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

This might be a stunning apartment but he’d said himself that it wasn’t home. So where was? She wanted to know.

Her fingers trailed over the butter-soft leather of the sofa as she turned, taking it all in and, looking up, she saw an open gallery with the same stunning view of the city. It was reached by a circular staircase and, taking Nathaniel at his word, she went up, finding herself in a space wide enough for casual seating. Armchairs in more of that soft black leather.

There was a single pair of black panelled doors. Assuming that they led to an internal lobby where she’d find the bedrooms, she opened one and stepped through.

For a moment all she could see was the blinking of the navigation lights of a plane passing overhead, then soft concealed lighting, responding to movement, gradually revealed the room she’d stumbled into.

The dark, asymmetrical pyramid of glass above her that would, by day, light the room. The tip of a landmark that rose like a spear into the sky. Silver in the rain. Bronze, gold, fiery red when struck by the sun. Never the same.

Below it was the largest bedroom she had ever seen, perfect in every striking detail. The walls were a soft dovegrey and, apart from the bed, a vast space of pure white, the only furniture was a cantilevered slab of black marble that ran the entire width of the room behind the bed.

Unable to stop herself, she opened a door that led to a pair of dressing and bath rooms. His and hers.

Nathaniel’s?

No. Despite an array of the most luxurious toiletries, the designer suits, couturier dresses, in the walk-in wardrobes, it was obvious that neither of them was in use. It wasn’t just the fact that all the clothes were cocooned in plastic covers.

There was no presence here. Like the rest of the apartment, it was visually stunning, austere, silent.

But here the silence was a hollow, suffocating emptiness.

Even the art was monochrome. Just one piece, a black-framed architectural impression of the Hastings & Hart building that filled the space above the bed.

The only point of colour in the room was a single crimson rose in a silver bud vase gleaming against the black marble.

She touched a velvety petal, expecting it to be silk, but it was real. The one thing in the room, in the entire apartment, as far as she could tell, that was alive and she shivered as she stared up at the drawing.

The building was a thing of light, energy, leaping from the earth. While this…

‘This isn’t home…’

And then her eyes focused on the signature on the drawing.

Nathaniel Hart.

Nat emptied the groceries onto the central island of the vast kitchen that he rarely used for anything other than making coffee.

He’d offered to pitch Lucy a tent but wasn’t that what he was doing? Camping out. Living here but doing his best not to touch anything.

As if by not making an impression, not disturbing anything, maybe one morning he would wake up and he’d be back in his own life. The nightmare over.

Lucy closed the doors, quietly retraced her steps down to the lower floor, found the kitchen.

Nathaniel was standing with his back to the door, arms spread wide, hands gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles were white. Certain she was intruding, she took an instinctive step backwards, but he heard and half turned, his face as empty as the room upstairs.

‘I’m lost,’ she said quickly.

‘Lost?’

‘Not so much lost as confused. I went upstairs. It seemed the obvious thing to do.’ She lifted a shoulder in an embarrassed little shrug.

‘My fault.’ He straightened, dragged both hands through his hair. ‘I should have given you the guided tour instead of leaving you to find your own way around.’

‘I could have found my own way. I just didn’t want to blunder in anywhere else that’s private.’

‘It’s not private. It’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’ He grasped her hand and led the way to a wide corridor with a series of doors, all on one side.

‘Linen cupboard,’ he said, keeping her hand tucked in his. ‘Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom…’ opening doors to reveal three empty bedrooms, all decorated with the same pale walls, black marble night tables, white linen as the room upstairs. ‘Bedroom,’ he repeated, opening the last door to reveal yet more of the same, finally releasing her hand, leaving it for her to decide whether or not to follow him inside because this was not just another bedroom.

‘This is your room,’ she said.

‘The master suite upstairs spooked you and you don’t know me.’ He turned to face her. ‘I wanted you to see for yourself that I have nothing to hide.’

‘You don’t feel like a stranger,’ she said, following him, placing her hand in his. Foolish, maybe, especially considering the way her heart leapt whenever he was within ten feet of her. Yes, the room upstairs had spooked her, but it didn’t seem to be doing much for him either, and his fingers closed about hers. Almost as if they were uniting against the world.

The word dropped into her chest with a thunk, but for once she kept her mouth closed, her thoughts to herself.

United…

That was what it had felt like when he’d held her on the stairs. Instinctive. Natural. There had been no barriers between them, only an instant and mutual recognition, and in another place somewhere private, they’d have been out of their clothes, not caring about anything but the need to touch, to hold and be held, feel the heat of another human body.

Not just lust at first sight. Something far deeper than that.

Slightly shocked at the direction her mind was taking, she forced herself to retrieve her hand, ignore the cold emptiness where his palm had been pressed against hers and concentrate on the room.

Square, with long, narrow floor to ceiling windows on two sides, it occupied the corner of the building.

Nathaniel had barely made an impression on it. There were a few books piled up on the marble ledge beside the bed and, taking advantage of his invitation, she ran her fingers down the spines. Art. Design. Management. Psychology. No fiction. Nothing just for fun.

The only thing that set this room apart from the others was a drawing board and stool, tucked up into the corner. As far out of the way as possible.

There was nothing else that gave any clue to the man.

A bathroom. A wardrobe-cum-dressing room, smaller than the ones upstairs. At least his clothes were lived in, used and, unable to help herself, she lifted the sleeve of one of maybe a dozen identical white shirts.

She turned, saw that he was watching her. ‘Fresh air,’ she said. ‘It smells of fresh air. Like washing hung out on a windy day.’

‘You’re wasted as an elf. You should be writing copy for the manufacturers of laundry products.’

‘Not me!’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, but I’m right off the whole idea of marketing right now.’

She dropped the sleeve, stepped past him, back into the bedroom.

‘Tell me, Nathaniel,’ she asked as she looked around, ‘did you get a discount for buying in bulk?’

‘Bulk?’

‘The paint. The marble. I know you designed the building. I saw your drawing. In the room upstairs.’