Читать книгу Proposal At The Winter Ball - Jessica Gilmore - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

HE SHOULD HAVE walked away. No, he should walk away, there was still time. Only there wasn’t. Time was slowing, stopping, converging right here, right now on this exact spot, somewhere above Innsbruck. All that was left was this moment. The feel of her mouth against his, her hands, tentative on his shoulders. He shouldn’t, he couldn’t—and yet he was...

Because it was all he had dreamed it might be, those shameful, secret dreams. The crossing of boundaries, the touching the untouchable. Her touch was light, her kiss sweetly questioning and despite everything Alex desperately wanted to give her the answers she was seeking.

He stood stock-still for one long moment, trying to summon up the resolve to walk away, but the blood hummed through his veins, the noise drowning out the voice of caution; her sweet, vanilla scent was enfolding him and he was lost. Lost in her. Lost in the inevitable.

With that knowledge all thought of backing off, backing out disappeared. One hand slipped, as if of its volition, around the curve of her waist, pulling her in tightly against him, the other burying itself in the hair at the nape of her neck; a heavy, sweet smelling cloud. And Alex took control. He kissed her back, deepening, intensifying the kiss as the blood roared in his ears and all he could feel was the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her body, pliant against his.

Her touch was no longer tentative, one arm tight around his neck. Holding his head as if she didn’t dare let him go. The other was on the small of his back, working at the fabric of his shirt, branding him with the fevered heat of her touch.

If she touched his flesh he would be utterly undone.

Like the animal he was he could take her here and now. Not caring about the consequences, not caring that they weren’t in a private space. That the staff could walk in any minute. That once again there would be no going back.

That once again he could take things too far. And once again he could lose everything.

He had learned nothing.

Alex wrenched his mouth away; the taste of her lingered, intoxicatingly tempting on his tongue. But he had to sober up. ‘Flora.’ His breath was ragged as he stared into her confused dark eyes. ‘I...’

‘Am I interrupting something?’ Both Alex and Flora jumped slightly as the rich, Italian tones, tinged with a hint of mockery, floated across the hotel lounge. Alex didn’t need to look around to know who he would see—the owner of this hotel and the woman who had employed him to design three more, Camilla Lusso.

‘Buongiorno, Camilla.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath, willing his overheated body to cool, his spinning brain to slow. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow.’ He turned, fixing a cool, professional smile on his face as he greeted his biggest and most influential client.

‘That’s rather clear.’ Still that hint of mockery in her voice, her eyes assessing and cool as she looked at Flora, clearly not missing a single detail as she took in the mussed hair, the swollen lips, the wrinkles in the baggy dress.

Camilla Lusso could have been any age between thirty-five and fifty-five although Alex suspected she was at the top end of the age range, but her expensively styled hair, subtle make-up and chic wardrobe made her seem timeless. A glossy, confident and successful woman. A professional woman who demanded top-class professionalism from everyone who worked with and for her.

Flora was supposed to be impressing her, not being found drunkenly making out with the architect.

Why now? Why tonight after all these years? He could blame the schnapps, he could blame the mountains framed through the windows, the warmth of the fire burning in the stove. It was a scene out of Seduction 101. But the only person he could really blame was himself. He should have backed off, backed away, laughed off the conversation—not been struck dumb with the thought of an alternate world. A world in which he might have been worthy of the adoration and desire shining out of Flora’s dark eyes.

He had to fix this. Camilla’s eyes had narrowed as she assessed Flora. If she found her wanting in any way then Alex knew she’d turn her away, no matter how good her work.

‘I owe you an apology, Camilla. When I recommended Flora to you I wanted you to appreciate her for her own talent and so...’ He paused, searching for the right words, the right way to make this all right. There was only one way. To make the whole embarrassing scene seem perfectly normal.

‘I didn’t tell you that we’re dating. I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it but we agreed to be discreet this week, to put our relationship on the back burner.’ He allowed himself a wry smile. ‘Starting from tomorrow.’ He took Flora’s hand in his, pinching her in warning, hoping the shock of the last five minutes had sobered her up. Play along.

