Maid to Marry

Excerpt

Prologue

Five years ago

Maybe her father was right, Stella Sutter thought as she hurried to prepare more drinks. Maybe lying did send you to hell, because that’s where she had ended up.

It had only been a little fib!

Yes, I have worked in a bar before, she had told the chalet manager. Because she had. As an after-hours janitor.

She had also worked at other chalets. Those managers had only ever asked her to make up beds and scrub toilets or, at most, brew a cup of coffee. This was her first week working for this new resort, which seemed to target a younger crowd with ads showing après-ski parties and hot tubs big enough for groups.

Stella had been thrilled to get on with them. They provided accommodation as part of their compensation package, which was only a shared room with three other girls, but rent was outrageous in Zermatt. She was grateful for whatever she could get.

She wasn’t supposed to be here tonight, though. One of her new roommates had wanted to keep skiing with someone she’d met on the piste this afternoon and asked Stella to cover her evening shift. At other chalets, that meant tidying up after dinner and turning down beds, so Stella had agreed.

When Louis, the chalet manager, asked if she could stay longer to help pour drinks, what else would she say but yes? Her roommate had already bragged about how great her tips were.

They had better be. These people were hooligans.

At least a few of them must be famous, though. A photographer had tried to get her to talk about them when she’d been on her way in. She had said with all honesty that she didn’t know anything about any of them.

Louis had since told her the guests were a father and his two grown children from the UK. The brother and sister were models for the family clothing brand. The son had been out all day and the father had left for a dinner date. The daughter, whose name was Carmel, was the only one here, and she seemed eager for everyone to get wasted off their faces.

“Girl!” Carmel shouted from the terrace.

Louis had cranked up the pulsebeat of electronica and opened the doors to the terrace, letting in icy winter air and the giggles and whoops of the dozen drunks simmering in the bubbling hot tub.

“What’s her name again?” Carmel asked. “Sheila! Where’s our drinks?”

Carmel was English, so Stella replied in that language. “Coming.”

“She’s coming,” someone repeated, and they all laughed hysterically.

Stella didn’t get the joke, but suspected it was dirty. They were making a lot of remarks that were outside the bounds of good taste. She kept looking to Louis to settle them down, but he only seemed to encourage it.

“Sheila.” Louis padded in, leaving yet another trail of puddles for her to mop up. He wore only a small red bathing suit and his ponytail. He was at least ten years older than the group of twentysomethings. She had a feeling he got a commission on the bottles they opened, because he was not shy about ordering her to do it.

“Stella,” she reminded him.

“Whatever. You have to get the drinks out faster.” He was consuming alcohol as quickly as everyone else. “I thought you said you’d done this?”

She pointed to a tray. “These ones are ready.”

“Just bring those bottles and the corkscrew. They don’t care about clean glasses.”

They didn’t care about anything. They were trashing the place. Stella’s roommate was going to kill her when she arrived in the morning. That’s why she was trying to tidy behind these louts. They were impossible to keep up with, though. They were tracking water everywhere, spilling drinks and dropping food. She had a feeling one couple had gone into an empty bedroom. That bed would need stripping and remaking before she left.

She hurried outside to where the rectangular tub was set into the terrace, putting everyone’s chins and shoulders at the level of her ankles. All the women had lost their tops.

Carmel was standing in the waist-deep water so she could display her breasts for inspection. Stella averted her gaze only to crash it into a pair who appeared to be having sex in the corner of the tub.

“Nine-point-nine,” a man judged Carmel’s chest. “Want a ten? Put them here.” He lifted his splayed fingers with invitation.
Carmel laughed and pointed at Stella. “What about her?”

“Her?” The man turned his head to give Stella a bleary-eyed once over. “She’s a two. Too tall. Too serious. Too many clothes.”

Gales of laughter followed.

Not for the first time, Stella questioned her wisdom in running away last year. Not that she’d been underage. She’d turned eighteen a week later. Technically that made her an adult here in Switzerland, but in her father’s eyes, eighteen had meant she was old enough to marry a man twice her age and start making babies.

Stella had already seen how much responsibility children were, and how they hemmed a woman’s choices. After their mother died, Stella had been the primary caregiver to her younger brother and sister until their father remarried. Even after Grettina joined them, Stella hadn’t had a life outside of school and helping at home, especially after Grettina had the twins.

Escaping in the dead of night hadn’t been her plan, but her father had forced her hand and she didn’t regret it. She was doing what she could to continue helping Grettina and her siblings, sending money home when she could, though. She needed this job.

So she kept an unbothered look on her face and served the drinks. In the last year of carving her own path, she’d had a lot of dodgy experiences. This might be the foulest behavior she’d had to tolerate, but it was only one night. A few hours more at most. She could stand it.

Or so she believed. Until it got worse.

“I bet she’s an eight under those clothes.” The man traced a curvy shape through the air while eyeing her chest in a way that made her deeply uncomfortable. “C’mon, love. Strip down and join us. Show us what you’ve got.”

Stella looked to Louis, who ought to be putting a stop to this harassment. He was settling back into the tub and Carmel was straddling his lap. They were kissing passionately.

“Someone has to get the drinks.” Stella forced a smile.

“Pour mine then.” The perv stood to hold out his filmy pint glass.

She had really hoped to see a tip by now—which she might if that man stood any taller in the water. This was dreadful, but she definitely wouldn’t be paid if she walked out.

She took the cap off a bottle of beer and leaned out to pour it into the man’s glass.

He dropped his glass into the water and, as she was reacting with astonishment to that, grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the tub.

Between the fall and the plunge beneath the hot, bubbling surface, and a very real fear that came from not knowing how to swim, Stella floundered in panic.

Within seconds, she was pulled up into the man’s arms amid gleeful shouts of laughter. He grabbed her backside to grind himself against her pelvis while he tried to get his mouth over hers.

“Stop it!” She was still sputtering for breath and blinking water out of her eyes. She thrust her hand over his mouth, turning her face away while trying to fight out of his hold.

It was all a big joke to everyone. They were cheering him on—

The music shut off abruptly and a man’s furious voice demanded, “What the hell is going on?”

Everyone fell silent in shock. For a moment, the only sound was the gurgle of the tub jets and snap of the bubbles while they all stared at him.

Stella’s first thought was that he was younger than she expected from someone with such a deep voice and forceful personality. He was only mid-twenties. He wore a cream-colored ski jacket with black piping and black ski pants. His hair was short on the sides, curly on top, but the curls were crushed from whatever hat he’d been wearing. His black brows sat in severe lines on his swarthy face. His long cheeks were hollowed, his mouth hard.

“It’s just Atlas,” Carmel said with disgust. “My brother. I thought you were out for the night?”

“It’s midnight. Are you all right?” His gaze met Stella’s, then swerved to the man who still had his arms locked around her. “Let her go.”

Stella was finally able to find the bottom of the tub with more than her toes and wade toward the steps. Her clammy clothes adhered to her skin and the icy air struck through them, making her shudder. She hunched her arms into her chest, teeth starting to chatter as the cold penetrated.

Behind her, Carmel mocked, “It’s midnight? Who are you? Cinderella?”

“Where’s Oliver?” Atlas shook out one of the towels Stella had left in a stack on the covered shelf and handed it to Stella, continuing to glower at Carmel.

“He knew I was having friends over so he went out.” She shrugged.

“All of you get out. Now,” he ordered.

“Ignore him.” Carmel flicked her hand before she re-straddled Louis.

Atlas cursed under his breath and noticed Stella huddled in the towel.

“Do you have anything to change into?”

She shook her head. Even if they did have spare uniforms here, nothing ever fit her. She was tall and busty and, despite the number of meals she’d been forced to skip in the last year, had a very round bottom.

“Come with me.” He shut the doors to the terrace as they walked inside, waved off her concern for the drips she was leaving on the floor, and led her down a flight of stairs into a bedroom.

She faltered at the door, never comfortable around male anger, even when it wasn’t directed at her.

Atlas dug into a drawer, pulling out a folded pair of dark green joggers and a matching hoodie. He dropped them on the bed.

