Unwrapped (32 page)

They were momentarily alone. Sam walked with the police officer to the emergency exit. The Murphys, Pamela, and Jay had yet to rise.

“
Mr. Dutton?
” The words stuck in her throat. She waited for his answer. It didn’t come.

His silence gave her pause. His jaw muscles worked, bunched, and his face looked hard. He seemed cautious, as if whatever he said wouldn’t make up for what he hadn’t told her earlier.

“I can explain, Allie—” he said finally. But he didn’t. It was as if he couldn’t find the words.

Or didn’t want to.

She chose to believe the latter.

“I’m sure you can, