Slippery Slopes (9 page)

With her heart slamming against her chest, Melissa can’t help but smile as she checks the clock, certain James will win the whole competition. And maybe, just maybe, see her at the end mark. In one quick flash of black and orange, he whizzes around the last gate, nearly falls over a small patch of ice, and then finishes to the roar of the crowds.

“Oh, wow. Wow. That was incredible….” Melissa feels so connected to him it’s as though she raced, too. She’s about to pick up her arm and wave to him, abandon her inhibitions and go for it, when she’s shoved to the side. The crowd moves as a whole, swaying to the left and then back up again.

In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, Dove is shoved to the back, where she gives up and retreats toward the chalet to bake, and Melissa is knocked over. Even though she’s on her butt on the ground in danger of being trampled, she laughs, feeling good about herself.
I’ve got the ball planned, an invite to a secret party, and I’m finally going to just break out and jump for joy around James. And all while being in pain.
She stands up, determined to shout and wave to him, to be the first person, aside from reporters, that he locks eyes with, but she’s too late. As soon as she’s upright, Melissa is hit head-on with a flash of bright pink and gloss—Charlie, not only near James, but hugging him full on. Tears sting her eyes and Melissa fights them off, suddenly feeling the cold air and the even colder feeling of having been usurped.

“Excuse me,” says one of the tabloid photographers. “That girl—the gorgeous one with Mr. Marks-Benton. Do you know her?”

Melissa looks at Charlie, who is now getting a champagne spray from James. She winces as Charlie slings her arm around James and they pose for more pictures. “Yes. I do. Her name’s Charlie.”

“And she is?” The photographer jots notes onto a small pad.

Melissa knows the magazines will have a field day with the story.
I can see it now
—
Chalet Maid Wins Heart of Gold Medalist Skier…. I feel like I could throw up.
Then she thinks about the weekly celebrity mags she’s read and what they always say. “She works at the resort—and they’re just … friends.”

T
RAYS OF HORS D’OEUVRES
line every surface of the kitchen counters. Small silver serving dishes filled with Brie and cranberry puff pastries, trays of grilled asparagus wrapped in prosciutto, prawns in a curried ginger sauce and speared with rainbow peppers, and tea-sized smoked salmon sandwiches all wait to be served.

“This should do it.” Dove takes the last selection from the oven.

“And that is?” Max stands in the doorway, looking as though he tumbled out of bed—all rumpled T-shirt, sweatpants, and bare feet.

Guess he didn’t go to the races,
thinks Dove as she carefully plates the chicken satay skewers and mixes warm peanut sauce to drizzle on top. With a shudder she wonders if maybe Claire, too, missed out on the Super G and if maybe they spent the time together. Comfortably. In bed or somewhere like it.
If only he’d just come out with all his feelings at once, rather than having me guess at everything. Not that I’m the most expressive person, either.

“This is chicken satay—a classic dipping food. With a spicy-sweet sauce.”

“Spicy and sweet,” Max brushes the hair from his eyes and just for a second looks cozy enough that Dove wants to hug him. “Just the way I like it.”

“What a weird thing to say.” Dove makes a face and turns back to the food, fussing over an asparagus that’s come unwrapped. “Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me—I have to put these out on the sideboard for when the team comes back.”

“And then?” Max makes room for her to get by, and when Dove takes the first small tray, she squeezes past him, fully aware that her shoulder brushes his chest.

“And then I suspect I’ll head into town.” She doesn’t look at Max as she brushes past again on her way to get the rest of the trays.

“What’s in town?” Max begins to help with the trays, ferrying them from the kitchen to the living room and dining room.

“The Internet café, for starters.” Dove doesn’t add that she’s got an IM scheduled with William—their first in ages—and wonders why she wouldn’t just tell that to Max.

Max nods. “I can take you, if you like.”

Dove shrugs. “Could this be a display of gentlemanly help?”

“You can call it that.” He pauses, his eyes searching her face for a response. “It’s just a ride in—no strings attached.”

“What does that mean?” Dove’s heart kicks at her insides.

Max laughs, breaking the tension as Dove carries the last of the trays out and arranges a stack of blue paper napkins each trimmed in gold. “The room looks perfect. Really nice, Dove.” He waits for her to finish. “So? Can I be your chauffeur?”

