Liz Fielding - Fairytale Christmas - Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto / Her Holiday Prince Charming / A Princess by Christmas

‘With you as the star? Well, obviously, that would have been no fun,’ he teased.

‘Not nearly as much as you’d think. Speeches, smug PR men and endless photographs,’ she said. ‘Being an elf beats it into a cocked hat.’

‘So you’re saying that your day hasn’t been a total write-off?’

‘No,’ she said, looking right at him. ‘Hand on my heart, I’d have to say that my day hasn’t been a total write-off.’

Any other woman and he’d have said she was putting a brave face on it, but something in her expression suggested that she was in earnest.

‘Shame about the snowman, though,’ she said, turning away as if afraid she’d revealed more of herself than she’d intended. She abandoned her mug. ‘It doesn’t often snow in London, not like this. I hope the missing elf did seize the day and go out to play.’

‘It’s not too late.’

‘Too late for what?’

‘To go out to play.’ And where the hell had that come from? ‘Build a snowman of your own.’

‘Nathaniel!’ she protested, but she was laughing and her eyes, which he’d seen filled with fear, mistrust, uncertainty, were now looking out at the falling snow with a childlike yearning and, crazy as it was, he knew he’d said the right thing. And, as if to prove it, she put a hand behind her head, a hand on her hip, arched a brow and, with a wiggle that did his blood pressure no good, said, ‘Great idea, honey, but I haven’t got a thing to wear.’

‘Honey,’ he replied, arching right back at her. ‘You seem to be forgetting that I’m your fairy godmother.’

Before he could think about what he was going to do, he caught her hand and raced up the stairs with her.

The emptiness hit him as he opened the door, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Lucy was right. This wasn’t a bedroom, it was a mausoleum. And that hideous rose…

‘Nathaniel…’ Her voice was soft behind him, filling the room with life, banishing the shadows. Her warm fingers tightened on his as if she understood. ‘It doesn’t matter. Leave it.’

‘No. Seize the day,’ he said, flinging open the door to the dressing room with its huge walk-in wardrobe filled with plastic-covered ghosts. The colours muted. No scent. Nothing.

He pulled off covers, seeking out warm clothes. Trousers. He pulled half a dozen pairs from hangers. A thick padded jacket. Opened drawers, hunting out shirts, socks. Sweaters. Something thick, warm…

As his hand came down on thistledown wool, it seemed to release a scent that had once been as familiar as the air he breathed and, for a moment, he froze.

Carpe diem.

The words mocked him.

When had he ever seized the day? Just gone for it without a thought for the consequences; been irresponsible? Selfish? Maybe when he’d been eighteen and told his father that he wasn’t interested in running a department store, that he was going to be an architect?

Had it taken all the courage, all the strength he possessed to defy, disappoint the man he loved, that he had never been able to summon up the courage to do it again?

‘Nathaniel, this is madness,’ Lucy called from the bedroom. ‘I can’t go outside. I don’t have any shoes.’

He picked up the sweater, gathered everything else she was likely to need, including a pair of snow boots that he dropped at her feet, doing his best to ignore her wiggling toes with their candy nails.

‘They’ll be too big,’ she protested.

‘Wear a couple of pairs of socks.’ Then, ‘What are you waiting for? It’ll all have disappeared by morning.’

‘Madness,’ she said, but she leapt to her feet and gave him an impulsive hug that took his breath away. She didn’t notice, was already grinning as she began to tug the tunic over her head, offering him another glimpse of those full, creamy breasts, this time encased in gossamer-fine black lace.

Breathless? He’d thought he was breathless?

‘Downstairs in two minutes,’ he said, beating a hasty retreat.

LUCY scrambled into a shirt that didn’t quite do up across the bust. Trousers that didn’t quite meet around the waist, were too long in the leg. It was crazy stupid. But in a totally wonderful way.

She picked up the thistledown sweater, held it to her cheek for a moment, trying to catch a hint of the woman—thinner, taller than her—who’d owned it. What was she to Nathaniel? Where was she?

Nothing. Not even a trace of scent.

Relieved, she pulled it over her head. It was baggy and long enough to cover the gaps. She tucked the trousers into a pair of snow boots that swallowed the excess and the feather-light down-filled coat, the kind you might wear on a skiing holiday, had room enough to spare.

Hat, scarf.

She didn’t bother to check her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t need confirmation that she looked a mess. Some things it was better not to know. Instead, she picked up the gloves and, leaving behind her a room that no longer looked cold but resembled the aftermath of a jumble sale, she stomped down the stairs in her too-big boots.

By the time she’d re-applied lipstick to protect her lips from the cold, picked up her phone and purse, Nathaniel was impatiently pacing the living room.

‘Two minutes, I said!’

About to reiterate that this was madness, the words died on her lips. He’d abandoned the pinstripes for jeans, a jacket similar to the one she was wearing. The focused, controlled businessman had been replaced by a caged tiger scenting escape.

‘Yes, boss,’ she said cheekily, pulling on her gloves as they used the private lift which took them straight to the underground car park.

He boosted her up into the seat of a black Range Rover, climbed up beside her.

‘Better duck down,’ he said as they approached the barrier.

‘You don’t think…?’

‘Unlikely, but better safe than sorry.’

The traffic was light; no one with any sense would be out in this weather unless is was absolutely necessary.

‘I think you might be optimistic about it thawing by morning,’ she said.

‘Want to risk leaving it for another day?’

‘No way!’

‘Thought not.’

Neither of them spoke again until he’d driven through Hyde Park and parked near the Serpentine Bridge.

‘Oh, wow,’ she said, staring across the utterly still, freezing waters of the lake. The acres of white, disappearing into the thick, whirling snow. ‘Just…wow,’ again as she unclipped the seat belt, opened the door, letting in a flurry of snow.

She didn’t stop to think, but slid down, spun around in it, grinning as Nathaniel caught her hand and they ran across the blank canvas, leaving their footprints in the snow.

She picked up a handful and flung a snowball at him, yelling as he retaliated, scoring a hit as snow found its way inside her jacket.

Lucy was right, Nat thought as they gathered snow, piling it up, laughing like a couple of kids. This was crazy. But in the best possible way. A little bit of magic that, like the kids visiting the grotto, was making a memory that would stay with him.

They rolled a giant snowball into a body, piling up more snow around its base before adding a head.

Drivers, making their way through the park, hooted encouragement but, as Lucy waved back, he caught her hand, afraid that someone might decide to stop and crash their snowman party.

He wasn’t afraid that she’d be recognized. They were far enough from the street lights and the snow blurred everything. It was just that, selfishly, he didn’t want to share it, share her, with anyone.

She looked up, eyes shining, snowflakes sticking to her lashes, the curls sticking out from beneath her hat, clinging for a moment to her lips before melting against their warmth.