“Have a shower. Warm up. I’ll get rid of them.” He brushed past her.

The shower at her rooming house was down the hall. It was always tepid, always in high demand and always looked moldy despite the fact that she had scrubbed it herself with bleach.

At the very least, she needed to quit dripping on these hardwood floors. She locked herself in the bathroom and stripped off clothes that had been a big purchase for her very thin wallet. She wrung them out as best she could and left them draped on the edge of the tub while she showered.

Until she’d hopped on a train and gotten herself a bed in a youth hostel here in Zermatt, then began taking any housekeeping work she could find, she had never seen anything like these shiny chrome fixtures or these roomy shower stalls with their elegant tile work and fragrant shampoos. She had certainly never used one.

It was such a pampering experience, she could have stayed there all night, but she made herself hurry through it, then dry off with one of the warm, fluffy towels from the heated rack.

The clothes Atlas had provided were very good quality, making her anxious about returning them. The drawstring pants were too long and the pullover hoodie was a size too big. The neckline drooped open across her collarbone and the cuffs fell to her knuckles.

They were soft against her skin, though. Cozy. The pullover held traces of a woodsy cologne filled with subtle notes of smoke and cedar and leather. Wearing his clothes was an intimate experience. It made her feel enveloped by him. Claimed.

She shook off a hot shiver and squeezed her hair with the towel. She didn’t have a comb and wouldn’t presume to use his to re-plait it. She wound the length into a bun that she secured with the pins she’d removed to wash it.

She would need a plastic bag to carry her damp clothes home. There should be one in the housekeeping closet.

She strode back into the bedroom with purpose and nearly ran straight into Atlas.

He had his back to her and wore only his briefs.

“Oh!” She blushed as though she’d never seen a man half-dressed in her life when she’d spent the evening confronted by bananas in hammocks.

Look away, she ordered herself. Retreat!

But she was frozen in shock. Awe, actually. He had broad shoulders and a long spine. All of him was long and lean and his skin held a natural olive tone that was much darker than his sister’s creamy complexion.

“They splashed me.” His voice was thick with fury. He shot his legs into jeans, pulling them up over his muscled buttocks. As he closed the fly with a terse zip, he turned to face her. “I told them to leave or I’ll call the police. They’re like crabs in a bucket, incapable of getting out. I’m calling them anyway, to report that man who was groping you.” He patted his jeans and looked around as though trying to locate his phone.

“No,” she squeaked with panic.

“No to the police? Why not?” He jerked his head toward the door. “Listen to them. They’re out of control. I saw him assault you. He needs to know he can’t get away with it.”

But the police would want her name. They might discover that her father had reported her for theft—which she was guilty of, even if it was a petty amount.

She looked past him toward the door, wanting to leave, but accosted by her strong work ethic. The place was a mess.
He misinterpreted her expression.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let him touch you again.” As a fresh round of cheers rose outside, he sent another look of disgust toward the closed door. He picked up a green Henley and tugged it over his head. “I’ll throw him out myself. I’m looking forward to it.”

Her stomach tightened with unfamiliar swirling sensations as she glimpsed the thatch of his armpit hair, then watched his muscled chest with his brown nipples disappear as the shirt dropped to finish hiding the path of hair that bisected his flat, six-pack abs.

She had never understood the mesmerized giddiness that other girls—grown women like those outside—exhibited around men. In this second, however, she had an inkling. Tendrils of admiration unfurled inside her, making her want to touch him. She actually licked her lips, confused by the intensity of the compulsion because it was so new. So strong.

“What’s your name?” The timbre of his voice changed. The simmering anger was gone, replaced by gruff curiosity and something else.

She lifted her gaze to find he had one thick brow quirked. His mouth held a curl of amusement.

Oh, no. He’d caught her ogling him. She hated when men did that to her. Now she was guilty of it.

“Um, Stella?” she replied in a voice that squeezed through her tight throat.

“Um, Atlas,” he mocked drily, and held out his hand.

Boiling in embarrassment, she took a nervous step forward.

The second his warm palm connected with hers and his fingers closed in a firm grip around her hand, she felt as though a jolt hit her heart, stalling it in her chest. A fresh flood of heat suffused her, this one vastly different from shyness. It had roots in the pit of her belly and moved outward through her limbs, leaving a sting in her nipples and between her thighs.

Which was mortifying. Nothing like that had ever happened to her. She only hoped he didn’t know, but the way his eyes narrowed made her fear that he did. Which caused her stomach to swirl and tighten and her body to swelter even more.

“How old are you?” He slowly released her hand. His gaze was traveling all over her face, leaving a sensation that felt as though he traced her features with his fingertips.

“N-nineteen. Next week.” She couldn’t fib with him, not when his dark gold irises were piercing into her soul.

“I’m twenty-six.” There was finality in his voice. Rejection? But he continued to study her face as though looking for answers to something. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking behind his inscrutable expression. That she was too young? Too obvious?
She got distracted by his eyes again. She’d never noticed a man’s eyelashes before. His were long and thick with a hint of curl. They would have seemed feminine along with his full, sensual lips, but his sharp cheekbones and rugged jawline balanced them out. She had never really noticed a man’s lips either, but she found herself wondering how his would feel pressed to hers.

A fresh tingle of awareness made her start to smile shyly even though she didn’t know why.

His expression altered. He looked away briefly, as though undecided. When his attention came back to her, his features were stiff with conflict, his brows low with dismay.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I can take you home after I get rid of them.”

“I’m fine. I was more upset about having nothing to change into. Thank you for this.” She plucked at the front of the hoodie. “I’ll bring it back in the morning.”

“Keep it. It suits you.” Satisfaction lit his gaze as he centered the seams on her shoulders.

“I couldn’t.” She smoothed a hand down the front, loving the fleecy feel of it against her skin, but the movement revealed that her nipples were stiffly poking against the fabric.

She shot a look upward to see his nostrils flare. He swallowed and pressed his mouth flat while dragging his attention back to her face. His hands slid from her shoulders to clasp her upper arms, not pulling her in, but not holding her off either.

Stella was the least sophisticated woman she knew, but she’d spent a year watching people her age hook up. She understood the small signals, even if she had never participated.

Until now.

She moved forward, feeling as though she stepped into a bubble with him, one that floated in sunshine while the rest of the world turned to rainbows.

“Thank you for…” She wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for. The clothes? The rescue? This feeling of lightness and possibility?

She tilted up her face. She was too new to the mating dance to make more of a move, but it was enough for him to tighten his hands on her arms and draw her closer.

“Are you sure?” His thumbs moved restlessly, making the cotton shift against her arms.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was asking for, only that she wanted to know how it worked, this thing called sexual attraction. She wanted to know how to kiss.

He bent his head and touched his mouth to hers.

That’s all it was for three long seconds—a feathery contact that barely grazed her softened lips before she felt him start to retreat, leaving her stinging with disappointment.

A small sob of yearning panged in her throat. Her hands closed into the knit of his shirt. She pushed into her toes, seeking more.
His breath hitched, then his mouth opened with more hunger over hers. More command.

It was a fresh plunge into suffocating heat and blurred light and wild sensations that were panic-like, but also exhilarating. She didn’t know what to do, which was terrifying, but he did. With a sweep of his tongue, he encouraged her lips to part and the intimacy of it sent a spike of delight straight into her belly.

Moaning, she leaned into him, offering more of herself to be consumed. She didn’t realize she had pressed right up against him until his hard chest was crushing her breasts. His hands roamed down her back, ironing her tighter into him. She loved the strength and confidence in the way his hands moved over her, unhurried but thorough. She had the discomfiting urge to have her backside fondled, but she didn’t know how to tell him that without stopping the kiss and she never wanted to stop this kiss. It was a world unto itself, one that was velvety and dark and perfect.

She realized that waffle knit and denim were abrading her palms. She was cruising her hands over his back with discovery while her whole body undulated in an attempt to get closer to his. Her hand brushed the pocket of his jeans, intrigued by the abrasion of denim over flexed muscle.

A gruff noise resounded in his chest. The world tilted. The side of the bed hit the backs of her knees and the mattress arrived at her back. She gasped and opened her eyes to the sight of him on one elbow as he loomed over her.

