaring through her body.
Maybe she could set off a fire alarm, she thought desperately, doing her best to ignore them. Or there were the cleaners. They would be arriving soon; he’d said so. They had to get in. And get out again.
‘It’s what he does to underachieving elves,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘But I’m off duty so I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with “improper”, at least until my dress dries,’ she said, as if her clothing disaster was the only thing on her mind. ‘Always supposing it survives the dunking.’
‘I’m sorry about the dress. For some reason I didn’t notice it.’
Well, no. He’d been too busy not noticing her towel slipping all over the place…
‘I’ll replace it, of course.’
‘It was a one-off. A designer original.’
‘Oh. Well, let’s hope it dries out.’
‘It had better. Everything else I own is packed up in a couple of boxes. Along with my life.’
The life she’d had before she met Rupert Henshawe. It hadn’t been very exciting, but it had been real. Honest. Truthful.
Her clothes, including the most expensive suit she’d ever bought, the one she’d bought for her interview at the Henshawe Corporation—she’d been so determined to make a good impression. It had done its job, but of course it hadn’t been good enough for Lucy B.