handsome enough to be an actor but his dark hair was too mussed and his face too weathered for someone who cared overly about his looks.
Minor royalty perhaps? Or maybe a Russian oligarch? He certainly had the arrogance of one. He stared at her unashamedly, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. Looking up at the latest addition to the bras swinging from the beam overhead he raised an eyebrow.
‘Not yours,’ he mouthed, a crinkle of a smile stretching across a tanned face shadowed by evening stubble.
Oh really? Who did this smart-alec think he was? He might act like a prince but most likely he was just a ski-slob instructor looking to make her another notch on his ski pole.
Emboldened by adrenaline from her 'initiation' and the heady warmth radiating though her body from the Schnapps, she negotiated the crowded bar to get to him.
She couldn't let him mouth off about her not doing the initiation properly. What if they made her do it again? For real next time? She had to shut him up.
‘Hi, I'm Holly,’ she introduced herself coolly, mimicking his raised eyebrows. ‘Who are you?’
Perhaps the ice in her voice would cool his over-familiarity?
‘Scott.’ He surprised her by offering his hand to shake, an oddly formal gesture for his jeans and T-shirt, laid back vibe. Instinctively she took it, his warm hand engulfing hers, clasping it for slightly longer than necessary.
Nice hands.
Involuntarily she found her gaze lingering on his toned physique. Her frostiness hadn’t brought the temperature down one iota and her icy attitude lay in a puddle around her feet. A strange prickle tickled her skin, not embarrassment this time but something even more unwelcome - desire.
I'm supposed to be confronting him, not offering myself on a plate!
Hastily stealing her hand back, she vowed to resist his charm and chemistry, all six foot two inches of it.
Who was this man? Given he was fit and bronzed by sun and wind, he should have blended easily into the crowd. Yet something about the confident way he held himself and his effortless self-possession set him apart.
‘I guess this isn’t your first season in Verbier, Scott?’ She tried to keep her tone neutral, to ignore the buzz of anticipation building inside her. Her body registered the off the scale attraction, desire tugging at her mind for attention.
Could I? Maybe?
Everywhere in the crowd couples were discreetly, or not so discreetly, pairing off. This was too quick though. She couldn’t just hook up with the first gorgeous guy she met. She knew nothing about him.
I don’t do this kind of thing.
Scott stared at her with interested amusement, as though reading her mind. Her cheeks grew hot. She was aware, too aware of the warmth of his body temptingly close to her and the faintest hint of Armani Mania, her favourite aftershave. Time to make an exit. Armani Mania was worse than cocktails for appealing to her most primal instincts.
‘It's not exactly my first season, no,’ Scott answered her, still staring with naked curiosity. Like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle. The corners of his lips twitched with ill concealed humour.
Holly folded her arms over her chest; instinctively aware she'd made a faux pas. Heat spread from her cheeks to her neck. She hated looking stupid. Possibly as much as she loathed crowds of people watching her take her underwear off in public.
‘Hey!’ Sophie bumped into her back in the crush. She rested a hand on Holly's shoulder and whispered into her ear, her breath reeking of schnapps. ‘He's our boss you muppet! Lay off the seduction routine, he hates it, won't sleep with the staff…unfortunately.’
Was it Holly's imagination or had the chatter in the bar quietened at that very moment? It always seemed to when you didn't want someone to hear, it was one of those immutable laws like toast landing butter side down.
Scott's eyes gleamed, they really did look black. Although on closer inspection his irises contained flecks of dark brown, a deep cafe noir. His lips twitched again as he suppressed a smile. He'd heard every word.
‘I'm not, I wasn’t…’ she muttered, shooting a furious glance at Sophie who raised her eyebrows and disappeared back into the crowd.
Oh great. Fan-bloody-tastic!
‘Nice to meet you, Mr. Hamilton.’ She bit back her surprise that he was the owner of Luxury Chalet Experiences. He was …different to how she'd imagined. Much more of an athlete than a suit.
‘It's okay. You can call me Scott.’ He grinned and Holly felt unwittingly caught up in his smile, like a fly in a spider's web. She bathed in the warmth of it, transfixed. Her gaze travelled over his long, muscled limbs. He must be really fit …
Stop this at once Holly!
Mentally she shook her head, hoping to break his spell.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ He gestured towards her glass.
‘I've already got one.’ She clutched the shot glass to her chest, trying to conceal the fact it was empty.
Why did people always try to force alcohol on you? She'd never get how losing control was equated with having a good time. Holly never got drunk. Mum had cured her of any desire to have one drink too many.
‘Ah yes, the Schnapps was your reward for the 'performance' you put on tonight. I didn't realise I paid my staff so little they had to strip to make an extra buck.’
Taken aback, she narrowed her eyes, seething and biting back the retort that après-ski activities had certainly not been specified in her job description.
Being leered at by a group of trust fund ski bums wasn’t her life’s ambition. She was here to see Switzerland, to learn to ski, to maybe have an adventure… She didn't know what sort of adventure but it certainly wouldn't involve getting legless in a bar adorned with girls' underwear.
She shrugged, wishing a witty retort would come to mind. She’d think of it later tonight no doubt but for now her mind was peculiarly absent, still ruminating on the long denim-clad legs and strong arms. Not to mention that gorgeous whiff of Armani Mania playing havoc with her senses.
Get real, Holly.
‘Just kidding.’ His mouth widened into another grin. ‘I don't mind my staff having fun, as long as their hangovers don't keep them from making the breakfasts first thing in the morning. And you were certainly playing to the audience.’
What was that supposed to mean? She crossed her arms over her chest. Fun! Huh. Now where was an avalanche when you needed one?
After a five am start this morning to get to Luton airport in time for her flight to Geneva she really could be doing without this. The familiar signs of growing drunkenness around her increased her discomfort.
Gorgeous or not she wanted out of here.
Oh to escape to bed and pull the duvet up over her head away from prying eyes. She