“No?” His expression was stark, eyes hazed with the same sort of spell that had been cast over her.

“Yes,” she whispered, because she already missed the feel of him against her. She slid her hand into his hair and urged him to kiss her again.

He pressed his weight across her and plundered. It was glorious. Intoxicating. She met the dab of his tongue with her own, reveling in the sensation of falling in slow motion down a long, dark tunnel. She loved the feel of his hair! She sifted her fingers through the springy thickness and found the indent at the back of his neck and died a little death when his hand skated over her breast, then splayed to take firm possession and massage it.

A sharp, raw need combusted between her thighs. A dampening heat that ached. It was so intense, she heard herself whimper.
He rasped something against her mouth in a language she didn’t recognize and buried his mouth in her throat. The undeniable shape of his erection was against her thigh. Never had she thought she would find that enticing, but she wanted to touch it. To be under him. She wanted that there.

A caress arrived against the bare skin of her stomach and climbed to her naked breast. The cup of his palm made her breast swell and tingle.

He lifted his head to look into her eyes as he scraped his thumb across and around her nipple, sending more lightning strikes into her loins.

“Let me see. I want to suck it.”

The grit in his voice sent shivery prickles across her skin. The sheer audacity of what he was asking made her turn her face into his biceps and close her eyes. But her hand found the edge of the pullover where it was bunched against his wrist. She started to draw it upward.
As swirls of cool air crept across her torso, the door swung inward, letting in the noise of the party.

Atlas abruptly moved his hand to her back, rolling her protectively into his chest and cradling her there while his voice turned to a rusty knife blade. “Get out.”

“See?” Carmel said. “He’s right here, getting off with the maid.”

What? Stella twisted against the band of Atlas’s arms, craning her neck to see Carmel was sagged into the room, clinging to the door latch. She was dripping wet and clutched a towel to her naked breasts.

“Just like Daddy,” she pronounced with venom.

Atlas pushed into the mattress, springing away from her and off the bed, slashing Stella with a glare of blame.

Stella sat up, trying to get her bearings, only then noticing the man with iron-gray hair in the hall, suit and tie spattered below the knee.

“Really, Atlas?” the man said.

Stella’s heart lurched from fresh shock to something more appalled. For once in her life she felt small, but in the worst possible way. Belittled. Looked down on.

“I told them I was calling the police. I’m doing it now.” Atlas yanked his ski jacket from beneath Stella’s hip.

She scrambled off the bed and tugged at the clothes she wore, ensuring she was fully covered.

“They’re on their way.” The older man sideswiped Stella with a lip curl of disgust. “Get rid of her. Then help me get rid of the rest.” He stalked away.

“Oh, no.” Carmel pouted with exaggerated sympathy while her eyes stayed bright with malicious laughter. “Daddy’s mad.”

“Get dressed.” Atlas caught his sister by the shoulder and steered her from the room, nudging her toward the end of the hall and pulling the door closed behind him without looking back at Stella.

She clutched her stomach, feeling sick and humiliated and scared. Had that man said the police were on their way?

She peered out the door and saw Atlas had his back to her as he stood in the doorway to another bedroom. “Sober up and grow up,” he ordered.

From another part of the house, there was a confusion of drunken giggles and terse responses.
Stella seized her chance to slip down the stairs and into the staff closet, where she jammed her feet into her boots and yanked on her coat. As she stepped outside, she could already see the flicker of blue lights bouncing off the snowcapped roofs below.

The photographer had been joined by another. They were smoking and one perked up when he saw her. “What’s going on in there, love? Big party?”

Thankfully, Stella’s hat was in her pocket. She jammed it on her head as she veered down a back lane to avoid those men and the approaching authorities.

It was a frigid walk home, one filled with shuddering cold, distress and disappointment and confusion. Would she have given herself up to Atlas if his sister hadn’t interrupted them? She hadn’t dreamed that kisses and sex could feel like that. She’d felt helpless, not against Atlas, but against herself.

This was how it happened. This was how women found themselves in the snare of child-rearing and dependence. She was lucky his father had put a stop to it, she supposed, but she still felt denied and humiliated.

As if that bitter walk home wasn’t punishment enough, she received another blow at dawn. Her roommate shook her awake and waggled her phone in front of her.

“What the hell happened last night? We’ve all been fired. We have to be out by nine.”

Chapter One

Present day

Coming to Zermatt hadn’t been Atlas Voudouris’s idea and he already regretted agreeing to it.

Iris, his soon-to-be fiancée, had set it up. After dating for several months, they had needed a holiday away from their families and social circles and the prying eyes of gossip rags to discuss their future.

Iris’s friend owned a group of chalets here, and in return for extending them a complimentary stay, Atlas would owe the man a favor. It was exactly the give-and-take connection he was marrying Iris for. He had no objection to that, especially because the paparazzi hadn’t figured out yet where they’d gone.

Staying in Zermatt also allowed him to reach out in a very casual way to a sticky business contact, one who happened to be staying in Cervinia, on the Italian side of the Alps. Atlas had been trying to partner with that man for two years, but had barely managed more than an introduction. If he could finally grease those wheels, it might be worth the discomfort of being here.

But being here was uncomfortable. He couldn’t deny it. He’d been agitated since their arrival last night, unable to sleep because he kept bumping up on a memory he’d been trying to shake for five years, one where he had behaved just like Daddy.

He’d made a pass at a woman who was too young for him. Maybe she hadn’t been as inexperienced as he had initially judged her. She had been passionate as hell, completely undermining his good sense, but she had been in trouble with the law and she’d been one of the staff at the rented chalet.

That was close enough to messing around with a taverna owner’s daughter to make Atlas want to go back in time and kick himself.

Which was impossible, obviously. Instead, he walked around with a splinter he couldn’t dig out from under his skin. She wasn’t even here! Young people moved through ski resorts like migrating birds, landing for a season before moving on to greener fields.

He didn’t want to see her. As of last night, he and Iris had agreed to become engaged, likely to marry within the year. They would announce it in London this Saturday.

Oliver would be smugly pleased. He had handpicked Iris for Atlas, which rankled more than it should. Iris was charming and intelligent and beautiful. It didn’t matter that Atlas wasn’t particularly attracted to her. Passion was not something either of them expected from marriage.

They each had their own reasons for agreeing to it, though. For Atlas, it would give him a clear line toward taking the helm at DVE, the global conglomerate his father currently headed. Oliver’s family had started DVE as a publishing enterprise two hundred years ago. Through the twentieth century, it grew into a media and broadcasting powerhouse, but would have collapsed under the tech revolution if not for the clothing line Oliver’s wife had started before she died. The Davenwear athletic and wearable tech brand had propped up the rest of the company, thanks to Atlas’s fame and his sister’s notoriety. Once Atlas began climbing the ladder within DVE, he’d diversified into green and renewable energy, among other forward-thinking interests.

Taking over at DVE was more than a claim of his birthright—which was what Atlas’s mother had urged him to do when she had sent him to his father at fourteen. No, after nearly two decades of investing every part of himself into DVE’s growth and success, Atlas had earned the top spot. He could wait until his father died, which was unlikely to happen anytime soon, considering Oliver was a very healthy sixty-four, or he could marry the woman Oliver had picked in exchange for Oliver’s agreement to retire.

They would make their announcement at Oliver’s birthday party at the end of the week, putting the wheels in motion for a transfer of power.

I’m getting what I want, Atlas reminded himself.

Yet he remained on edge.

Maybe if they’d gone skiing today, he would have worked out this restlessness. It was snowing heavily, promising fresh powder, but Iris was a fair-weather skier. Besides, after coming to their agreement last night, they’d had some shopping to do.

Atlas could have had the jeweler come to them, but despite five floors and ten bedrooms, the chalet felt claustrophobic. He brought Iris to the shop in the village where she had spent the last hour sipping mimosas and discussing designs with the goldsmith while Atlas mostly stared out the window.

He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. It was generic people-watching because it would be rude to work off his phone while his new fiancée ordered up a twelve-carat square diamond flanked by a pair of two-carat trapezoid-cut diamonds in white gold.

