Melting Ms Frost (26 page)

When he’d mentioned his past connection to the City she’d assumed that, like many of his peers, Aidan had been a casualty of the global financial crisis. A lot of reputations had been ruined, jobs lost, and a lot of banking refugees had found themselves suddenly beggars instead of choosers, having to turn their hands to different forms of employment. It was that type of situation she’d figured Aidan must be in, because why else would a man so obviously used to a certain level of wealth and power be working the bar in his uncle’s restaurant?

But if that was the case, she couldn’t understand how the hell could he still afford things such as this hotel?

Wandering back into the en suite, she recalled the oblique comment he’d made about ‘having contacts’ when he’d wangled them into The Hyde. Maybe those ‘contacts’ were the same ‘friends’ they were meeting here in Vienna? She certainly hoped so, because if it turned out that Aidan had been less than honest with her about the cost and there were no mates’ rates on offer, her weekend of playing Cinderella really was likely to end with her dressed in rags.

Stripping out of the fluffy robe she’d donned, she slipped into the warm, scented water of the bath, sighing in bliss as she reclined into the bubbles and closed her eyes. There were things about Aidan that just didn’t add up and she was determined to confront him about it. But not until after they’d finally made it into bed together. She wasn’t willing to risk a disagreement causing any more delays to that long-awaited event.

It was dark by the time they set off once again in the limo, Annabel wearing her trusty black cocktail dress that relied on the quality of its cut rather than any bling to see it through almost any occasion, while Aidan was possibly the sexiest she’d ever seen him – beyond stylish in open-necked shirt and midnight-blue lounge suit. Leaving the thriving commercial centre behind, they headed towards the western edge of the city, to a quiet, expensive residential area where the snow lay thicker and whiter on the ground, and the streets were lined with elegant mansions.

Turning into the drive of one such mansion – a pale stone affair, invitingly aglow with golden light spilling from its multitude of French windows which cast illuminated reflections across the pristine blanket of snow covering the front garden – the car swept them through open gates and pulled to a stop outside the front entrance.

Annabel shot Aidan a look of disbelief as they climbed the shallow steps of the portico, but before she could say anything, the glossy black, double-width door still decorated with a large Christmas wreath of evergreen, pine cones and red silk ribbons was swung open by a young man dressed in a black waistcoat who motioned them through a second set of doors.

They stepped into a vast double-height reception hall dominated by a curving staircase that swept up along one wall to a galleried mezzanine level that appeared to extend to the rear of the building. Through the ornate wrought iron balustrade, garlanded with more evergreen foliage and ribbons, groups of guests could be seen milling, and the sounds of chatter and laughter as well as the soft tinkling of piano keys drifted enticingly back down to the entrance.

In the centre of the expanse of polished parquet floor over which Annabel’s heels clicked, a pedestal table held an enormous display of red calla lilies, roses and red holly berries, and against the wall opposite the staircase a wood fire crackled in a carved marble fireplace, offering a blast of welcome warmth to counter the freezing temperature outside. Annabel had no problem handing her coat over when requested.

‘Flynn, you bastard!’ A voice crashed through the refined air from above, snapping her attention up to where a large man with striking angular features and a bald head was leaning precariously over the balustrade. ‘About time. Get up here and have a drink, boy.’

Annabel was too busy staring to properly hear Aidan’s reply. That man looked remarkably like …
no
. It couldn’t be.

‘Annabel?’ She realised Aidan was standing at the foot of the sweeping staircase waiting for her.

He motioned for her to precede him up the stairs but she wasn’t having that. She followed him up instead, using a stage whisper to get his attention for the question she was dying to ask. ‘Was that—’

‘Aidan.’ A cultured British male voice interrupted from above. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Damien,’ Aidan replied, reaching the top step and embracing the man standing there. ‘Good to see you too.’

They exchanged a few manly back thumps before breaking apart and stepping back to make room for Annabel – who nearly fell back down the stairs in shock to find herself face to face with infamous playboy and scion of the Harcourt family, Damien Harcourt. Even without his trademark sunglasses in place, there was no mistaking the thick golden brown hair and chiselled features of Europe’s most photographed billionaire bachelor.

