Liz Fielding - Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto

That she shouldn’t read more into it than a simple gesture of comfort and gradually she began to withdraw. Ease away.

She was a survivor. She’d taken everything that life could throw at her and she’d take this, come through it. She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders, putting herself back together, piece by piece, something she’d done times without number.

But never before had the loss of contact felt so personal, the empty space between two bodies quite so cold.

Then, as she brushed her fingers, palms over her cheeks to dry them, Nathaniel took away her hands, tugged up the edge of his T-shirt and used it to very tenderly dab them dry.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said quickly, pulling away from him before the tears began to fall again. ‘I didn’t plan to weep all over you.’

His response was a crooked smile and, making a pretence of wringing out his T-shirt between his hands, making a joke of it, he said, ‘Is that the worst you’ve got?’

She felt an answering tug at the corner of her own lips. She was still embarrassed at bawling her eyes out, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter so much. Nothing seemed to matter when Nathaniel smiled at her.

And that was dangerous.

Not because he was trying to fool her, but because she was capable of fooling herself. Seeing only what she wanted to see. Hearing only what she wanted to hear.

‘You have to call the police, Nathaniel. Tell them I’m here.’

‘Do I?’ he asked. ‘I’m perfectly capable of looking a policeman in the eyes and telling him that you’re not in the store.’

‘No lies,’ she insisted. ‘Nobody lies…’

‘So long as I do it before the store opens tomorrow, it will be the truth.’

‘But it wouldn’t be the whole truth and nothing but the truth, would it?’

‘You care about that?’

‘I’ve been living a lie for the last six months. This afternoon I lied to Pam…’

‘You didn’t actually lie to her.’

‘I didn’t tell her the truth, which is the same thing.’ She’d actually congratulated herself on her cleverness, which, considering the way she’d berated Rupert for doing the same thing, was double standards any way you looked at it. ‘You’ve been kind, Nathaniel. Not some fairy tale Prince Charming; you’re the real thing. A “parfit gentil knyght”. But you have the store to think about, your reputation. This is going to be messy and I don’t want you involved.’

‘It’s odd, Lucy, but that’s exactly what I told myself this afternoon when I delegated one of my staff to find you, return your shoe, offer you a pair of tights, whatever else you needed. Leave it to someone else to deal with, I thought. Don’t get involved.’

‘You did that?’ For a moment she felt as if she was bathed in a warm blast, like opening an oven door. ‘Well, I guess I will need a pair of tights-’

‘I was still saying it when I had Henshawe’s bullies evicted from the store,’ he continued, taking her face in his hands.

‘-and shoes. The boots are great, but-’

‘And all the time I was driving Pam home and couldn’t think of anything but the fear in your beautiful kitten eyes.’ Instinctively, she closed them and felt the butterfly touch of his thumbs brush across her lids. His fingers sliding through her hair as he cradled her head. ‘I was telling myself to forget it. Whatever it was. That it wasn’t my problem. Don’t get involved-’

‘But, as to the rest,’ she cut in, forcing her eyes open, refusing to succumb to his touch, his voice so soft that it seemed to be lost somewhere deep in his throat.

Forcing herself to take responsibility for what had happened. Step away.

‘As to the rest,’ she said as her retreat was halted by the bulk of the island unit, ‘I’ll swallow my pride, borrow some clothes and call that taxi. Go to the nearest police station and tell them the truth.’

It was fraud. A crime…

He’d moved with her, his hands still cradled her head, his train of thought unbroken.

‘-don’t get involved. Telling myself that by the time I got back you’d be long gone.’

‘And in the morning,’ she persisted, shutting her ears to temptation, ‘you can tell the police that I’m not in the store.’

‘And that’s not being economical with the truth?’

‘Only slightly.’

‘The truth, since you’re so keen on it, Lucy Bright, is that I was involved from the moment I saw you ahead of me on the stairs. Your hair floating like a halo around your head.’

‘Well, that’s history…’

She was trapped against the island. His hands were a gentle cradle for her face, his body was warming her from breast to knee, the silver glints in his eyes were molten.

‘Now I just look like Harpo Marx…’

Not that she could have moved. Every cell in her body had given up, surrendered and, as his gaze slid down to her lips, it was only the counter at her back that was holding her up.

‘Your neck…’ His thumb brushed her jaw as his hand stroked her neck in a slow, lazy move that sent a wave of heat rippling down to her toes. ‘Did you know that the nape of the neck is considered so erotic that geishas leave it unpainted?’

She managed a small noise, nothing that made any sense because, forget necks, napes or any other part of the anatomy, his voice, so low that only her hormones could hear, was doing it for her.

‘The way your dress was slipping from your shoulder-’

‘It was just a look,’ she said in a last-ditch attempt to hang onto whatever sense she possessed. ‘A once-in-a-lifetime, never-to-be-repeated look-’

‘What are you prepared to risk on that, Lucy Bright? Truth, dare, kiss, promise…’

Her desperate protestations died as, not waiting for her answer, his eyes never leaving her lips, Nathaniel looked at her with that same intensity, the same liquid silver eyes that had turned her core molten, before slowly lowering his mouth to hers.

She watched in slow motion, knowing that it was going to happen, knowing that all she had to do to stop it was answer him.

Say just one word.

If only she could remember what it was. But her brain was lollygagging around somewhere. Out to lunch. Make that dinner…

She slammed her eyes shut a second before he made contact and her world was reduced to touch. The soft warmth of a barely-there kiss. A tingle as her lips demanded more. A breath-his, not hers. She’d sucked air in and it was stuck there as she waited for the promise.

The warmth became heat.

Her lower lip began to tremble.

Someone moaned and her tongue, too thick for her own mouth, reached for his. Touched his lip. Another moment of this torture and she was going to slither between his arms and melt into a messy puddle on the floor at his feet.

Was this the kiss? The promise? Or was it about the truth?

Right now, it didn’t seem to matter much. It might be ‘just a kiss’ but she wanted it. Wanted it and everything that followed.

‘You win,’ she murmured against his mouth, her eyes still closed.

‘Not entirely,’ he replied, his voice more a growl than a purr as his hand abandoned her neck to capture her hip, pull her close, as the kiss became the briefest reality before he took a step back, leaving her hot and hungry for more. ‘But you most certainly lost and I’m not going to be a gentleman about it. I’m claiming my forfeit.’

At which point her knees gave up the struggle and buckled beneath her.

Nat caught her as she slithered into his arms. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘it isn’t going to be that bad.’

Her throat was thick and she had to clear it. ‘It isn’t?’

‘What did you think? That I was going to demand your body?’

‘Noooo…’ Dry and thick with disappointment which if she could hear, so could he…’ The police,’ she muttered, grabbing for reality. ‘We have to call them now.’