Fairytale Christmas. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 ended her 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 the support 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?
She’d been so busy shopping, being interviewed by the gossip magazines, having her photograph taken, that there hadn’t been any time to catch her breath, let alone enjoy the crazy roller coaster ride she was on. Or maybe that was the point.
She hadn’t wanted time to stop and think because if she had, she would have had to listen to the still small voice whispering away in the back of her mind telling her that it couldn’t possibly be real.
Mental note for diary: always listen to still small voice. It knows what it’s talking about.
Being here reminded her of how much she’d missed working in the day-care nursery. Missed the children.
‘Your turn for a break,’ one of the elves said, as it was time for the children to get back on the sleigh, and she began to gather up the bears. ‘Through the office, turn left. Coffee, tea, biscuits are on the house. There’s a machine with snacks if you need anything else.’
The tea was welcome and although Lucy wasn’t hungry she took a biscuit. Who knew when she’d get the chance to eat again? With that thought in mind, she stocked up on chocolate and crisps from the machine.
Rather than get involved in conversation with the other staff, she took a moment to check her phone, although what she was expecting to find, she didn’t know. Or rather she did. Dozens of missed calls, all of which she ignored. Texts, too. And hundreds of tweets, all demanding to know the whereabouts of Cinderella.
They couldn’t all have been from Rupert’s stooges. But how could she tell the real from the phoney? If someone was hoping to entice her into trusting them, they wouldn’t be leaping to his defence, would they?
She was considering whether to send a tweet to reassure the good guys that she was safe—at least for now—when something made her look up. The same prickle of awareness that had made her look around on the stairs.
And for the same reason.
There, not ten feet away, talking to Frank Alyson, was the man with grey eyes. The man who’d caught her, held her in one hand as easily as if she were a child and who had, for one brief moment, made her forget everything. Where she was, why she was running…
She could still feel the imprint of his hand on her back, the warmth of his breath against her cheek and, as she sucked her lower lip into her mouth to cool it, she almost believed that she could taste him on her tongue.
GREY Eyes was