He swept a warm, amber-coloured gaze over her. ‘And you must be Annabel?’ he asked with that crystal-cut accent. She hadn’t thought it possible for anyone to radiate more charisma than Aidan Flynn, but she felt it blaze out of this man, who with his tawny colouring shone like the sun to Aidan’s dark, silvery moonlight.

‘Annabel Frost,’ Aidan said. ‘Damien Harcourt.’

Damien held out his hand. ‘How—’

‘Move over, now.’ The big man who had yelled at them over the balustrade barged in between Aidan and Damien Harcourt and gave her his own hand to shake. ‘It’s just like you two runts to try and hog all the real beauty for yourselves. I’m Bal, my darling one,’ he said in an accent every bit as polished as Damien Harcourt’s and which was a direct contradiction to his hard-man leather and studs look. ‘I’ve come to rescue you while these two peacocks preen each other’s feathers.’ He threw an arm around both men’s necks and gave a playful squeeze. ‘You look like you need the attentions of a real man.’

‘And that’s you I suppose?’ Aidan laughed, loosening the headlock and clapping the man on the shoulder. ‘Annabel Frost. Balthazar Hunt.’

Annabel stared at the six-foot-five Viking of a man, who was not actually bald at all but sported a crop of fair, close-shaved hair. So she hadn’t been seeing things. And she no longer needed the stairs to fall down. She could easily collapse in a heap right there as the exotically-slanted blue eyes of the lead singer of heavy metal band Absence and bona fide rock god Bastard Bal crinkled with a smile as he took her hand again.

‘Annabel, you don’t need these losers. Come with me, darling.’ He tugged her after him as he began to back away, adding, ‘I’ve got something special I want to show you.’ Too stunned to do anything else, Annabel went with him.

‘Steady, Hunt,’ Aidan warned. ‘Be nice. That’s my boss you’re talking to.’

Annabel blinked at that and turned to see Aidan’s easy smile, surprised by how readily he’d made an admission a lot of men might have preferred not to draw attention to. Especially in such glaringly alpha company.

‘Is it now?’ Bal said, sounding impressed and giving his eyebrows a wiggle as he tugged her again towards the main group of people milling about. ‘Lucky me. I do so love a woman on top. Have you met our hosts, Annabel? No? Then let me introduce you.’

More than a little star-struck she allowed Bal to lead her further into the open space. Obviously designed and used for entertaining on a grand scale, it was furnished with various grouped arrangements of casual seating and low tables, as well as featuring a full mahogany bar and – set against a rear wall of frameless glass beside a beautifully decorated Christmas tree – a grand piano. Wide double doorways along each of the side walls were swagged in more festive greenery and ribbons and showed glimpses of large, well appointed rooms beyond. And finding herself led through it all by a world famous star who introduced her to a stream of glamorous and important strangers had to be the most surreal experience of Annabel’s life.

Karl and Astrid Reiser turned out to be generous and welcoming hosts, and all of their twenty-odd dinner guests were equally charming and polite – apart from Damien Harcourt’s girlfriend du jour, Georgiana Savill-Jones, a blonde so faultlessly polished, so immaculately manicured that Annabel, who was certainly no slacker when it came to presentation herself, reckoned it had to be full-time job just to maintain such groomed perfection. Georgiana wasted no time in showing her claws, casting a critical eye over Annabel as they were introduced.

‘What a lovely dress,’ she said in a tone that implied she thought exactly the opposite. ‘And how socially-minded of you to adopt “austerity dressing” – so relevant these days. I have to say, you’re a much braver sort than I am.’ She tinkled with a delicate shudder. ‘I can’t quite bring myself to tackle the High Street jungle.’

Annabel didn’t react with anything beyond a chilly approximation of a smile as Georgiana turned and glided off. She knew a prize bitch when she saw one.

Unfortunately, she also knew enough about fashion to recognise that, while her classically cut prêt-a-porter dress wasn’t quite the cheap rag Georgiana had insinuated, every other woman in the place did appear to be draped in top end designer. And that put her at a distinct disadvantage. Cinderella indeed.

She made a conscious effort not to narrow her eyes as she scanned the room for Aidan Flynn. That man really had some explaining to do.