He signed off on the eight-figure price tag, then told them to box up the pair of ruby earrings that had also caught her eye.

When they left, she looked across the street to a boutique so he walked his credit card into the shop and left her there to browse.

The shop owner invited him to sit in their lounge. He could have ordered any food or beverage of his choice, but he claimed a desire to look at watches and walked down the street to the coffee shop.

Dissatisfaction dogged him the whole way, amplified by the lift of a camera phone as he passed a woman on the street.

Celebrity was yet another price he’d paid to Oliver for the benefits of being his son. Yes, Atlas had gained recognition on his own. His gold medals as a swimmer had earned him a healthy following online and modest sponsorships had flowed in, but Oliver had parlayed Atlas’s good looks and athletic success into elevating the Davenwear line. Between that, and Carmel’s weekly scandals, and the attention that his socialite dates invariably attracted, Atlas remained a magnet for media attention.

He ignored it as he always did and opened the door to the coffee shop, stepping back because a woman was on her way out. She wore a fitted winter jacket and a sky-blue hat and checked her own step, flashing him a friendly smile that fell right off her face.

His entire world skipped from its groove. Had he conjured her?

He’d forgotten how blue her eyes were. There was a lake in Australia that held that same saturation of blue, but he’d never seen it anywhere else. Only there and here, in her astonished stare.

Something flared in those mesmerizing depths, but it was quickly eclipsed by horror. She tossed him a begrudging “Thanks” in the colloquial Swiss German and brushed past him. She was carrying a takeaway coffee and a paper bag that presumably held a pastry, judging by the aromas floating out from the shop’s interior.

“Stella.” He let the door close and remained outside with her.

She halted next to one of the empty bistro tables, staying under the awning where the sidewalk was still bare. Beneath her short jacket, she wore gray plaid trousers tucked into tall boots. The wool fabric clung lovingly to the valentine of her ass.

“I didn’t think you recognized me.” She turned and offered a stiff smile. “It’s nice to see you again, Herr Davenport.”

He’d heard enough lies in his life to recognize one. And Herr Davenport?

“Voudouris,” he corrected. “Oliver Davenport was never married to my mother.” Reporters continued to mislabel him because Oliver did. In fact, Oliver had made it clear that the quickest way for Atlas to take the reins at DVE would be to adopt his father’s name, but he never would.

“You look well. I hope your family is well also.” Another lie. One so great, she had to clear it from her throat. “Are they here with you?”

“No.” He ignored the opportunity to say he was here with his fiancée. The weight of that knowledge scorched like acid in the pit of his stomach while the rest of him drank her up like an elixir.

She’d come a long way from a soaked, ill-fitting uniform. Her clothes were good quality, her jacket zipped halfway so it flared open to frame her ample breasts.

A fantasy of mapping her figure with his hands, with his lips, arrived so suddenly it was as though it had never left. As though the craving had sat as unfinished business in the depths of his most carnal urges.

No. He was the rational one in his family. The one who wasn’t driven by emotion and ego and libido. He kept all of that on a tight leash.

He was not just like Daddy.

“You’ve lived here all this time?” That thought annoyed him for some reason.

“Yes.” She looked over her shoulder. “I run the front desk at Die Größten Höhen. Greatest Heights.”

“I’m at Chalet Ruhe—”

She nodded with familiarity so he didn’t bother naming the resort, especially because someone entered the shop behind him, forcing him to take a step closer to her.

She stiffened.

Now he was close enough that she wasn’t backlit by the brightness of the falling snow. He could see her features better.

She looked very much as he remembered her. Her hair was hidden beneath her hat and she wore no makeup. She wasn’t pretty in the classic sense, but he wouldn’t call her plain. Her nose was narrow and her eyes widely set. Her upper lip was thinner than her lower, the corners of her mouth sharp, but he remembered exactly how plump and erotic her lower lip had been against his tongue.

Then there was that combative chin.

Why he found the thrust of it so riveting, he couldn’t say, but he was both distracted and intrigued. She had had this same outward politeness and meek air back then, but like today, it was at odds with a bone structure that proclaimed she had a stubborn personality. It made him want to mine for the real Stella.

Which was a disconcerting impulse, especially today of all days. The edginess that had been plaguing him returned a thousandfold.

“I should—” she began.

“Where did you go that night? I was going to take you home.” He didn’t mean to speak over her, but he had always wondered if she had arrived home safely.

She must have. She was here, alive, snorting with disbelief.

“You left to avoid the police.” He’d always wondered about that, too. “Is that why you kissed me? To keep me from calling them?”

---

“What? No.” Stella’s stomach had been rolling like a cement mixer from the second she’d started to thank a stranger for holding a door only to come face to face with her nemesis.

How did he even remember her? Most people forgot her in five minutes. She might be tall, but she wasn’t memorable otherwise. She was ordinary and deliberately quiet and had a boring personality because she never did anything interesting. She kept her head down, worked hard, and stayed out of trouble.

Yet here she was, faced with a man who had only grown more handsome over the years. He wore tailored trousers over heavy-soled, laced boots and a quilted winter jacket with the Davenwear logo. His jaw was clean-shaven, his hair shorter than it had been five years ago. Snowflakes were melting on his black curls and his eyes still held that compelling light in their bronze depths. His mouth—

Don’t look at his mouth!

Her brain was zigzagging, trying to undo this meeting while her composure was just as confused. Part of her wanted to run away screaming. An equally unnerving elation pinned her feet to the ground while something in her sang, It’s you! Which didn’t make sense. She wasn’t happy to see him. She low-key hated him and his family. High-key, really, because of all the hardship they’d caused her. The shame.

“Why then?” he demanded.

Why had she kissed him? He could pull all her fingernails before she would admit she’d been overdue for her first kiss. And that she’d wanted it to come from him.

“I thought the police might look me up and call my father.”

“What if they had? How old were you?” he demanded with an appalled glare.

“Nearly nineteen. I told you that.” She looked to the lid of her coffee to be sure she wasn’t spilling any. “I took some money from him when I left. He was angry. I’ve since paid him back.” She wasn’t sure why she told him that. It didn’t really exonerate her and it wasn’t a good memory. Repaying her father hadn’t prompted any sort of forgiveness. He’d never loved her the way a father should and never would.

“Being assaulted by drunks was preferable to living at home?” It was a grimly perceptive summation of her childhood.

She jerked her shoulder in a half shrug, then looked into the falling snow.

“I should go. I’m on my lunch break and I don’t want to lose my job. Again.” It was as spiteful as she would allow herself to be. This town existed on tourists, especially the rich ones. She hadn’t risen to the position she enjoyed by talking back to them.

“Again?” he repeated, stepping forward to catch at her elbow before she could turn away. “What do you mean? My father had the chalet manager fired. Which he deserved.” His unflinching stare dared her to contradict him. “You weren’t fired, too?”

“Of course I was. And kicked out of my residence.” She closed her hand tighter on the bag holding her croissant and disdainfully lifted her elbow from his loose grip.

He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” she choked out. “I only went into your room because you invited me.” She leaned in even though the weather had reduced the pedestrians to near zero. “I didn’t mean for anything to happen.”

Heat consumed her and her voice wavered as she stared at the angry slant of his mouth. Those stern lips had ravished hers. His clenched hand had cradled her naked breast. His erection had pressed against her thigh.

“I didn’t think you were a victim of anything,” she continued shakily. “But I was accused of taking advantage of a guest. ‘Fraternizing for my own gain.’ Because you lent me clothes that you get for free, I guess? They refused to pay me the wages they owed me as punishment.”

She’d actually been slut-shamed with a blistering lecture in front of the office staff when she’d gone in to protest. She still writhed on the flames of that humiliation.

“And now you’ve ruined my appetite!” She set her coffee and croissant on the nearest table, turned up her collar and stepped into the falling snow.

“Stella.” He caught her arm again.

Some wicked, sinful, foolish part of her was thrilled. She twisted to face him, held her breath, pulse fluttering in her throat as she waited for his apology. Waited for him to say something meaningful. Something that told her he’d thought about her as often as she’d thought about him.

