Fairytale Christmas: Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto / Her Holiday Prince Charming / A Princess by Christmas

‘Any trouble evicting the bodyguards?’ Nat asked, dropping in at the security office in the basement. It was hopeless hunting through the store, but he might catch a glimpse of her on the bank of screens being fed images from CCTV cameras around the store.

‘No, although they were on the phone calling up reinforcements before they were through the door. Whoever replaces them won’t be as easy to spot.’

Women. He’d use women, he thought, scanning the screens but she’d gone to earth. Found a hiding place. Or perhaps she really had slipped back out into the dark streets. That should have been his hope; instead, the idea of her out there, alone in the cold and dark, filled him with dread.

‘Have you seen them before?’ he pressed. ‘Any idea who they work for?’

Bryan Matthews, his security chief, frowned, clearly puzzled by his interest, but shook his head, keeping whatever he was thinking to himself.

‘They didn’t say anything? Offer any explanation?’

‘No, they were clam-mouthed professionals. They must have been in a flat panic to have drawn attention to themselves like that. Any idea who they’ve lost?’

‘Maybe. It’s possible that she’s about this high,’ he said, his hand level with his chin. ‘Short pale blonde hair, green eyes, wearing a black knitted dress with a big collar.’ He looked at the shoe he was still carrying. ‘And no shoes.’

‘You saw her?’

He’d done more than that. He’d not just seen her, but caught her, held her and she’d filled up his senses like a well after a drought. There had been a connection between them so physical that when she’d run it had felt as if she’d torn away a chunk of his flesh and taken it with her.

‘I saw someone who seemed to be in a bit of a state,’ he said. ‘Pass the word to keep alert for anything out of the ordinary, especially at the store exits. When she does leave I want to be sure it’s her decision. Any problem, call me.’

‘I’ll pass the word.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll be in my office.’

He glanced once more at the screens, not knowing whether to be relieved or disappointed when he came up empty.

The common sense response would be relief, he reminded himself as he strode through the electrical department, heading for the lift. But this was about more than the smooth running of the store. It was rare for a woman to catch his attention with such immediacy.

Her fear had only sharpened his reaction, taking it beyond simple interest in an attractive woman. A snatched moment that had raised his heart rate, leaving him not just breathless, but exposed, naked, defenceless. The kind of feelings he hated, did everything possible to avoid. But still he wanted to know who she was. What, who, she was running from. Wanted to taste lips that had been close enough to tantalise his memory, send heat spiralling down through his body…

He came to an abrupt halt as he realised that she was there. Right there in front of him. Not just once, but over and over, her face looking out from dozens of silent television screens banked up against the wall. Her hair was longer, her face fuller and she was smiling so that those green eyes sparkled. The heat intensified as he focused on her lips. How close had he come to kissing her?

Close enough to imagine how it would feel, the softness of her lips, how she tasted as her body softened beneath him…

Whoever she was, it seemed that her disappearance was important enough to make the national news.

Or maybe just dramatic enough.

He reached the nearest set and as he brought up the sound the picture switched to a ruckus at a press conference.

’…scenes of total confusion as she very publicly endedher engagement to financier, Rupert Henshawe, accusing him of being a liar and a cheat…’

The camera caught Henshawe’s startled face, moving in for a close-up of a trickle of blood that appeared on his cheek, before swinging wildly to catch the green-eyed girl clutching a file against her breast with one hand, while swinging her bag, connecting with the jaw of a man who was trying to hang on to her with the other.

The picture faded to the familiar figure of business tycoon, Rupert Henshawe, making a statement to camera.

‘I blame myself. I should have realised that such a change in lifestyle would lead to stress in someone unused to the difficulty of being always in the public eye—’

His phone rang. He ignored it.

‘Meeting Lucy was a life-changing moment for me. She’s encouraged me to see the world in a new light…’

Lucy. Her name was Lucy.

’…her passionate belief in the fair trade movement has given a new ethical dimension to our fashion chain, which today I’m relaunching under the new name, Lucy B, in her honour…’

That was why she’d looked familiar, he realised as Henshawe paused, apparently struggling to keep back the tears.

He’d seen something in the papers about a romance with some girl who worked in his office—about as likely as Henshawe becoming a planet-hugger, he’d have thought…

‘Yes?’ he snapped, finally responding to the phone’s insistent ring, never taking his eyes from the screen.

‘It’s Pam Wootton, Nat—’

‘…I realise that I have been too wrapped up in all these new initiatives, visiting overseas suppliers, to give her thesupport she so desperately needed. To notice how tired she has become, her lack of appetite, her growing dependence on the tranquillisers that were prescribed after the press drove her to move out of the flat she shared with friends—’

Tranquillisers?

Nat felt a cold chill run through him. History repeating itself…

‘She needs rest, time to recover, all my best care and, as soon as I have found her, I will ensure—’

‘Nat?’

The voice in his ear was so insistent that he realised it wasn’t the first time his PA had said his name.

‘Sorry, Meg, I was distracted,’ he said, still staring at the screen. Then, as the news moved on to another story and he forced himself to concentrate, ‘Pam Wootton? What’s the matter with her?’

‘She’s collapsed. She was down in the grotto when it happened and Frank Alyson has called an ambulance, but I thought you’d want to know.’

‘I’ll be right there.’

‘What are you doing?’

Lucy, teddy-dressing on automatic while her brain frantically free-wheeled—desperately trying to forget the man with the grey eyes and concentrate on thinking about where she could go when the store closed—looked up to find a small boy watching her.

‘I’m wrapping this teddy up in a warm coat. It’s snowing,’ she said, glad of a distraction. Short of a park bench, she was out of ideas. ‘It will be very cold on Santa’s sleigh.’

‘Can I help?’

‘James, don’t be a nuisance,’ his mother warned. She had two smaller girls clutching at her skirts, half scared, half bewitched. Lucy smiled reassuringly.

‘He’s fine,’ she said. ‘Do you all want to give me a hand?’

Within minutes she was surrounded by small children dressing teddies, grinning happily as she helped with sleeves and buttons.

How long had it been since she’d done that? Not a posed for the camera smile, the kind that made your face ache, but an honest-to-goodness grin?