Champagne flute in hand, Aidan circulated, greeting old friends and new acquaintances, all the while keeping half an eye on Bal leading Annabel around the group, introducing her, breaking the ice in his own inimitable fashion. He knew she couldn’t be in better hands. Underneath that show of outlandish rocker attitude, the big man was a gentle soul, his natural disposition about as tough as a pair of old corduroy slippers, his humour infectious and irresistible. And despite what surely must be a sizeable sense of shock, Annabel seemed to be coping like the impeccable social hostess she was. But from the odd occasion that their gazes clashed, he knew that he was going to have strips torn off him at some point. That was fair – he had pulled a hell of a surprise on her.

He was on his way back from visiting the cloakroom when she caught him, slipping away from her self-appointed six-and-a-half-foot guard dog and stepping into his path.

‘This?’ She flung out a hand gesture that he took to indicate both the lavish surroundings and the eminent guestlist. ‘You couldn’t have told me about this before throwing me in at the deep end?’ she demanded in a furious whisper.

He did so love the spark her temper lit in her eyes. When he’d told her he wanted to get her away from the distractions and excuses in London, what he’d really meant was that he wanted to get her out of her comfort zone, shake her up a bit. She was too guarded, too well protected behind the walls of her carefully constructed existence she’d built for herself there. Here she was adrift, exposed. Real.

‘I considered it, but honestly, Annabel, would you have agreed to come if I had?’ And, more importantly, if she had agreed to come, would it have been because of the lure of celebrity, or because of him? He would have had no way of knowing.

‘Probably not,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure any of this is even real.’

‘You’re doing fine.’

She shot him an annoyed look, telling him how much she didn’t care for his opinion. ‘Apart from being hideously under-dressed compared to every other woman here.’

He glanced around the mezzanine, noting the gathering of beautiful, glamorous women in cocktail dresses. To be honest, the only difference he could see was that Annabel lacked some of the glitz that sparkled on shoes and bags and dresses, and to his eyes, she looked so much better without the fuss. Maybe his genetics left him predisposed to the archetypal ideal of Celtic beauty, or maybe it was her green eyes that reminded him of the lush landscapes of home? But to him she looked perfect, with the lustre of her fair skin like a pearl against the black of her dress and her red hair piled up – not in its usual precise twist, but in a softer, looser style tonight – to expose the delicate curve of her shoulder, the graceful length of her neck.

Still, whatever he saw, she obviously didn’t see it herself, and that little glimpse of insecurity was a reminder that as capable as Ms Frost seemed on the surface, she wasn’t solid ice to the core. For all her front, the more he uncovered of her softer centre, the more he realised how vulnerable she actually felt, how tight she had her true self locked up. And that stirred his protective instincts like nothing before. The fact that she’d felt able to let her guard down enough to share her doubts, to let him see what no one else here would suspect from her outward show of cool confidence, signified something very important. The thing he’d been waiting so long for. An almost subconscious display of trust that would at last allow him to take things to the next level.

With the weight of anticipation squeezing his chest, he raised his hand and let his palm settle around the nape of her neck. He felt her stiffen beneath it instantly, felt the jolt ricochet between them at the shock of the first touch, skin to skin. The feel of her was divine – warm, velvety, so smooth. Better than he could have imagined. And he’d imagined a lot.

He could tell that Annabel was feeling the impact of it too. Looking at her parted lips, her shocked thousand-yard stare across the room, he moved his thumb, ever so lightly, ever so slowly, stroking it over the incredible downy softness beneath her ear. He felt and saw her shiver as he leaned in close.

‘You’re the most exquisite thing here,’ he whispered into her ear. ‘Relax.’

For a second it seemed as though she’d done exactly that. She exhaled slowly and leant into his hand as though her very bones had melted. Another sign of trust. Of surrender. A fierce surge of something primitive and possessive had his hand tightening instinctively around her neck, the movement causing her to gasp and turn her eyes up to his.

The instant their gazes locked, he became trapped by what he saw in her eyes. The tension, the need, the desire, all laid bare. He was sure she could see the same things reflected in his stare because she didn’t seem able to look away any more than he could. Not until Bal came up with Georgiana on one arm and the sleek Russian heiress Yuliya Nubova on the other and broke the spell by thumping him hard on the shoulder.