“That shouldn’t have happened. None of it.” He was speaking under his breath, his words a cloud of breath that was heavy with dismay. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Well, you did.” She yanked her arm free, crushed and mortified with herself for that moment of— Oh, she didn’t want to dwell on how adolescent her rush of hope was, wishing impossible things. “Leave me alone.” She offered one final glare of rancid fury, then hurried away.

Did she feel like a coward for her retreat? Not really. Some fights weren’t worth having. Sometimes running away was all you had.

She had worked hard to become someone who could get through a confrontation gracefully, though. That altercation had not been her best moment.

Usually, she was dealing with a guest who didn’t really affect her on a personal level, though. Atlas was the opposite. As aggrieved as she’d been all these years, he was also the man against whom she continued to measure all others.

Which made no sense. He wasn’t that special. She met rich, handsome men every day. Some even flirted with her. Why did this particular man stick in her memory like a burr? Had she been so young when she met him that she had imprinted on him or something? Because she had grown up a lot since then. She’d dated and kissed and…

Okay, that was it, because all those later kisses and fondles had left her cold. No one had ever made her blood simmer the way standing in the snow, in the street, arguing with Atlas Voudouris did.

She didn’t want him stirring her up again! She’d already spent too many hours looking him up and wondering and wishing and dreaming…

That way lay madness.

But against her will, pins and needles were jabbing all over her, as though she was thawing from that long walk home without gloves or socks when her hair had been wet and her self-esteem thin as a tissue.

It was painful. Distressing.

Her father had always warned her against lust and boys and fooling around. Sure enough, when her hormones had awakened under Atlas’s kiss five years ago, her attraction toward him had gotten her fired and she’d lost her home. She’d tried to seek him out the next day, but he’d been gone, leaving her floundering.

The entire experience had left her cautious about her body’s natural reaction. She didn’t really think it was a sin to feel passion, but she had been glad on some level that her interest in sex had grown muted, allowing her to believe she was safe from suffering lust-related disasters again.

Other times, though, she had wondered if Atlas had left her a little bit broken. Which was deeply unfair, because she didn’t know how to mend that sort of damage.

Now she knew he was here in Zermatt and all her stupid longings were reawakening, ones that not only wanted him to rescue her from this rocky journey called life, but even more, she wanted him to touch her. Kiss her. Would it feel the same? She was dying to find out.

She cringed at herself, running through every single word that had passed between them, picking it apart, trying to be happy that she’d told him to leave her alone.

Which he would, because he had said he wished he had.

What a horrible thing to say! She never wanted to see him again in her life.

---

“Why don’t we have an early dinner?” Iris said when Atlas joined her for a drink in the sitting room between their two bedrooms.

He’d just spent an hour swimming laps so he was hungry, but she was putting more than a meal on the table. With her engagement ring on order, he had a green light for lovemaking.

No, thanks.

He flinched inwardly at his distinct lack of interest, especially because he definitely wanted sex. He was frustrated as hell. That’s why he’d swum himself into exhaustion, but his libido was fixated on plaid trousers and a belligerent chin and electric blue eyes.

He poured himself a scotch, trying to work out how to tell Iris, I can’t. Not tonight. Maybe never.

It was a sobering thought, one he needed to look at from all angles before he pushed the button that would detonate everything he’d spent months—years really—putting into place.

And for what? A woman who justifiably hated him?

I went into your room because you invited me. I didn’t mean for anything to happen.

Neither had he. He’d arrived into the chaos of the party in time to see her yanked into the tub. Her uniform had been soaked and clinging to her generous curves, but it had been a uniform. He had averted his eyes from the thrust of her nipples and the way the fabric had adhered to the notch in her thighs. He didn’t prey on the help and he didn’t let anyone else do it, either.

But fifteen minutes later, she had walked in on him changing. She’d been wearing his clothes and they’d looked damn cute on her. He remembered trying to exercise some restraint, but she’d stepped into his kiss and…

He closed his eyes against the memory. He’d relived it too many times for it not to spring forth in vivid detail, though. Heat. Softness. The fit of her breasts against his front. The smell of his body wash on her skin. The brush of her tongue against his own.

Somehow, they’d fallen onto the bed. Her passion had fed his and he suspected they would have gone all the way if they hadn’t been interrupted. He’d never been carried away so quickly or completely. Not before or since.

He’d never been so tempted to kiss someone as he had been today, to see if their chemistry was still as potent. It had taken everything in him not to follow her into the falling snow, pull her around and find out.

He probably would have gotten himself a knee to the stomach. Or lower. She’d been trembling with bitterness and he couldn’t blame her.

I didn’t think you were a victim…

He wasn’t.

It was no surprise that his father had turned her into one, though.

Ironically, Oliver saw himself as the primary victim anytime something went wrong. When that happened, someone had to pay. Never himself. It was never his fault. It wasn’t Carmel’s fault, either, for accepting an invitation to stay in a resort that specialized in wild parties, then hosting a dozen hard-drinking strangers. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault for going on a date knowing full well Carmel would let things get out of hand. It wasn’t even Atlas’s fault for failing to return in time to put a lid on it.

It was the fault of the staff for indulging a woman who lacked stopping sense—even if that staff included a teenage runaway living on the thin edge of survival.

Atlas tipped his head back. He should have tried to find Stella that night. Or the next morning before they left. He shouldn’t have allowed Carmel’s “just like Daddy” comment to get under his skin.

But he had. Chasing down a maid would have injected truth into his sister’s accusation, not just in their father’s eyes, but his own.

“Atlas?” Iris yanked him back to the chalet and the engagement he deeply regretted.

He turned, expecting her to be miffed at his inattention, but she wore an appalled expression and was staring at her phone.

“What’s wrong?”

“Carmel just sent me a link.”

He’d been ignoring his own phone. It was one of the reasons he loved to swim when he needed to think. Nothing external could intrude, especially whatever nonsense his sister was up to.

“Did you tell her we ordered the ring?” He wearily went back to his room to take his phone off its charger on the night table. “I told you she would try to interfere.” Carmel felt threatened by his takeover from their father. She had made a career of blocking all his efforts.

“No, this is…” Iris followed him to the double glass doors that separated his bedroom from the sitting room. Her glare was accusatory.

He touched the link under the string of Carmel’s Ha-ha-ha-ha! Photos appeared. Images of him. With Stella. From today.

He swore.

“It’s not AI,” Iris said shakily. “Is it?”

“No.” They were authentic photographs taken through the window by someone inside the coffee shop, the glare from the glass only causing minimal reflection to diffuse the clarity. They hadn’t raised their voices, but he couldn’t help wondering if the photographer had overheard them somehow. Had there been music playing inside the shop? He couldn’t remember.

The post was already going viral.

The ongoing speculation over whether he would propose to Iris had primed the pump, ensuring a photo of him with a different woman would be high-traffic gold. That’s why some enterprising tourist had begun clicking the moment they recognized him.

DVE’s team of legal, PR and image specialists were already reaching out to him. He’d missed two calls, but they had a draft statement prepared. They were paid to protect Atlas, the rest of the family and the DVE brand so their response leaned heavily on Stella being a crackpot opportunist setting him up for her own gain.

He swore again, this time more wearily.

“Who is she?” Iris demanded.

He ought to say, No one, but he couldn’t make his lips form the words. But who was Stella to him? Really?

On the other hand, “no one” was a tough sell when the panel of images ran the gamut from her forced smile of politeness, then her leaning in with a look of scorned anger. There was one of him holding her elbow, then another with his hand hanging uselessly in the air after she had shrugged him off.

The worst interpretation was that he had accosted a stranger in the street. Looked at with a shred more accuracy, it was a lover’s spat.

“We met briefly years ago.”

“Meaning you slept with her and ghosted her.” Iris sniffed with indignation.

“I’ve never slept with her.” It was the truth, but Iris wasn’t having it.

“It looks like you did!”

