Hotter on Ice
highlight_author
Rebecca Hunter
highlight_reads
19,5K
highlight_chapters
13
CHAPTER ONE
WHY THE HELL is he taking so long?
Alya Petrova had peeled herself out of bed at six thirty in the morning to be on time for this meeting. Now she found herself sitting at the Blackmore Inc. conference-room table alone, fifteen minutes after the hour, staring out blankly at Sydney Harbour, waiting for Henning Fischer to show up.
In the world of virtual communication, Henning was the most reliable person she knew. Apparently, those skills didn’t translate into real-world punctuality.
Being nervous as hell wasn’t helping. What would it feel like to meet the surveillance expert she’d talked with over the phone for the last three years? She knew almost nothing about Henning himself. His name had floated around in conversation for as long as she’d worked with the elite security service Blackmore Inc., and she had gathered scraps of information from her former bodyguard, Max Jensen. Surveillance specialist. Ex–Australian Federal Police officer. Who never, ever appeared in person.
So, of course, she’d turned to the internet, which was surprisingly stingy on Henning Fischer–related information. A couple track and field championships from years ago. An occasional statement by him in connection with police work. And only one clear photo, an official-looking portrait from his cadet days. Physically, he was striking, his dark brown eyes intense. Though the photo showed only to his shoulders, it was clear he was built. She had stared at that photo more than once, trying to connect it with the man whose voice rumbled through her phone. She couldn’t make it fit.
This was the person who had watched over her through her front hall security camera, giving her a boost of support on her weakest days, those vulnerable times she’d worked so hard to move past. She hadn’t wanted to lean on someone else—a man, no less—for comfort, but Henning had been a safe bet.
Now that distance between them was about to disappear. Soon he would walk through the door, a flesh-and-blood man, not just an idea. Okay, maybe she had developed a tiny bit of a crush on him. It had been a completely harmless escape when she thought she’d never meet him, a safe place to put all sorts of fantasies.
But her modeling shoot on the Great Barrier Reef had changed everything. When her former bodyguard devoted all his off hours on the island to her sister, Natasha, the two had fallen in love. Alya had definitely seen that one coming. Shortly after, Max stepped down from working one-on-one with all clients, including her. That one she hadn’t seen coming, though, in the end, it was for the best. Alya had taken this change as an overdue nudge to reassess her security situation. A lot had changed in the three years since she had moved an ocean away from her stalker ex, and she didn’t really need a bodyguard in most cases anymore. Surveillance of Nick, her ex, was enough.
This week was the exception: a fashion shoot on the other side of the world was a long way to travel without security. But with Max no longer working in that role, a new plan had been hatched: Henning would take Max’s place.
The longer she waited in this quiet conference room, the more the anticipation buzzed through her. She had imagined many versions of him, but what would it feel like to be close to the real Henning all day long? Standing next to him, almost touching, his deep voice in her ear...
Alya stood up and started for the door, looking for a distraction. Maybe the receptionist would point her to the coffee machine?
She crossed the room, slowing as a familiar voice came through the closed door. Henning’s. After three years of phone calls, she’d know it anywhere. Alya froze, her hand just shy of the door handle. Did she continue her search for coffee or return to her seat?
Then the door opened, and she was buried in his chest. His hands closed around her arms, steadying her. His warm, musky scent... Relief hit her first, and then—oh, God—something powerful. Urgent. His breaths were sharp and erratic in her ear. He towered over her, his presence everywhere. Oh my, her harmless crush was sooo not harmless anymore.
“You okay?” His voice was a familiar rumble, and the sound of it in person turned the fluttering inside into molten lava.
Alya nodded against him, too stunned to speak. Her fingers, her arms, her breasts, her stomach—everything tingled with awareness. Was her body calling to him or answering his call? It felt like both. After things went so terribly wrong with Nick, she had had a growing suspicion that she was just too wary to feel this...captivated by a man. Wrong, so very wrong. Her reaction to Henning was bone-deep and intoxicating.
There was no good explanation for what she did next. Alya lifted her hands and touched him, pressed her palms against his stomach. Checking if he was real. Yes, he was definitely a solid, warm, very real man. Henning sucked in a harsh breath, and his muscles twitched, turning rock-hard under her touch. His hands tensed around her arms, and a low growl came from deep inside him.