To his relief she picked up his cue. ‘Pleased to meet you. I am very excited to be working with you and to help breathe life and colour into Alex’s designs. I didn’t realise I would have the honour of meeting you this evening otherwise...’ Flora gestured at her wrinkled dress, at her mussed-up hair ‘... I would have made more of an effort.’

‘But no.’ Camilla’s face had relaxed—as much as her tightened skin would allow—into a smile. ‘The apology is all mine. I should have warned you that I had changed my plans. I have interrupted your last evening of privacy.’

‘Oh, no.’ Flora’s cheeks were pink and her hand hot in Alex’s. ‘Not at all, we have mostly been working...’ Her voice trailed off at the knowing look on Camilla’s face as she said the last word.

‘It all looks absolutely fantastic, just as I envisioned.’ Alex took over the conversation, taking pity on Flora. ‘And the staff seem to know their roles perfectly—not that I would expect anything else from a Lusso Hotel. What time can we expect the guests tomorrow?’

Camilla accepted a glass of wine from a discreetly hovering waiter and sat down on one of the chairs by the stove. ‘We’re expecting the first to arrive after lunch tomorrow. I am so pleased you agreed to spend this opening week with us, Alex. The majority of the guests are influential travel journalists and bloggers and I am sure they are going to have lots of questions about your inspiration for this beautiful building. But please, not all work, eh? You must take full advantage of the facilities while you are here.’

Again she swept a knowing look up and down the pair of them. Alex gritted his teeth. ‘It’s my absolute pleasure. It’s not often I get to spend so much time in a building I designed after completion. It will be really interesting to watch it fulfil its purpose.’ Alex stole a glance at Flora. She was no longer flushed, rather she had turned pale, as if all the life had been leached out of her apart from the dark circles shadowing her eyes. ‘However, if I’m to ensure the Bali designs are perfect for our meeting at the end of the week and socialise appropriately I think we’d better turn in. We were on the road at five a.m.’

‘Of course. I look forward to seeing your designs, Miss Buckingham. Alex has been singing your praises. I can’t wait to be impressed.’

* * *

Flora had thought she knew all about humiliation. She was the high priestess of it, dedicated to short sharp bursts at regular intervals. There was the awful day her university boyfriend announced he was in love with her sister; the even more awful day her subsequent boyfriend admitted he was in love with Alex; the time she thought her last boyfriend had been proposing when he had, in fact, been breaking up with her.

She had been going to refuse him, of course. But that so wasn’t the point.

Her redundancy and the nasty smile on Finn’s face as he had watched her gather up her pitifully small box of belongings and get escorted from the building like a thief.

Yep. High priestess of humiliation. Case in point: the week of catastrophes she had just experienced.

But, nope. None of them equalled the scene just now. She would rather sit on a hundred strange men’s laps on any sort of public transport than relive the scene she had just left.

Flora squeezed her eyes shut as if she could block out the memory by will alone. Kiss me, Alex.

Oh, but he had. And it had been...it had been...

Flora flopped onto the bed and searched for the word. It had been wonderful. Right until the moment he had pushed her away with horror in his eyes and disgust on his face. That bit had sucked.

No. That had been the worst moment of her life. Bar none. Much, much worse than last time. At least she hadn’t asked him, begged him to kiss her then. She’d just misjudged a moment. She should have learned her lesson. She wasn’t what he wanted. Not in that way. Not then, not now.

She could never face him again. She should pack her bags and escape down the mountain, at night, in thick snow. She couldn’t ski, didn’t have a car and Innsbruck was several miles below. But that didn’t matter, the exit plan itself mere details. The important thing was that she needed to escape and to pretend she had never ever laid eyes on Alex Fitzgerald with his crooked smile and red-brown curls.

But then he would spend Christmas alone. And without her family what did he have? He would never show it, of course, never say anything but she knew. She saw the look of relief when he stepped through the front door into her parents’ hall. Saw him almost physically set down whatever burdens he carried around along with his overnight bag. Watched him relax, really relax, as he talked sport with Horatio—not that Horry had much of a clue but he tried to keep up. Watched the laughter lurk in his eyes as he half teased, half flirted with Minerva in a way no other mortal, not even her own husband, could get away with.

He helped her dad in the kitchen, talked through work problems with her mum and was on Flora’s side. Always.

