Fairytale Christmas. Liz Fielding

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      Nat emptied the groceries onto the central island of the vast kitchen that he rarely used for anything other than making coffee.

      He’d offered to pitch Lucy a tent but wasn’t that what he was doing? Camping out. Living here but doing his best not to touch anything.

      As if by not making an impression, not disturbing anything, maybe one morning he would wake up and he’d be back in his own life. The nightmare over.

      Lucy closed the doors, quietly retraced her steps down to the lower floor, found the kitchen.

      Nathaniel was standing with his back to the door, arms spread wide, hands gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles were white. Certain she was intruding, she took an instinctive step backwards, but he heard and half turned, his face as empty as the room upstairs.

      ‘I’m lost,’ she said quickly.

      ‘Lost?’

      ‘Not so much lost as confused. I went upstairs. It seemed the obvious thing to do.’ She lifted a shoulder in an embarrassed little shrug.

      ‘My fault.’ He straightened, dragged both hands through his hair. ‘I should have given you the guided tour instead of leaving you to find your own way around.’

      ‘I could have found my own way. I just didn’t want to blunder in anywhere else that’s private.’

      ‘It’s not private. It’s just…’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’ He grasped her hand and led the way to a wide corridor with a series of doors, all on one side.

      ‘Linen cupboard,’ he said, keeping her hand tucked in his. ‘Bedroom, bedroom, bedroom…’ opening doors to reveal three empty bedrooms, all decorated with the same pale walls, black marble night tables, white linen as the room upstairs. ‘Bedroom,’ he repeated, opening the last door to reveal yet more of the same, finally releasing her hand, leaving it for her to decide whether or not to follow him inside because this was not just another bedroom.

      ‘This is your room,’ she said.

      ‘The master suite upstairs spooked you and you don’t know me.’ He turned to face her. ‘I wanted you to see for yourself that I have nothing to hide.’

      ‘You don’t feel like a stranger,’ she said, following him, placing her hand in his. Foolish, maybe, especially considering the way her heart leapt whenever he was within ten feet of her. Yes, the room upstairs had spooked her, but it didn’t seem to be doing much for him either, and his fingers closed about hers. Almost as if they were uniting against the world.

      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.’

       Chapter Seven

      ‘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. СКАЧАТЬ