Alya froze. Shit. She was feeling up Henning Fischer, uninvited. In the Blackmore Inc. conference room. What the hell was wrong with her? She stepped back.
“Sorry. That was totally out of li—” She met his gaze.
The first thing she saw was his eyes. Dark brown and even more serious than his picture had let on. Intense enough to steal her breath, and for a moment his gaze flared even hotter, darker. A rush of awareness ran through her, aching, burning.
Then she saw the scars.
Jagged, unnaturally smooth, down the left side of his face. Skin that had been stitched and patched together. Her eyes widened. The old, grainy photo online had shown him as good-looking in a clean-cut, impersonal sort of way. But he was so, so far from clean-cut now. Alya followed the longest scar that tugged at his left eye, distorting one side of his face, then disappearing into the collar of his shirt.
His big body, the scent of him, the rawness in his voice, his dark eyes, the scars—all of these pieces came together into one thought as she stood in the doorway gaping at him: this man knew trauma. He understood it. Her heart jumped and pulsed in her chest, expanding. She understood it, too.
Shit—how long had she been staring at his scars?
Too long. When her gaze flickered back up to his, all the burning intensity she’d seen seconds before had vanished. His face was shuttered closed, giving nothing away, and his expression was cool, impersonal. The only hint of emotion he showed was the rapid ticking of his pulse at the base of his neck.
Slick introduction, girl.
Time to start over, preferably in the way regular people introduced themselves.
“Sorry again. I’m Alya, in person,” she said. “And doing a crap job at making a good first impression.”
Henning blinked down at her, his gaze softening a little. “Henning Fischer, very much in person. As you clearly noticed.”
“Clearly,” she said dryly, trying to preserve the last of her dignity in this exchange. Was he teasing her about feeling him up or about staring at his scars? Probably both.
The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at the uninjured corner of his mouth. Heat was rising into her cheeks, as he studied her in the quiet room. She studied him right back.
“Max should be right in,” he finally said, gesturing to the conference table. “You know how this works.”
Yes, she did. She had sat across from Max at this table many times, going over her security details. But never once had she been so fully aware of each breath, each movement, the way she was right now with Henning.
Alya took a seat and flipped open the folder in front of her, skimming through the papers in it. Henning sat down facing her, silent, alert, an overwhelming physical presence. He radiated a protectiveness that wrapped around her, settling inside her. It was the same feeling she had gotten over the phone, somehow both calming and incredibly engaging. In person, it was magnified a thousand times.
She glanced up to find his gaze fixed on her, his dark eyes unreadable. The old Alya, the woman who had gotten herself tangled up with Nick Bancroft back in LA, would have looked away. That version of herself had given up her jobs and friends three years ago and fled the country when Nick wouldn’t leave her alone, despite the restraining order. But she wasn’t that woman anymore, so Alya stared back at him. He was a solid, motionless mountain of a man, with hulking shoulders and thick biceps that stretched the material of his shirt. His power and prowess were controlled but not at all concealed, as if his body was a well-honed tool, ready for use.
The current between them ran hotter, and with every breath, heat coiled inside her. But she couldn’t mistake this strong, immediate pull between them for something more than it was—plain sexual interest. She had been down that road of powerful attraction before, and it led to disaster. She searched for something to say. “So...you ever been to Sweden before?”
“Nope.”
“Me neither. Cold, dark and snowy this time of the year, I hear.”
“Yep.”
“Not my favorite conditions, but my agent thinks the photo shoot plus the Behind the Runway documentary filming, with its daily YouTube outtakes, is too good of an opportunity to pass up.”
“Mmm.”
She bit back a sigh. He wasn’t giving her any help here but seemed perfectly content to just watch her talk. Thankfully, the click of the conference-room door ended this one-sided conversation.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Alya,” Max said, striding over to the table. “I trust you and Henning introduced yourselves.”
That was certainly an understatement. Her former bodyguard seemed oblivious to the tension between Henning and her, but knowing Max, she couldn’t be certain.
Wordlessly Henning opened the folder on the table in front of him. The muscles of his forearms rippled and flexed as he sifted through the stack of papers with large, blunt fingers. He pulled out a document and showed it to her.
