Fairytale Christmas. Liz FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
She had no doubt that his PR team had already put some kind of spin on that. Stress. Prewedding nerves.
Of course if she turned up in the elf costume—the paparazzi would certainly be on the job tonight—it would wipe the smug smile off all their faces.
For a moment she was sorely tempted but, recalling the scrum at the press conference, she decided to give it a miss.
No. If she needed an excuse for being in the shower so late, she’d stick to the second job story. Everyone needed extra money at Christmas and a waitress—her own particular preference when she’d needed the cash to finance her studies—had to be clean and fresh.
She reclaimed her dress from the locker and then, having folded her costume neatly and left it on the bench, she took a towel from the rack and stepped into one of the stalls.
The water was hot and there were shampoo and soap dispensers. Hastings & Hart staff were very well taken care of, she decided, as she pushed the pump for a dollop of soap. Maybe she should reconsider her career options.
Could being an elf in a department store be considered a career? What did Santa do for the rest of the year? And would she get to meet the boss again?
Cold shower, cold shower!
She squeezed some shampoo. Her hair didn’t need washing—she’d spent two hours in the salon having it cut and pampered earlier in the day—but she felt the need to cleanse herself from top to toe, rid herself of the past few months, and she dug in deep with her fingers, washing away the scent of betrayal, rinsing it down the drain.
Then, in no hurry to stop, she reached out to adjust the temperature a touch.
The grotto, Santa’s workshop, was deserted. Nat walked through to Frank’s office, hoping he might find a staff list, but the man was too well organised to leave such things lying about. Besides, he knew he had to be wrong. It had to be a coincidence. There was no way Lucy could have transformed herself into an elf.
It was ridiculous. He was becoming obsessed, seeing things.
Hearing things…
A deluge of ice water hit Lucy and she let out a shriek that would have woken the dead. She groped blindly for the control which, having spun at the merest touch, was now stuck stubbornly on cold.
She gave one last tug. The control knob came off in her hand and, freezing, she burst out of the shower stall, dripping, naked, eyes closed as she grabbed for the towel.
She wiped her face, took a breath, opened her eyes and discovered that she was not alone.
Nathaniel Hart—the man with his name above the front door—had obviously heard her yell. More of her ‘openness and lack of guile’, obviously. Not her best move if she wanted to keep below the radar.
She didn’t scream, despite the shock. Her mouth opened; her brain was sending all the right signals but nothing was getting past the big thick lump that was blocking her throat.
He took the control from her hand, reached into the shower stall, screwed it deftly back into place and turned off the water, giving her a chance to gather her wits and wrap the towel around her before he closed the door.
Then he helped himself to one, dried his hands and only when he’d tossed it onto the bench behind her did he give her his full attention.
‘Making yourself at home, Cinderella?’ he enquired after what felt like the longest moment in her life while a slow blush spread from her cheeks and down her neck, heating all points south until it reached her toes.
Cinderella.
He knew…
It took forever to unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth, making her lips work.
She took a step back, slipped on a floor awash with cold water. Torn between grabbing for safety and hanging onto the towel, she made a grab for the shower door.
No doubt afraid that she’d bring that down on them, Nathaniel Hart reached for her arm, steadying her before the towel had slipped more than an inch.
An inch was way too much. The towel, which when she’d first picked it up had seemed perfectly adequate for decency, now felt like a pocket handkerchief.
‘This is the women’s locker room,’ she finally managed.
As if that was going to make any difference. This was his store and she was trapped. Not just shoeless this time, but ‘less’ just about everything except for a teeny, tiny towel that just about covered her from breast to thigh. Not nearly enough when this close to a man who’d sizzled her with a look when she’d been fully dressed.
He was looking now—which dealt with freezing…
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, finally managing to get her voice to work and going for indignant. She failed miserably. She just sounded breathless. She felt breathless…
With good reason.
She was naked, alone and at the mercy of a man who almost certainly meant her no good. But, far from fleeing, his touch was like an electric charge and all her instincts were telling her to forget modesty, let the towel fall and cooperate with whatever he had in mind. One hundred per cent.
Nooooo!
She forced herself to take a step away, put some distance between them, get a grip. Regretting it the minute she did. There was something about his touch that made her feel safe. Made her feel…
‘And that’s not my name,’ she added, cutting off the thought before she lost it entirely.
‘No?’ He flipped something from his pocket and offered it to her. ‘If the shoe fits…’
He was still carrying her shoe?
‘What do you think this is?’ she demanded, ignoring the shoe. ‘A pantomime? I’m all through with the Cinderella thing, Mr Hart.’
‘You know who I am?’
‘Mr Alyson told me. You’re Nathaniel Hart and you own this store.’
‘I run it. Not the same thing.’
‘Oh.’ She wasn’t sure why that was better, but somehow it was. She was totally off billionaire tycoons. ‘I just assumed…’
‘Most people do.’
‘Well, if the name fits,’ she said and thought she got the tiniest response. Just a hint of a smile. But maybe she was imagining it. ‘What do you want, Mr Hart?’
‘Nothing. On the contrary, I’m your fairy godmother.’
She stared at him but said nothing. She was in enough trouble without stating the obvious.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.
‘I promise you, you haven’t got a clue.’
‘You’re thinking where is the frilly skirt? Where are the wings?’
No…Not even close. ‘Trust me, it would not be a good look for you. Take my advice, stick with the pin-stripes.’
‘Well, I’m glad you take that view.’
The barest suspicion of a smile became a twitch of the lips, curling around her, warm, enticing. Tempting. Heating up bits that it would take a very long cold shower to beat into line and she was very glad indeed that he hadn’t got a clue.
‘Hastings & Hart takes its role as an equal opportunities employer very seriously,’ he assured her.
‘We have to take our fairy godmothers wherever we can find them in these enlightened days,’ she agreed, firmly resisting the temptation to fling herself into his arms and invite him to make free with his magic wand. Instead, she tightened her lips, keeping them pressed down in a straight line. A smile meant nothing, she told herself. Anyone could smile. It was easy. You just stretched