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

There were dozens of voicemails. She ignored them. There was no one she could think of who’d have anything to say that she wanted to hear. But she opened Rupert’s last message:

Henshawe 20:12. We need to talk.

Blunt and to the point, it didn’t escape her that he’d waited until the store was closed, all the doors were locked and there was no chance that she was still inside before calling her.

Proof, if she needed it, that he’d had someone watching all that time, just in case.

No doubt he’d had everyone out checking anywhere else she might have taken cover, too. She guessed some of the messages were from her former flatmates, the owner of the nursery where she’d worked. Everyone who had touched her life since the day her mother had abandoned her.

No apology, but at least there was no pretence. Forced to accept that she’d somehow slipped through his fingers, he was ready to talk.

The problem there was that there was nothing he had to say that she wanted to hear.

Or maybe one thing, and that was unintentional.

Not that, in her heart of hearts, she’d needed confirmation that Nathaniel really was on the level. That he’d seen she was in trouble and hadn’t hesitated to step forward.

That he was one of the good guys.

But it was good to know that her judgement wasn’t terminally damaged. Not as crap as she’d thought.

She logged into Twitter. There were hundreds of messages now. And a new hashtag: #findLucyB

No prizes for guessing who’d come up with that one, she thought, as she logged into her diary.

Nathaniel Hart is on the side of the angels. Not only can he make the world go away with a look, but he doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. Which doesn’t mean I’m not going to have to tell him everything. I am. I will. But not yet.

Right now, I’m a lot more interested in his story. The man is clearly a genius architect, so what the heck is he doing running a department store—stores?

And if those clothes upstairs in the creepybedroom belong to his cousin, the one who commissioned this apartment, where is he?

‘Can I help?’

Nat, emptying the trolley, turned at the rare sound of another human voice in his kitchen. Lucy was standing in the doorway, a discordant slash of garish green against the cool grey of the slate and marble surfaces of the kitchen.

A discordant note in his life, knocking him off balance, sending a fizz of expectancy racing through his veins.

‘Shall I put these away?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but picked up a bag of salad leaves and, as she turned, he saw that she’d taken off the felt boots and striped tights, that the tunic barely covered her satin-skinned thighs and that her toenails were painted a bright candy-red that would have all the boy elves’ heads in a spin. Not to mention the CEO of this department store.

She opened one of the doors to the stainless steel fridge and he saw her pause for a heartbeat as she realised that, apart from bottled water, it was empty.

‘You don’t do a lot of entertaining, do you?’

‘I usually eat in one of the store restaurants,’ he said. ‘It keeps the staff on their toes, knowing I might drop in at any time.’

‘Right.’

‘There are eight of them to choose from,’ he said, needing to prove that he wasn’t totally sad. ‘Everything from Italian to Japanese.’

‘Sushi for breakfast?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The store doesn’t open until ten, does it? I don’t know about you, but I’d be gnawing my fingers off by then.’

‘It’s just as well I ignored your demands to put the porridge back on the shelf, then.’ He took one of her hands, rubbed a thumb over the back of her slender fingers, perfect nails. ‘It would be a pity to spoil these.’

‘Nathaniel…’ The word came out as a gasp.

‘Fortunately, the staff canteen opens at seven,’ he said, cutting off the little thank you speech he could see she was working up to, letting go of her hand. He didn’t want her thanks. He didn’t know what he wanted. Or maybe he did. He just wasn’t prepared to let go of the past. Admit it. ‘It takes time to get everything pitch perfect for the public.’

‘Well, that makes sense, I suppose.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘If you don’t like to cook.’ She turned back to the island, continued putting away the cold food. ‘What are you planning to do for Christmas? I don’t imagine the store is open on Christmas Day.’

‘No. Obviously, I’ve tried to persuade the staff that it’s a good idea, purely for my own convenience, you understand, but for some reason they won’t wear it.’

Bad choice of words.

She wasn’t wearing nearly enough. If she was going to stay it was essential that she cover those shapely legs. Those sweet little toes with their shiny red nails. Or he wouldn’t be answerable.

Nathaniel frowned and Lucy swallowed. Hard. She was totally losing it.

‘I’m sorry. That was unbelievably rude of me. You’ve probably noticed, but I tend to say the first thing that comes into my head. Obviously, you’ve got family, friends.’

A cousin, at least.

‘I’m never short of invitations,’ he agreed, ‘but, by the time the big day arrives, all I want to do is open a tin of soup.’

‘You can have too much of a good thing, huh?’

‘Remind me again,’ he invited, ‘what exactly is good about it?’

‘You don’t like Christmas?’

‘I repeat, what’s good about it?’

‘Lots of things. The fun of choosing gifts for the people you love.’ No response. He didn’t love anyone? No…‘Planning the food?’ she offered quickly, not wanting to think about the red rose in the room upstairs. ‘Oh, no. You don’t cook. How about a brass band playing Christmas carols in the open air? The sense of anticipation. The faces of little children.’ She didn’t appear to be making much impression with the things that she loved about Christmas so she tried a different tack. ‘How about the profits, Nathaniel? Remind me, how much does it cost to take a sleigh ride to Santa’s grotto?’

If she’d hoped to provoke him into a show of emotion, she would have been disappointed.

‘Would you care to see a breakdown of the costs involved in designing and creating a visual effects spectacular that will satisfy children who’ve been brought up on CGI?’ he enquired, clearly not in the least bit excited by the cost or the finished product. ‘You’re right, Lucy. Christmas is a rip-off. A tacky piece of commercialism and if I could cancel it I would.’

‘I didn’t say that!’

‘No? Forgive me, but I thought you just did.’

‘What I was doing was offering you a personal reason to enjoy it.’

‘The profit motive? Sorry, you’re going to have to try harder than that.’

‘Okay. Come down to the grotto and listen to the little ones for whom it’s all still magic, the wonder still shinybright.’

‘At a price.’