“I can see that.” He wasn’t going to repeat the false accusations that Stella had fraternized with him for her own gain. What a mess. “But it’s in the past—”

“No, it’s not! It’s happening right now.” Iris jabbed her phone, quoting, “‘With an engagement announcement between Davenport and Makepeace-Reid expected any day, another woman has appeared with a vengeance.’ Why vengeance, Atlas? I said last night I would tolerate discreet affairs. This is not discreet!” She shook her phone. “And I didn’t expect they’d start before we announced our engagement.”

“It’s not an affair.” He bit back an urge to say she was overreacting.

“You left me in the boutique to meet her.”

“We bumped into each other.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

Hell, he barely believed it. Iris was entitled to her outrage, but it was bringing down his carefully assembled house of cards.

As she started back to her bedroom, he asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Go back to London. What are you going to do?”

This was his chance to save their engagement. His only chance.

Go with you.

The iciest logic in his brain urged him to say it. To do it. He should go straight back to London, issue a statement that pushed Stella firmly under a bus, patch things up with Iris and take over DVE. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?

“I’m scheduled to heli-ski with Zamos tomorrow,” he reminded her.

Iris’s laugh was a high-pitched wobble before she delivered a stone-cold, “I’m keeping the earrings.”

Chapter Two

Stella was proud of herself for not stalking Atlas online, not even when she returned to her small flat in the top of the four-story walk-up.

Looking him up was a bad habit she had largely conquered because the humbling truth was, she didn’t need to. She had memorized his backstory long ago.

Atlas was usually described as Oliver Davenport’s son from “a brief relationship with Rhea Voudouris,” daughter of a Greek restaurant owner. At the time of his birth in Greece, Atlas’s father had been married to an heiress who started a line of athletic wear as a lark, under the DVE umbrella. When she passed from an unspecified illness, Oliver took it over.

In his teens, Atlas moved to live with his father in England. He’d been excelling in junior games as a competitive swimmer, which explained his powerful shoulders and lean hips. Within a few years, he’d won three golds and a silver at the Olympics.

His good looks and status as an elite athlete made him a natural for becoming the face of the athletic wear line. Through his late teens and early twenties, he was often posed with Carmel, Oliver’s legitimate child, next to pools and on rocky outcroppings atop mountains. Carmel was waif-thin and sulky next to Atlas’s broody strength. They made a striking pair and Carmel’s frequent scandals sent their images viral on a regular basis.

Over time, Atlas quit modeling in favor of working directly at DVE. Oliver was the majority shareholder and CEO, but Atlas was seen as his successor, which kept eyes on him as an industry titan worth watching.

Then there were the women.

That was the real reason Stella refused to look him up anymore. Every time she did, she was accosted by a photo of him with a beautiful, wealthy starlet or heiress. It shouldn’t bother her, but it did, probably because it reinforced exactly how different they were.

Honestly, with the world as his playground and an army of foot soldiers to fetch and carry for him, she had to wonder what he’d been doing walking into a shop in Zermatt today, but she refused to seek answers online.

Because it didn’t matter. He was dead to her.

Even if she did keep replaying their conversation, alternately wishing she had said more, or less, while also rehearsing what she would say if she ever got the chance to speak her mind again.

I shouldn’t have kissed you.

If only she had said that to him, rather than letting him say it first. Why did it sting so much to hear it?

She was staring into her refrigerator, trying to decide what to make for dinner, when her phone began to ping and ping and ping.

Concerned, she picked up her phone. Not her family, but it seemed to be a work emergency. Her coworkers, including the evening desk clerk and the manager of the hotel, were all sending texts. Every message was some variation of, Is this you?

The links and screen grabs showed her outside the patisserie, arguing with Atlas.

“Nooo…” she groaned, flicking to scan the articles.

She’d been identified by name along with where she worked. Staff at the patisserie could have provided that information, she supposed. She was there several times a week.

But “a source close to the couple” was quoted as saying, “Atlas planned to propose to Iris while they were on holiday.” An accompanying photo showed him in a tuxedo with a stunning woman in a gorgeous dinner gown. She was delicate and elegant and she was the daughter of a viscount.

Stella’s stomach plummeted with inadequacy, then dropped again as she saw she was being framed as a homewrecker, interfering in what was otherwise a fairy-tale courtship.

“Seriously?!” she gasped.

He could have said something about her when she asked about his family. Instead, he had jumped right into asking where she had gone that night—as if it was any of his business—and accused her of kissing him as a distraction tactic.

Now the whole thing was being twisted.

How could this be happening? No one at the patisserie would have suggested she was anyone’s Other Woman. People who knew her knew she barely dated, let alone got involved with men who were committed elsewhere.

The evening clerk texted.

People are calling to ask about you. Someone just asked me where you live. I didn’t tell them.

She was already swimming in outrage. Now she plunged into an icy pool of horror at the idea of being swarmed by paparazzi. She’d seen celebrities get mobbed while visiting here. It was horrible.

Hurrying to the door to her balcony, she twitched the drapes enough to see down to the street, but it was dark and the lanes were narrow and deep between the closely set buildings. It was difficult to tell whether those were locals and tourists going about their evening or someone more nefarious lingering in the shadows, hoping to catch her through the glass.

Ew…

She dropped the curtain into place and texted her supervisor.

I don’t think I should come in tomorrow.

Agreed.

That was the swift reply. Then:

I notified Head Office. They’re unhappy the hotel name has been brought into it.

“That’s not my fault, is it?” she hissed, then quickly texted back.

Is my job on the line?

I’m not sure.

That was the heart-stopping reply.

That man. What an absolute life-imploding toad!

She didn’t have Atlas’s number, but she quickly found the landline for Chalet Ruhe. Before she could dial, a call from an unknown number came up. Then a text from her downstairs neighbor.

She ignored the call and read the text.

Are you expecting company? Someone tried to get in as I was leaving for dinner. They said they knew you.

Don’t let them in, she replied, and began to panic.

The building was mostly used for short-term rentals. That last text had come from the ski instructor who had told her about this apartment two years ago, but tourists who were only staying a week would think nothing of letting someone in to knock on her door.

Her brain slipped into the self-preservation mode that had gotten her onto a train to Zermatt the first time. She threw her laptop and a few overnight things into her shoulder bag, then dressed for the cold. A hat with earflaps wasn’t out of place. Neither was the wide scarf she layered up to her chin. At the last second, she thought to put on a different coat from the photos. This one was long and quilted, built for the coldest temperatures winter could throw at her, which she loved when she needed it, but it turned her into a shapeless lump of beige, something she hoped would disguise her on her way to the train station.

She would go to her stepmother’s until this blew over.

Please let this blow over.

The twins’ birthday was coming up and they both needed shoes. Beate’s application fee for the music academy was due soon, too. Stella helped with all of those costs.

She needed her job.

As she trotted down the stairs, she heard voices in the foyer.

She had reached the floor where the ski instructor lived so she slipped down the hall to their door and punched random codes into their keypad, pretending to be entering while she listened for the footsteps to climb the stairs behind her.

Whoever it was took them two at a time then halted, making her scalp prickle.

“Stella.”

She snapped around to see Atlas with his hand on the newel, one foot on the first step of the next flight. His gray wool topcoat hung open over black trousers and a pale gray turtleneck. He wore five o’clock shadow and a scowl.

“I thought you lived on the top floor?” he said.

“How do you know that?”

“Unimportant. Come. I have a limo waiting.” He sounded crisp and remote as he stepped back to wave her toward the stairs.

She didn’t move. “You need to fix this. I might lose my job.”

His mouth flattened. “Let’s talk in the car. If my people can find where you live, so can the paps.” He waved again.

She hesitated, wanting to talk this out but, “Is your fiancée there?”

“I don’t have one. Go,” he insisted with a point down the stairs.

She tsked. “I didn’t even want to speak to you,” she reminded him as she hurried down the stairs in front of him. “You’re the one who turned it into a scene. Now—”

“Wait until we have privacy.” He caught her arm to halt her as they arrived in the foyer. He glanced both directions through the glass of the exit door, then, with a curt nod, opened the door and ushered her straight into the open back door of a waiting limo.

He slid in so fast behind her, he sat on her coat.

The door slammed, and in a powerful move, he gathered her and scooched her along, settling her just as quickly while shoving his hip against hers.

