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 head to head with the Chief Elf and Lucy scarcely dared breathe as she watched the pair of them.
One look and the game would be up.
It was one thing keeping her identity a secret from people who weren’t looking for her, didn’t expect to see her, but anyone who knew her, or was looking for her, wouldn’t be fooled for a moment by her disguise. And he had to be looking for her. Didn’t he?
The thought filled her with a mixture of dread and elation. While her head was afraid, she had to restrain her body from leaning towards him, from shouting Look! Here I am!
But, standing back like this so that she could see all of him—the broad shoulders, the long legs—she could also see that he was wearing an identity tag just like the one Pam had been wearing, which meant that he wasn’t a customer, someone just passing through.
He worked in the store and if Rupert’s bodyguards had elicited help from the management in finding her she was in deep trouble because one thing was obvious. He wasn’t junior staff.
His pinstriped suit was the business, his tie, navy with a tiny pattern, was eye-wateringly expensive; she’d bought one like it in the store just yesterday. And, even without the designer gear, he had that unmistakable air of authority.
But if she’d thought he’d seemed intense as he’d held her balanced above the stairs, now he looked positively grim.
‘Keep your eyes open, Frank.’ His voice was low; he didn’t need to raise it to make a point.
As she watched, pinned to the spot, he took a step back, glanced around, his eyes momentarily coming to rest on her. She’d left it too late to move and she lowered her lashes, opting for the if-I-can’t-see-you-then-you-can’t-see-me scenario. Holding her breath as she waited for the got you hand on the shoulder.
Her heart ceased to beat for the second or two that he continued to stare at her, but after a moment she realised that, while he was looking at her, he wasn’t actually seeing her. He wasn’t even in this room, not in his head, anyway.
Then someone put his head around the corner. ‘Whenever you’re ready, sir.’
Without a word, he turned and walked away. Which was when she realised that he was gripping something in his hand. A shoe.
Her shoe.
Had it fallen out of her bag when she’d stumbled?
Well, duh…How many red suede peep-toe designer shoes were there lying around Hastings & Hart? How many dumb females whose coach had just turned into a pumpkin were there fleeing up the H&H stairs scattering footwear in their wake?
How many men who could stop your heart with a look?
Stop it!
Enough with the fairy tales.
She was done with fairy tales.
‘Wh…who was that?’ she asked, as casually as she could, once she’d finally managed to retrieve her heart from her mouth and coax it back into life.
Frank gave her a weary look and she remembered, too late, that he didn’t like inquisitive elves.
‘That, Miss Mop and Bucket,’ he replied, ‘was Nathaniel Hart.’
‘Hart?’ She blinked. ‘As in…’ She pointed up at the building soaring above them.
‘As in Hastings & Hart,’ he confirmed.
‘No…’ Or, to put it another way, Nooooooo!
‘Are you arguing with me?’
‘No!’ And she shook her head, to make sure. ‘I just hadn’t realised there was a real Mr Hart.’ It certainly explained the air of authority. If he looked as if he owned the place it was because, well, he did. ‘I thought that most of these big stores were owned by big chains.’
‘Hastings &
