what effect the dress had on Nathaniel Hart. Wearing that, she had a chance of distracting him but, while her underwear would have undoubtedly done the job with bells on, she could hardly make her escape in a couple of scraps of lace.
Too late to do any good, she moved to the far end of the bench where it was dry and climbed back into the only warm clothes she possessed. The elf suit. The gorgeous stripy green tights. The tunic that was a little too tight. The neat little belt with the pouch to keep her acorns in. Or whatever it was that elves ate. The flat, floppy around the ankles bootees.
Terrific.
At least she could put on some make-up. And she wasn’t talking about freckles.
Five minutes later, lips pink, eyes smudgy, blusher discreetly applied and her damp hair released from the iron grip of hair straighteners and curling ridiculously around her head, she tugged on the tunic and sighed.
This was so not a good look. Her only hope was that some persistent paparazzo would snatch a snap of her leaving the store, being bundled into Rupert’s car.
Or did that come under the realms of fantasy, too? There was an underground car park and that was where he’d pick her up, out of sight. Drive her away in a car with blackedout windows. Or just shoved to the floor out of sight. No need for pretence.
She gathered her coat and bag, scared but determined not to let it show. Then, with her hand on the door, she paused. She still had the file and that gave her an edge. Bargaining power. Removing it from her bag, she stowed it in an empty locker, then looked around for a place to hide the key.
Once that was done, there was nothing more she could do but face the music—or, more accurately, the deliciously elegant Nathaniel Hart.
She gave one more tug on the hem of the tunic, reminding herself that it could be worse—at least she was wearing more than a damp towel. Actually, come to think of it, that might not be…
No. Telling herself to behave, be brave—she had more to worry about than how she looked—she took a deep breath and opened the door.
No poker face this time.
Between the elf costume and her wet hair sticking out at all angles, it was not her finest fashion hour, at least if the eyebrow gymnastics were anything to go by.
Making the most of a bad job, she pasted on a bright smile and gave him a twirl. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Does my bum look big in this?’
There was a long moment—too long-while he considered the matter and her smile began to wobble. What kind of idiot drew attention to her worst bits?
‘What happened to your dress?’ he finally asked, avoiding her question.
‘Are you referring to the world’s most expensive floor cloth?’ she responded, giving herself a mental slap for asking a question to which she already knew the answer.
‘I don’t know. Am I?’
‘The dress that some idiot man managed to knock into a freezing puddle with a badly tossed towel?’ She didn’t wait for him to answer that one. ‘You don’t think I’d be wearing this if there was any choice, do you?’
‘You were happy enough to grab it this afternoon,’ he reminded her, ‘although I have admit that it is rather—’
She glared at him, daring him to say the word tight.
‘—green.’ He opened the door that led into the electrical department. ‘It goes with your eyes,’ he added, taking her elbow as he fell in beside her. Not in a frog-marching way. Just a touch, a guiding hand, rather like a gentleman escorting a lady in to dinner in some Jane Austen movie, but she wasn’t fooled by that. Or his attempt at gallantry. She knew he was simply keeping contact so that if she decided to make a run for it all he had to do was tighten his grip.
She’d do it, too, at the first chance of escape.
For the moment, however, she forced herself to relax so that she wouldn’t telegraph her intentions. She’d already witnessed the lightning speed of his reactions when he’d stopped her from falling on the stairs. Lightning in every sense of the word. That moment while something seemed to fuse between them had been like a lightning strike. For a moment they had both been a little dazed. She wasn’t dazed now, though—well, not much—and carrying her kicking and screaming through the store was an entirely different kettle of fish. And if she decided to play hide and seek she might be able to hold out until morning.
Not so easy when the store was empty. There were cameras everywhere. But that worked both ways. His security people, the ones he’d warned her about, would be watching…
She realised that he was looking at her.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing. I was just speculating on Frank Alyson’s response to the liberties you’ve taken with your elf costume.’ He sounded grave, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Your belt is a little too tight and your make-up is definitely non-regulation. Where are the rosy cheeks and freckles?’ he asked. ‘And you must know that you’re improperly dressed without your hat.’
Okay, he was teasing and, despite everything, she was sorely tempted to smile. Instead, she reminded herself that they were his security people. They would believe whatever he told them and she couldn’t deny that she was on the premises illegally.
Cool. She had to play it cool. Wait her chance.
‘So…what? He’ll feed me to the troll?’
‘Troll?’ he asked, startled into a grin and set off a whole new wave of sparks flaring through her body.
Maybe she could set off a fire alarm, she thought desperately, doing her best to ignore them. Or there were the cleaners. They would be arriving soon; he’d said so. They had to get in. And get out again.
‘It’s what he does to underachieving elves,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘But I’m off duty so I’m afraid you’re going to have to live with “improper”, at least until my dress dries,’ she said, as if her clothing disaster was the only thing on her mind. ‘Always supposing it survives the dunking.’
‘I’m sorry about the dress. For some reason I didn’t notice it.’
Well, no. He’d been too busy not noticing her towel slipping all over the place…
‘I’ll replace it, of course.’
‘It was a one-off. A designer original.’
‘Oh. Well, let’s hope it dries out.’
‘It had better. Everything else I own is packed up in a couple of boxes. Along with my life.’
The life she’d had before she met Rupert Henshawe. It hadn’t been very exciting, but it had been real. Honest. Truthful.
Her clothes, including the most expensive suit she’d ever bought, the one she’d bought for her interview at the Henshawe Corporation—she’d been so determined to make a good impression. It had done its job, but of course it hadn’t been good enough for Lucy B.
There