“Here’s the master schedule for the week,” he said. “It includes flights, hotel contacts, dinners, photo sessions and interviews.”
He walked her through the details of each day as Alya followed along on the pages. His voice was gravelly and deep, as if whatever had scarred his face had roughed up the inside of him too. He was a practical speaker, his sentences short and clipped, his answers no longer than absolutely necessary. Pretty much the exact opposite of Max.
“The chances of Nick Bancroft showing up are very low,” said Henning, closing his folder. “It also helps that the Icehotel is in a remote corner of northern Sweden. We have plenty of warning when anyone flies into the tiny Kiruna airport.”
She didn’t doubt that. What he didn’t say was that he had all sorts of connections from his Australian Federal Police days that fed him information when he needed it. And with the kind of details he found, she was pretty sure the routes couldn’t all be legal. But she was starting to get the feeling that Henning did things his own way.
“Blackmore Inc. has done an amazing job at keeping Nick out of my life. I’m not worried.” She sat up straighter in her chair. “I considered going on this trip without security, but if he showed up and I had to deal with him alone, he’d make sure to stir up public drama. Public displays of personal problems are toxic in my industry, and Nick has already hijacked my career once.”
There were models whose lives played out in the tabloids. Drugs, tantrums, drive-through marriages and bitter custody battles—the world had an insatiable hunger for these kinds of stories. She had been at the center of one of those stories three years ago when, after Nick wouldn’t leave her alone, despite the restraining order, he’d publicly called her emotionally unstable under the guise of worry. She had worked so hard to keep their break-up quiet, but when he twisted her own words into evidence that she was becoming increasingly erratic, just like her mother, the press had been all too ready to pick up that story. Each move to distance herself from Nick became another example of her “irrational” behavior, another incident he used against her in the court of public opinion. All because ultra-rich, ultra-privileged Nick Bancroft had decided he wanted something—her—and he always got what he wanted.
Never again would she let that happen.
Henning was watching her closely. “Nick won’t get to you.”
The hot intensity in his eyes flared for one, brief moment, and then it was gone. A flush crept up her neck. Five days with Henning next to her—two on a plane and three at the Icehotel in Sweden. Was his effect on her obvious? She glanced at Max to gauge his reaction, but he was looking at the paper in front of him.
“I understand what I’m getting into by taking this job,” she said quietly. “Sasha Federov probably wouldn’t have given me this chance to represent his brand if my mother didn’t still hold her cult-like status in Russia. I’m sure he’s expecting me to follow in her footsteps, not just as a model but as an attention magnet. But in my agent’s words, I need to grab this chance and hold on to it. Even if it means being followed around by a documentary crew.”
Max nodded. “Henning will be connected with the team here if there’s anything you need to be aware of. You’ll be in good hands.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But I think you already know that.”
Yeah, she absolutely did. But now that they were in the same room together, the idea of spending the next five days with this man was getting more...complicated.
“Have a safe trip,” said Max, standing up.
Alya walked over and hugged him. “Thanks for everything.”
He had been part of her support system for over three years, and now their professional relationship was over. But the fact that he was at her and Natasha’s apartment almost daily meant this was far from goodbye. With one more nod at both of them, Max left.
Alya was alone again with Henning. He stood up and took a couple steps toward her. His gaze swept over her, dark and guarded. They were so close again, and the silence crackled with tension. Alya took a deep breath as the room seemed to heat up a couple degrees. It was too late to close herself to this connection, but she had no idea what to do with it. So she started with the obvious.
“I’m sorry for earlier. When I, um—” she bit her lip “—felt you up. I certainly wouldn’t want a guy doing that to me when we met.”
Henning’s eyes widened a bit, and then he smiled, but the half of his face marred by scars moved only slightly. It was a broken smile, filled with dark humor, and yet his uninjured eye crinkled at the corner, a hint of lightness in him.
“I don’t think it’s the same, Alya,” he said. “At least not for me. Truly, I’m okay with it.”
Was there a hint of laughter in his voice? Good to know. The meeting was over, but somehow, she didn’t feel like their conversation had ended. He crossed his arms in front of him, his biceps flexing as he watched her, taking her in.
