Liz Fielding - Fairytale Christmas

The word dropped into her chest with a thunk, but for once she kept her mouth closed, her thoughts to herself.

United…

That was what it had felt like when he’d held her on the stairs. Instinctive. Natural. There had been no barriers between them, only an instant and mutual recognition, and in another place somewhere private, they’d have been out of their clothes, not caring about anything but the need to touch, to hold and be held, feel the heat of another human body.

Not just lust at first sight. Something far deeper than that.

Slightly shocked at the direction her mind was taking, she forced herself to retrieve her hand, ignore the cold emptiness where his palm had been pressed against hers and concentrate on the room.

Square, with long, narrow floor to ceiling windows on two sides, it occupied the corner of the building.

Nathaniel had barely made an impression on it. There were a few books piled up on the marble ledge beside the bed and, taking advantage of his invitation, she ran her fingers down the spines. Art. Design. Management. Psychology. No fiction. Nothing just for fun.

The only thing that set this room apart from the others was a drawing board and stool, tucked up into the corner. As far out of the way as possible.

There was nothing else that gave any clue to the man.

A bathroom. A wardrobe-cum-dressing room, smaller than the ones upstairs. At least his clothes were lived in, used and, unable to help herself, she lifted the sleeve of one of maybe a dozen identical white shirts.

She turned, saw that he was watching her. ‘Fresh air,’ she said. ‘It smells of fresh air. Like washing hung out on a windy day.’

‘You’re wasted as an elf. You should be writing copy for the manufacturers of laundry products.’

‘Not me!’ She shook her head. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, but I’m right off the whole idea of marketing right now.’

She dropped the sleeve, stepped past him, back into the bedroom.

‘Tell me, Nathaniel,’ she asked as she looked around, ‘did you get a discount for buying in bulk?’

‘Bulk?’

‘The paint. The marble. I know you designed the building. I saw your drawing. In the room upstairs.’

‘I designed the building. The store,’ he confirmed. ‘But the apartment was private space, decorated to client specification. The idea was that nothing should distract from the windows. The colour, the movement. The concept of the city as living art.’

‘Right.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘The initial impact is stunning. The views are incredible, but…’ She hesitated as she struggled to find the words to explain how she felt.

‘But?’

‘But everything with colour, life, movement is happening somewhere else. To someone else. Up here, you’re just…’ she gave an awkward little shrug ‘…a spectator.’

‘How long have you been here, Lucy?’

‘I don’t know. Twenty minutes?’ She looked across at him. ‘Do you want me to leave now?’

‘You’re not going anywhere. And I’m not offended. I was merely calculating how long it had taken you to see the fatal flaw in a design that wowed the interior design world. Was featured in a dozen magazines.’

‘And was cousin Christopher pleased about that?’ she asked, sensing that he wasn’t entirely happy with what had been done with the amazing space he’d provided. ‘He is the man whose clothes are shrouded in the dressing room upstairs, I take it?’

‘He was torn, I’d say. He’d thrown open the doors to the likes of Celebrity magazine, wanting the world to see his eyrie. He’d forgotten that I was the one who would be credited with its creation.’

And the impression she’d gained that he didn’t like the man much, even if he was kin, solidified.

‘I’ll bet you a cheese omelette that they all focused on the windows. That’s if you’d allow anything that yellow to brighten the monochrome perfection of your kitchen.’

‘I let you in,’ he reminded her, ‘and I promise you no one has ever looked greener, or more out of place.’

‘Dressed like this,’ she replied, reprising the twirl, ‘I’d look out of place anywhere except your basement.’

‘True.’

‘Maybe you should have left me down there.’

‘Maybe you should get out of it.’

Something about the way he was looking at her sent a tremor of longing through her. It was as if something had become unhinged in her brain. Shock—it had to be shock. She didn’t do this. But, before she could do something really stupid, she said, ‘I think we’ll stick with the plan.’

Plan! What plan?

When he didn’t answer she crossed to the drawing board to take a look at what he was working on. It wasn’t a big project, just the front and side elevations of a single-storey house.

There was a photograph clipped to the corner of the board. Taken from a rocky ledge, the land fell away to a small sandy cove. The site for the house?

The edges of both photograph and drawing were curling slightly, as if they hadn’t been touched in a long time. Yet it was here, he kept it close, and she ran a hand over the edge of the photograph in an attempt to smooth it.

‘This is nice,’ she said, looking back at him. ‘Where is it?’

He didn’t look at the picture.

‘Cornwall.’

‘I’ve never been to Cornwall.’

‘You should,’ he said, his face devoid of expression and for a moment she thought she’d put her foot in her mouth. Right up to her ankle. ‘It’s…nice.’ Then she saw the tiny betraying flicker at the corner of his eye. ‘And full of Cornish piskies. Dressed like that, you’d be right at home.’

He was teasing her?

‘I’m not a pixie,’ she said, mock indignantly, to disguise the rush of pleasure, warmth, that threatened to overwhelm her. ‘I’m an elf.’

‘Piskies, not pixies.’ Then, abruptly, ‘That’s the lot. You’ve seen it all now. Choose a room, Lucy. Make yourself at home. I’ll go and make a start on that cheese omelette I owe you.’

‘You’re admitting I was right?’ she demanded, not wanting him to go.

‘Smart as paint,’ he agreed, leaving her in his room. A gesture of trust? Because she was a stranger, too. Or because he felt the same tug of desire, heat?

Except they weren’t. Strangers. They might never have met before but, from the moment their eyes had met, they had known one another, deep down. Responding to something that went far beyond the surface conventions.

She looked again at the photograph.

Nice.

What a pathetic, pitiful word to describe such a landscape. To describe a house designed with such skill that it would become a part of it.

It wasn’t nice; it was dramatic, powerful, at one with its setting.

It was extraordinary. Twenty minutes. That was all it had taken her to see through surface veneer to the darkness at the heart of the apartment.

He’d designed it as a gift for Claudia, his cousin’s wife. Envisaged it filled with light, colour, life—reflecting the light, colour, life of the city. He’d been forced to watch, helpless, as Christopher had taken his vision and sucked the life right out of it. Just as he’d sucked the life right out of the woman he loved.

Lucy didn’t bother to look at each room before deciding which to choose. They were all as soulless as the room upstairs.

She dumped her bag on the bed and checked out the en suite bathroom. Like those upstairs, it was supplied with all the essentials, including a new toothbrush which she fell upon with gratitude.

She’d replace it first thing…

She caught her reflection in the mirror. First thing suggested that she was staying. That she had taken him at his word. Trusted that bone-deep connection…