No, he couldn’t be allowed to leave them. She would just have to grin, bear it and blame the schnapps. Not for the first time.

And she would work hard. She would blow the caramel-haired, caramel-clad, tight-skinned Camilla Lusso’s designer socks off with her colour schemes, materials and designs. She would make Alex proud and this would be just a teeny footnote in their history. Never to be mentioned again. Never to be...

What now? A knock on the door interrupted her fervent vowing. Flora pushed herself off the bed, smoothed down her hair. Please don’t let it be Camilla Lusso. There was no way she was ready for round two. ‘Come in.’

A bellboy pushed the door open and smiled politely. ‘Excuse me, Fraulein. I have Herr Fitzgerald’s bags if now is convenient?’

If now was what?

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Frau Lusso asked me to move Herr Fitzgerald’s bags into your room.’ He opened the door a little wider, pushing a trolley through heaped with Alex’s distinctive brown leather bags.

‘But...’ Flora shook her head. Was she dreaming? Hallucinating? Had she been drinking absinthe? That would explain a lot. Maybe the whole hideous evening had been some weird absinthe-related dream.

‘Mr Fitzgerald has his own room.’

‘Not any more,’ Alex stepped into the room, just behind the bellboy. His voice was light but there was a grim set to his face, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. ‘Camilla very kindly said there was no need for us to be discreet and we absolutely shouldn’t spend the week before Christmas apart. Nice bath. Do you want first dibs or shall I?’

* * *

‘You can’t stay here.’ Flora sank back onto the bed and stared at the pile of bags. It was most unfair; how did Alex have proper stuff? They were more or less the same age. How had he managed to turn into an actual functioning grown-up with matching luggage filled with the correct clothes for every occasion?

‘What do you suggest?’ He seemed unruffled as he opened up the first, neatly packed suitcase and began to lay his top-of-the-line ski kit out onto the other side of the bed.

‘Well, we’ll just say we’re not ready for this step. Say we’re waiting.’

‘We’re waiting?’ An unholy glint appeared in his eye. ‘How virtuous.’

‘People do...’ Her cheeks were hot and she couldn’t look at him. All desire to discuss anything relating to love or sex or kissing with Alex Fitzgerald had evaporated the minute she had caught the disgust in his eyes. Again.

‘They do,’ he agreed, picking up his pile of clothes and disappearing into the walk-in wardrobe with them. ‘Why haven’t you unpacked?’

Flora blinked, a little stunned by his rapid turn of conversation. ‘I have. Those clothes there? They’re mine.’

‘But where are your ski clothes? You can’t hit the slopes in jeans.’

Flora winced. She had a suspicion that hitting would be the right verb if she did venture out on skis—as in her bottom repeatedly and painfully hitting the well-packed snow. ‘I don’t ski.’

Alex had reappeared and was shaking his tuxedo out of another of the bags; somehow it was miraculously uncreased. Another grown-up trick. ‘Flora, we’re here to mingle and promote the hotel. In winter it’s a ski hotel. I don’t think staying away from the slopes is optional. Did you pack anything for the dinners and the ball?’

The what? ‘You didn’t mention a ball.’ Unwanted, hot tears were pricking at her eyes. Any minute he’d inform her that she needed to cook a cordon-bleu meal for sixty and she would win at being completely inadequate.

‘You’ll have to go shopping tomorrow. You need a ski outfit, another couple of formal dresses for dinner and something for the ball.’

Flora leaned forward and covered her face with her hands, trying to block the whole scene, the whole evening, the whole day out. If she wished hard enough then maybe it would all go away. She’d wake up and be back on the train, squashed onto the knee of a leering stranger, and she’d know that there were worse ways to make a fool of herself.

‘I can’t afford to go shopping for things I’ll only wear once. I cut up my credit cards so I wouldn’t be tempted to go into debt and until I get paid next Friday I have exactly two hundred and eight pounds in my account—and I need to live on next week’s pay until I go back to London after New Year. We don’t all have expense accounts and savings and disposable income.’

It was odd, arguing over clothes and money when so much had happened in the last half-hour. But in a way it was easier, far better to worry about the small stuff than the huge, shattering things.