“Of all the things you could be, I guess my chauffeur is pretty innocuous.”
Hard to believe I actually had a chauffeur not too long ago. All those nights, slinging through London, being the pampered one rather than the one doing the pampering.
Dove turns back to the spread of food she’s shopped for, budgeted, and prepared all on her own, and feels good.

“Is that a yes?” Max rubs his pointer finger over his thumb—an old habit Dove still takes note of. She remembers sitting in the library with him, studying, right before they’d both been accepted to Oxford University, and how she’d grabbed his thumb to make him stop, and they’d wound up tangled on the hardwood floor.

Dove nods, cracking a smile. “Sure. What’s the big deal about a lift into town, right?”

After she washes her hands and pats them dry on one of the kitchen cloths, she tugs at the hair on her forehead, smoothing it out. “It’s a yes,” she says softly. But Max has already gone to change and isn’t there to see her very small, slightly devious grin.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.
Melissa tries her best to stay out of sight, ducking behind one of the resort vans, but it’s too late. “Dodging Matron should be its own Olympic event,” Melissa mutters as she faces the music and walks directly up to her superior, hoping to at least gain points for being up-front.

“Miss Forsythe.” Matron, without a jacket and yet seemingly unfazed by the chill, has her hands clasped around her clipboard and her eyes set to penetrate even the slightest weakness.

“Matron …” Melissa changes her weight to her other foot, easing the ache of her ribs. “Glad I’ve found you. I wanted to let you know that the Winter Wonderland is all arranged. I took the liberty of ordering not only the decorations for inside, but as the theme is inspirational and set largely outside, I also had the factory in town create individual spheres.” Melissa rambles on, spewing everything she’s planned and taken care of all at once, hoping to impress and overwhelm Matron so she won’t have many objections.

“Spheres?” Matron writes this down on her board.

“Yeah, you know, orbs. But these are huge. Imagine a carnival ride but made of clear glass….”

“Glass?”

Melissa coughs from way down in her throat out of nervousness. “Maybe not glass. Plastic? Anyway, each one could probably fit two people and they’d be illuminated from the bottom, so they’d glow. Like an iridescent snowball.”

This last image resonates with Matron and she stops writing to look at Melissa and listen. “And?”

“And the electricians have already met with the kitchen staff, because I wanted a …” She pauses, momentarily losing her footing. “I thought it would be fun and different if we had a conveyor belt….”

“That sounds rather industrial.” Matron’s mouth forms a straight line.

“No—wait. That came out wrong. What I mean is …” Melissa risks being yelled at and grabs Matron’s clipboard. She draws what she means. “See? Small tables, all glowing with that interior light, and food on top. Only the tables can move. The resort’s mechanics and electrical crew said they could do it….”

“Really?”

Melissa nods and gently hands the clipboard back to Matron. “They said they’d look upon the job as a challenge.” She sighs and smiles. “Plus, I told the head electrician that his daughter could be the snow princess.”

Matron rattles her pen against the clipboard and casts a doubtful eye. “And that is?”

“Just a title. She can be the one to start the festivities—in the miniature hot-air balloon over the ice lake.”

Matron looks transformed—she claps her hands and smiles. “I knew it. I knew you had it in you, even with a broken ankle or whatever it was you had.”

“Have.” Melissa briefly relives the skiing, the dare from Gabe, the falling, the massive wipeout, and feels annoyed all over again that she was swayed into the jump. “I
still
have it—broken ribs.” Melissa pats her sides, momentarily distracted from Matron’s enthusiasm by a large herd of people moving toward the Main House.

“I do hope you’re getting rest.” She writes something down. As she continues to write Melissa begins to wonder what she could possibly have missed. Matron checks over her shoulder, noticing the sizeable crowd by the Main House. “The paparazzi never loses interest, do they?”

Like I’m so experienced with cameras flashing and microphones protruding.
Without knowing what to say, Melissa wills herself not to think of Charlie and the supreme confidence or cruelty that made her jump all over James. Melissa thinks of her largely sleepless nights and her aching heart, not to mention her ribs, and shrugs. “All part of the job, I guess.” She tries to sneak a look at Matron’s clipboard.
I hope she likes all my plans. I’m sure she does. And now that they’re basically in place, I can chill for the first time in days.
“Anything I didn’t answer?”