Finally, Henning spoke again. “We are going to be spending every minute together for the next five days. I want you to feel very comfortable with me.”
Alya felt as if he were opening himself to her, just a little. His gaze said you can trust me, and she couldn’t look away.
“I doubt we’ll have any problems,” he continued in that low, rumbling voice. “But there is always the possibility that I will need to protect you. Physically.”
He paused, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as the last word sank in. It ran through her body, suggesting much different ways he could physically affect her. Damn, she needed to get this under control. Attraction was about nothing more than sexual interest...which her body was clearly expressing right now. She felt the barely concealed desire in his eyes, and she was almost sure he could see the same in hers. She felt the pain Henning’s scars must have caused, and her mind was already at work, connecting that with the intense sense of...protectiveness...she had felt from him over the last three years. Everything else faded as this all fit together, like the final pieces of a puzzle, somewhere deep inside her. She was opening herself to this feeling, she didn’t know how to stop it. Or if she wanted to.
“I understand,” she said, her voice steady.
He gave her a little nod. Then he rubbed the scar on his neck absently. “I’m aware that with my size and my scars and what Max calls my aversion to conversation, I can come off as a little rough around the edges,” he said, cracking a hint of a smile again. It faded quickly. “But I never, ever want to scare you.”
Alya frowned. “You don’t. Not it all.”
She had a strong urge to clear up that misunderstanding, but elaborating would mean wandering into inappropriate territory. Her attraction was raw and very real. Any hints of wariness he had detected were about the intensity of her reaction to him, not fear.
Alya had to make him understand, and words didn’t seem to be the right path. So, instead, she raised her hand and slowly reached for his forearm, crossed over his broad chest. She gave him plenty of time to back away, but he didn’t, so she touched his skin. The electric spark between them surged once again, and she swallowed a gasp. His muscles twitched under her fingers, and his lips parted. Was he thinking about kissing, too?
“This isn’t fear, Henning,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
His chest rose and fell and she tried—and failed—to read his expression. Finally, he nodded. “You can touch me, do whatever you need during our trip. I don’t want to go into this with any hesitancy on your part.”
Alya’s heart jumped at each image his words conjured. Touch me. Whatever you need. The physical memory of her hands on the hard ridges of his abs came back, mingling with things she had only imagined.
There were nights he had watched her through the security camera in her front hall, making sure she came home safely. But what about the night she had come home, half-drunk, with her date, and had sex against the door in full view of the camera? The idea that Henning might be watching was a turn-on at the time. Now her mind wandered further. If he had watched, had he gotten himself off to it, too? Damn, that would be hot...
Get your mind out of the gutter, girl. You’re in his workplace.
She lowered her hand, breaking the connection. Then she smiled up at him. “Is the permission to touch standard in your Blackmore Inc. contract?”
The hint of a smile returned to Henning’s lips, and he shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m just letting you know how I work.”
“I’m sure you have plenty of satisfied clients,” she said, laughing.
“There are no other in-person clients for me. Not now, and not in the future.” Henning shook his head. “Only you.”
His eyes were dark flames, flickering, captivating. She was getting used to the way he watched her, his gaze unwavering. As if every bit of his focus was on her, as if nothing else in the world existed.
What did it mean to be intensely attracted to her bodyguard, right from the first moment she crashed into him? She had never felt this way about Max, so his appeal wasn’t just the role of protector. Henning awoke a hunger she knew couldn’t—shouldn’t—be fed...should it?
Maybe this was the wrong approach. She was done running away from her fears. Maybe it was time to take control of the situation, to explore it, to figure out what she was looking for, not just what to avoid.
But Alya didn’t know what was going on in Henning’s mind. She was almost positive he felt the same intense attraction, but maybe he had reasons he couldn’t or wouldn’t act on it. Like the obvious ones. What were the Blackmore Inc. rules about personal involvement with clients? Maybe she could just find a way to ask him...somehow. Alya’s face flushed as more of that current of sexual interest sizzled between them.
“I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow morning at six,” he said.
“I’ll be ready for you.”
“Alya?” His voice had lowered to almost a whisper. “Please send me a message if you think of anything you need. Or want. Anything.”