She was no delicate flower like the fiancée he claimed he didn’t have. It was both thrilling and disconcerting to be enveloped by his long arms and powerful chest and the faint cloud of a fading cologne. He could easily overpower her and she was letting it happen.

She wiggled to settle into her spot, putting space between them, but feeling cold as she did. Wary and frightened.

The driver slid behind the wheel and was away before she’d found her seat belt, let alone her composure.

“Are you taking me to the train station? That’s where I was headed,” she said as she clipped.

“To go where?”

“My stepmother’s.”

“Where’s that? Doesn’t matter,” he dismissed with a brush of his hand. “They’ll figure it out and look for you there. Text her. Tell her no matter who asks, she should say, ‘No comment.’”

“They’re going to badger my family?” She had a flash of her father’s reaction and cringed, then quickly texted Grettina. She said she would call to explain as soon as she could. “That’s the train station,” she pointed out as the limo shot right past it.

“That’s where the photographers think I’m headed. We’re going to Cervinia.”

“That’s four hours!” It was on the Italian side of the Alps, absolutely the wrong direction for her.

“We’ll go over the top.”

“The cable cars don’t run at night.”

“Stella.” His tone was insulted, but he didn’t say anything more because the limo was pulling into the heliport.

“Oh.” That answered that. “But I don’t want to go to Cervinia,” she pointed out.

“You’d rather be eaten by wolves? Because I had to jump from an e-taxi to a limo to lose the photographers who were staking out the chalet. We have about five minutes before they realize this is where I was really headed. They’ll see you’re with me and everything will grow exponentially worse. Let’s talk on the other side.”

“This feels like a kidnapping,” she told him crossly. One she facilitated by jogging up the stairs to the helipad that mostly serviced heli-skiing and sightseeing tours of the Alps.

Minutes later they lifted off. She was alone in the back seat while he was next to the pilot looking as though he knew what he was doing up there.

She took a few breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. This was all happening too fast. Was he really saving her? Or managing her?

She shouldn’t have come with him. It had taken a lot for her to become as independent as she was. A lot. But she had a good life in Zermatt. One that sustained her and allowed her to help Grettina. One that made her feel valued and secure and confident.

Now, as the moonlit Matterhorn slid behind her, she felt as though her connection to her safe place and the life that she’d built stretched and snapped like a rubber band.

She could get it back, she reassured herself. She had her ski pass in her wallet. That would get her onto the cable cars. A taxi around the base of the mountain cost the earth, but she had a credit card if she had to resort to taking the ground route. There were trains, too. One way or another, she could find her way home.

They didn’t descend into Cervinia, though. Not the proper part of the town. They landed on a private helipad next to a chalet built on the edge of a small lake on the outskirts. It was a mountain retreat that didn’t seem to have a plowed road into it. Four people on snowmobiles were riding away from it.

How would she get anywhere from here? Snowshoe?

A flutter of panic went through her. This was exactly the kind of situation she had run away from—being under the thumb of a man who held all the cards while she had none.

Atlas hopped out and opened the door beside her.

“Come,” he shouted, reaching to unbuckle her. “The pilot wants to get back to his dinner.”

He helped her down from the helicopter and used the flap of his coat to shelter her as they ran from the cloud of snow that was stirred up by the churning blades. As soon as they were at the door to the house, the chopper lifted off again.

“The house is fully stocked, but I told them to release the staff,” Atlas said as they entered to shake off the snow in the ski room. “My people will arrive tomorrow. In situations like this, I don’t want anyone around me who isn’t on my payroll.”

“Like me?” she suggested, stomach tilting with the knowledge they were alone here.

She hung her jacket and sensed him stilling as he looked at her.

“That was a joke,” she said.

“I know.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw. He turned away to remove his own things.

She glanced down, wondering if she had something on her shirt.

She’d worn this cashmere sweater over black trousers to work today. Her wardrobe was a careful curation of high-quality consignment shop items. In Zermatt, designer labels often wound up in the secondhand shops. The trick was finding things in her size that flattered her figure, but she was a decent hand with sewing so she was usually able to alter something to make it work.

This pearl-pink pullover was simple and classy beneath the blazer she wore at work and she loved the feel of it, but she suddenly realized how closely it hugged her torso and breasts.

She glanced up again, but Atlas was stowing his boots on the shelf, profile stiff.

“This feels like we’ve pulled a bank heist,” she muttered. “What the hell, Atlas?”

“Fun fact, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that this evening. We need to discuss how we’re going to respond.” He held open an interior door, inviting her to walk down a hall past a glass-enclosed fitness room.

At the end was a flight of stairs next to a wall of glass that looked onto the indoor pool. Windows on the far side of the water offered a view to the snowy outdoors. A lounge on the end was surrounded by lush tropical plants, and sunlamps were installed on the ceiling. Moody blue lighting reflected off the veined marble on the walls, making the whole place look magical.

An elevator pinged. She hadn’t even seen it, but Atlas had touched the call button and the doors slid open next to the stairs.

“What’s to talk about?” She stepped inside the elevator and immediately regretted it. It was too small. She could smell the winter air still clinging to his hair and skin. “Can’t you make a statement that the photos were taken out of context and make it go away?”

“Those sorts of statements look really stupid if the other party makes their own statement that contradicts it. Have you talked to anyone?”

“No. Like who? Why would I?”

“For money? What?” His brow went up as she swung an affronted look on him. “You were unjustly fired five years ago. You might have seen this as an opportunity to receive compensation for that.”

“I don’t want compensation. I want to keep a low profile so I can keep my job. My life.” The doors opened, allowing her to stomp off the elevator in a dramatic exit, but she paused to get her bearings.

He came up behind her, not touching her, but making her prickle with awareness as he halted just as abruptly.

They took in the rooms that flowed one into another beneath exposed wooden beams. The decor was mostly white and earthy browns. Glittering chandeliers were turned off above a massive sectional, but Tiffany-style table lamps glowed in mosaics of violet and scarlet and amber. Cozy reading chairs were tucked into nooks beside the massive stone fireplace that separated the main living room from the dining room. The marble dining table had sixteen empty chairs and a floral inlay that was an absolute work of art. In front of her were huge windows and double doors that led onto an upper terrace and what was likely a beautiful view of the lake and the hilly dales surrounded by sharp peaks looming above.

The kitchen was an open space with an island and eating bar. Places like this usually had a professional kitchen on one of the lower floors where the bulk of food preparation happened. Breakfast would be served here and the chef would prepare meals here if asked, but it was mostly a place for guests to make cocoa and find snacks after midnight.

She moved to the refrigerator to take inventory. “Have you eaten?”

“No. I should have asked the staff to leave something. Do you want a drink?” He moved to where the bar was in shadow and clicked on the track lighting above it.

“White wine, thanks.” She pulled out milk, flour and eggs. Crepes were her standby when she didn’t know what else to cook. “What would I even say?” she asked. “If I talked to reporters?”

“Exactly.” There was a faint pop as he removed a cork from a bottle of wine. “That my sister held a wild party five years ago? There’s front-page news.” His voice was deeply sarcastic. “That I kissed you? I did.” He shrugged it off as nothing, not looking at her as he poured her glass. “That my father fired you without cause? It’s all true and does very little harm to any of us.”

“Except me. They’re already making out like I broke your engagement. My employer doesn’t want to be associated with that. I’ve worked really hard for that job, Atlas. Can you please make a statement that your lack of a fiancée has nothing to do with me?”

“I would if it were true, but it’s not.” His mouth formed a humorless twist as he brought both drinks to the island.

“What do you mean?” She paused in reaching for the glass, heart swerving in her chest. “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even know she existed.”

“You’re still the reason Iris went home without me.”

---

“How?” Stella cried. The pink in her cheeks had started to fade, but rushed back in. That chin of hers was looking for a fight, but the tension around her eyes and mouth deepened with distress. “Is that really what you’re going to say?”

“No. Probably not. I’m still deciding. Do you want me to cook?” He was even hungrier than he’d been when Iris had suggested an early dinner four hours ago.