Matron goes back to her straight-lined mouth and shakes her tightly bunned head. “All set, it seems.” She jots one more thing down and circles it.

Melissa smiles, satisfied. “Great.”

“All except for one thing …” Matron points to the writing on her board. “Where exactly are you going to fit the ballroom into this outdoor extravaganza?”

What? Crap oh crap oh crap.
Melissa’s mouth drops open. “Ballroom? I thought … it was, you know, a dance. And we could all …” She looks out to the lake. “Dance on the lake?” In her mind it had seemed beautiful and serene, romantic, as if everyone had been transported back in time.

Matron crosses her arms and shifts her stance, clearly wanting to deal with the crowd overtaking the Main House. “Miss Forsythe—Melissa—this is a luxury resort. The Winter Wonderland Ball is covered in
Tatler, Hello!, Vogue, Vanity Fair,
and every major newspaper. Royalty from the Baltics, all of Europe, South America, and Asia will be here, along with all of our other guests. How exactly did you think you would fit them all onto our quaint ice pond?”

Feeling stupid and foolish, Melissa looks at the ground, studying the grains of sand and salt scattered to melt the ice on the pavement. In a small voice she says, “I don’t know.”

Matron taps her shoulder in order to make eye contact. “Well, you’re a creative thinker. And clearly you can handle pressure. I’m sure you’ll sort it out.” Matron starts to walk away. “Six hundred guests—minimum.”

“By myself?” Melissa clenches her stomach, then winces. “I thought maybe you’d …”

“I,” Matron starts, “have to contend with the huddled masses.”

And just like that, Melissa finds herself alone with a new pile of headaches coming on. Six hundred guests? With the ability to dance at the same time, should they desire? While still having access to the food, music, and drinks? No wonder an outdoor event hadn’t been attempted.
I’m a big, big fool.
Melissa shakes her head at herself. Way off by the Main House’s front door, she sees Charlie’s recognizable head of tousled strawberry locks.
Of course she’s with James. Charlie and James are part of a champagne-soaked group to which I clearly don’t belong.
Melissa shakes her head again.
Yes, I’m a big fool.

D & M—

This is a panoramic shot of me and my new clan of beach dwellers. We call ourselves that because we’re in the surf every chance we get. Of course, I’m not fully ditching my hosting duties (I did land a gold reservation at the elite course by the sugar mill, which gave me major points), but the soft air and salty boys do make for big-time distractions.

Did you get my last postcard?

I haven’t heard from either of you, which makes me wonder if you’re getting any of the cards I’ve sent! I’m using the overnight service here (charge it to my guests, of course) but haven’t heard back. Hope you guys aren’t pissed at me or anything for
leaving. If you were here, you’d get why….

Harley

T
OWN IS ABUZZ WITH
talk of a storm. The church bells haven’t yet sounded their warning—six quick rings in close succession—but the skies tell everyone to be careful. “I heard five feet.”

“Three.”

“Eight—easy. Remember the storm of La Rein a few years ago?”

Melissa sits with her second cup of café au lait, swirling a thick shortbread biscuit into the creamy drink as she wonders for the fiftieth time what she can do to solve the Winter Wonderland problem.

“They call it CBs.” Gabe sits across from her, slapping the table with his gloves enough so that it wobbles and sends a splash of au lait onto Melissa’s lap. “Chalet blues.”

“Why do you do that?” She looks cross, her brows furrowed, her cheeks pink from the interior heat of the coffeehouse. Built originally as a tavern, the place is cozy and set way back from the town.
I thought I’d be away from everyone here…. But I guess trouble finds me twenty-four/seven.

“Do what?” Gabe looks as her as though he’s done nothing. Ever charming, he’s recognized by a bunch of people in the café, who whisper about him in French until he smiles at them and nods. A group of girls giggles and wants to ask for his autograph but they are clearly too shy.

Melissa swipes a napkin from the counter, blots her pants and top, and shows him the evidence. “This. Spill things. You make messes….”

Gabe’s silvery blond hair is slightly matted in the back, the mark from his glasses clear above his ears. “So you’re still pissed about the rope-swing thing?”