Mistletoe and the Lost Stiletto. Liz Fielding

run because there were some mistakes a smart woman didn’t make twice.

      Some she didn’t make once.

      She’d thought the Ladies room would provide a safe haven but, even as she’d bolted, she’d realised her mistake. It would be obvious to anyone with half a brain cell that was where she’d take cover and in the nick of time she’d seen the trap. That it was a dead end with only one exit.

      It was several hours until the store closed, but Rupert was a patient man. He’d wait, call up female reinforcements to keep an eye on her until she had no choice but to emerge.

      He had enough of them.

      All those women in his office who’d collaborated with him in the make-believe.

      What she needed was somewhere to hide, a bolt-hole where no one would ever think of looking for her while she considered her options. Easier said than done.

      All she possessed in the world was what she currently wore. She’d been too shocked to plan anything. To even think of going back to the little apartment at the top of Rupert’s London house. Packing the gorgeous wardrobe that was all part of the fantasy. Always supposing she’d got out with a suitcase.

      No doubt someone would have delayed her while the alarm was raised and Rupert was warned that the game was up.

      And she’d bet the farm that the platinum credit cards Rupert had showered on her would go uh-uh if she attempted to use them.

      Or maybe not. Could he use them to track her movements? Or was that just something they did in TV thrillers?

      Either way, they were useless. Not that she wanted anything from him. Right now she wished she could rip off the clothes she was wearing and toss them in the nearest bin.

      Since she was trying not to draw attention to herself, that probably wasn’t her best option.

      Not that she’d done such a good job of keeping a low profile, she thought, still aware of the tingling imprint of a stranger’s kiss.

      ‘Do you think there’ll be room on the sleigh for me?’ she asked the little girl.

      She lifted her shoulders in a don’t-know shrug, then said, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus?’

      Tough question. Right now, she was having trouble believing that the sky was blue.

      ‘My big sister said there’s no such person,’ she added, then stuck her thumb in her mouth, clearly afraid that it might be true.

      Okay, not that tough.

      In her years working in the day-care nursery, she’d come across this one plenty of times. Big sisters could be the pits, although right now she wished she had one. A really cynical, know-it-all big sister who would have ripped away the rose-tinted spectacles, shattered her naivety, said, Prince Charming? Are you kidding? What are the odds?

      She wasn’t about to let that happen for this little girl, though. Not yet.

      ‘Your sister only told you that because she thinks that if you don’t write to Santa she’ll get more presents.’

      The thumb popped out. ‘Really?’

      Before she could reply, the lift came to a halt and the doors opened, sending her heart racing up into her mouth. Under cover of the mothers, dads, children pouring out, she risked a glance.

      There were no dark-eyed men lying in wait for her, only more parents with hyped-up children, clutching gifts from Santa, waiting in a magical snowy landscape to be whisked back up to the real world. Which was where she’d go if she didn’t make a move and get out of the lift. And that was not an appealing place right now.

      Nowhere near as attractive as the North Pole, which the finger-post sticking out at an angle from a designer snowdrift suggested was somewhere to her right. As if to confirm that fact, an ornate sleigh was waiting in a glittering ice cave, ready to whisk the children away.

      They stampeded towards it, climbing aboard while their mothers dealt with the more mundane matter of checking in with the elf in charge of the departure gate. Trips to the North Pole did not, after all, come cheap.

      She barely hesitated.

      She could do with a little magic herself right now and Santa’s Grotto had to be just about the last place anyone would think of looking for her.

      As she stood in the queue she nervously checked her phone—it was as good a way to keep her head down as any.

      There were half a dozen texts, voicemail messages and the twittersphere had apparently gone mad. WelshWitch had started it with—

       Where is Cinderella? What have you done to her?

       Tell the truth, Your Frogginess! RT@LucyB Kissed

       prince, got frog. #Cinderella

       WelshWitch, [+] Wed 1 Dec 17:01

      It had already been replied to by dozens of people. Rupert was going to be furious, but since this—unlike all her other social media stuff set up by his PR team—was her personal account, there wasn’t a thing His Frogginess could do about it. At least not while she managed to stay out of his way.

      What he might do if he caught up with her was something else. She shivered involuntarily as she continued to scroll through the tweets.

      There was another one from Jen.

       @LucyB If you need a bolt-hole, DM me.

       #Cinderella

       jenpb, [+] Wed 1 Dec 17:03

      In a moment of weakness she almost did send her a direct message. But then she came to her senses and shut the phone.

      That was what was so horrible about this. It wasn’t just Rupert she couldn’t trust.

      She’d chatted daily on Twitter. She had nearly half a million ‘followers’, an army of fans on Facebook, all apparently fascinated by her story, her amazing new life. But who were they really?

      Jen had seemed like a genuine friend, one of a few people who, like WelshWitch, she constantly tweeted with, but suppose she was just another of Rupert’s people? Someone the PR company had delegated to stay close. Be her ‘friend’, guide her tweets, distract her if necessary, steer her away from anything controversial? She was well aware that not everyone in the Twittersphere was who or what they seemed. Logging into her appointments, she scrolled down and, under the crossed-through entry for Dinner at Ritz, she added another entry—

       Rest of life: up the creek.

      And then her thoughts shifted back to the man on the stairs. His face forever imprinted on her memory. The strong jaw, high cheekbones, the sensuous curve of his lower lip…

      ‘Can I help?’

      She jumped, looked up to discover that everyone else had moved off and she was being regarded by a young elf.

      ‘Oh…um…one adult to the North Pole, please,’ she said, closing her phone and reaching for her purse, wondering belatedly how much it would cost. She didn’t have that much cash. With a fistful of credit and charge cards, she hadn’t needed it. ‘A single will do,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I can walk back.’

      He grinned appreciatively but said, ‘Sorry. This flight has closed.’

      ‘Oh.’ It hadn’t occurred to her that there wouldn’t be any room. ‘How long until the next one?’

      ‘Forty minutes, but you have to have a pre-booked ticket to see Santa,’ he explained.

      ‘You have to book in advance?’ Forty minutes! She couldn’t wait that long. ‘Where’s the magic in that?’ she demanded.

      ‘There’s not much magical about dozens of disappointed kids