“As if.” She turned to set the crepe pan on a burner and pulled more ingredients from the refrigerator.

“I can cook.” He was a grown man who had learned to take care of himself long before his father’s staff had begun doing it. “My grandfather owned a taverna. I started working there as soon as I was tall enough to carry an empty plate to the sink.”

“I’ll let you clean up, then.”

He leaned on the wall where he was out of the way, still skeptical she wouldn’t want revenge for losing her job five years ago.

He was distracted by noticing her hair was longer than he’d suspected. It hung in an intricate golden braid that resembled a herringbone pattern. As she moved, it swished across her back, drawing him into a fantasy of catching it and wrapping it around his fist while he ran his free hand all over the cashmere that hugged her full breasts.

Damn it, what was it about her? Each time he saw her, he reacted as though he’d never seen a female figure before. Yes, hers was exceptional, but he’d seen many exceptional beauties in his lifetime. They’d been throwing themselves at him from the moment his first whisker had appeared. He was careful about how and with whom he had sex, but he had enough of it that he wasn’t in a state of parched need for it.

That’s how Stella made him feel, though. As though he would die if he didn’t touch her. Like he needed to have her. The urge to stand behind her and bury his lips in the side of her neck pulled like a magnet.

“Why is it my fault that your engagement is off?” she asked stiffly.

Because he couldn’t keep himself from looking for knicker lines beneath her trousers.

He made himself stare into his glass, doubtful she’d appreciate hearing his compliments on that front. Or rear, as it were.

“Our engagement was not official.” He’d already had his assistant cancel the order for the ring. “It was more of a business agreement anyway.”

“Really?” She glanced over, nose wrinkled with skepticism. Disapproval maybe?

He shrugged.

“Our fathers are friends.” Iris’s family was the quintessential broke aristocracy, desperate for an influx of cash. Oliver was eleventh in line for an earldom, so he considered himself a peer of the realm. He had this common, bastard son, however. One he wanted to elevate with a marriage into a titled family. “Iris is well connected socially, but I had concerns about how successful we’d be. She wants a man of leisure, whereas I’ve crafted my life around taking over DVE. I just bought a home in Greece, but she prefers London. In many ways we weren’t compatible. Hence the separate bedrooms.”

Stella paused before throwing the mushrooms into a pan of melted butter.

Yes, he had told her that deliberately. He wanted her to know.

The mushrooms began to sizzle.

The irony was, he loathed himself any time he showed the least similarity to his father, yet he had been about to repeat Oliver’s mistake. Oliver had married the woman his parents had put in front of him, then cheated on her with Atlas’s mother. With countless women, in fact, but Oliver had learned his lesson after the first pregnancy. He took precautions after that.

Atlas wanted to believe he would never break his vows, but this hum of desire for Stella had lingered like a ring in his ears. Now it was a cacophony crashing around his chest.

She glanced over again. “I still don’t understand—”

“My PR team wanted to issue a statement that would make all of this go away. For me. I refused to leave you to take the brunt of it.” That was something his father would do. “Iris read my reluctance as more significant than it is.”

“What were they going to say?” she asked with alarm.

“That you’re an opportunist who orchestrated the photos for profit.”

“Why are rich people so awful?” She flipped a crepe.

“I didn’t let them do it, did I?” No, he had made a few blistering phone calls, warning his staff that Stella was not a scapegoat. Then he’d told them to find her so he wasn’t leaving her to fend for herself against the inevitable deluge of photographers and trolls.

Iris had left for the heliport in a justifiable snit, reading plenty into what she had overheard. How could he deny his interest in Stella, though? He didn’t understand why he felt so protective of her, but he was.

While Stella seemed the furthest thing from grateful for his consideration or rescue. Her profile was stiff as she went into full production with the crepes: pouring, flipping, filling, rolling… All while stirring a pan of sauce and pulling roasted asparagus from the oven.

When she began plating everything, he topped up their drinks.

“This looks really good,” he said as they took side-by-side seats at the bar. She’d drizzled a creamy herb sauce across the mushroom-filled crepes, topped them with the asparagus spears and added halved cherry tomatoes on sprigs of basil. “Are you a chef?”

“I’ve taken sous-chef courses.”

“Is that the direction you want to go?”

“No.” She took a bite, considered it, then picked up the saltshaker. “Before I left home, I thought I would go into accounting. I was shy and decent at math and I wanted to know how to handle money because we never had any while I was growing up. I had a crash course in finances when I got to Zermatt,” she said wryly, handing him the salt. “But I realized a lot of little things could add up to better pay and opportunities. Bartending, first aid, cooking…” She waved at her plate. “I also realized I like hospitality so I took my degree in it, online so I could keep working.”

“What do you like about it?” All he remembered about his time working at the taverna was late nights and a layer of sweat that felt like a crust while his mother complained about how sore her feet were.

“It makes me feel good to solve problems. Appreciated.” She used the side of her fork to separate a bite from the rolled crepe. “And people interest me. I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter if I’m shy or private. They’d rather talk about themselves anyway, so I just ask them about where they’re from or what they do for a living.” She shrugged.

“You’re not shy.”

“Because I’ve worked hard to overcome it.” She closed her mouth over a bite of food.

“No.” He rejected that. She was too confident, easily meeting his gaze—which many didn’t have the nerve to do.

She lifted her brows in challenge.

“You dress tastefully, but in a way that allows yourself to be noticed and admired. You speak plainly and clearly. My lie detector says you’re not being honest.”

She gave a sniff of indignation and took another bite of food.

“Oh,” he said with realization. “You’re not being honest with yourself.” That was interesting enough to swivel him away from the very tasty meal to study her profile as her chin set at a militant angle.

“I think I know myself better than you do.”

He bit back a laugh. He might not know details of her upbringing or her life in Zermatt, but he could read her like a book.

“You were born stubborn and assertive.” It went bone deep. That was as clear to him as the modest gold hoops in her ears and the dismayed twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You were told to be something else, though. That’s why you never felt comfortable in your own skin. That’s why you ran away. Isn’t it?”

“Is that Interpol on the phone?” She thumbed toward the desk in the corner, where a cordless landline sat. “Asking you to profile a serial killer for them?”

“Is that what you are under this good-girl act? A serial killer?” He waved at her. “Prove me wrong. Why did you run away from home?”

“I’ll direct your attention back to the word ‘private.’ Which I definitely am.”

“She said. Stubbornly and assertively,” he mocked.

“Yes. I am stubbornly, assertively private. And you have destroyed my privacy with your fame. Or is it infamy? Either way, tell me how you intend to fix it.”

He swiveled back to his own meal, polishing off several bites as he considered his options. Denying there was a relationship between them felt like a lie. The spark was there, still glowing hotly after five years of neglect. Power like that was dangerous. He was already too possessive and protective of her. He could tell that an affair with her wouldn’t be as lighthearted as his liaisons usually were.

He shouldn’t be contemplating an affair with her at all. He wasn’t a snob about dating a woman of means that were considerably more limited than his own, but he was highly conscious of the hypocrisy of it. His father had taken advantage of his mother, bowling her over with his wealth and status. Stella might possess self-assurance and ambition, but he knew which one of them had the upper hand here. The one with the house and the helicopter.

Besides, starting up an affair with her would push off his plans at DVE indefinitely. So no. He definitely should not have an affair with her.

But he really wanted one.

“Are you married?” he belatedly thought to ask. “Involved with someone?” The thought caused a cold wind to invade his chest, the kind that whistled through the cracks of a chasm.

“No. Why?” She gave him a side-eye of suspicion.

“Just making sure this isn’t worse than it already looks,” he prevaricated.

She carefully stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork.

“What if I do tell my side of it?” She fixed her gaze on the back wall of the kitchen while she chewed and swallowed. “I don’t need to get paid for it. Your PR people could release it however they want, but it’s true that your father got me fired and that’s why I was angry with you. Doesn’t that defuse the whole thing?”

“It might.” Damn. Now that he knew she didn’t have anyone else in her life, he couldn’t keep himself from saying it. “Unless we have an affair. Then it looks like a poor attempt at hiding what they knew all along.”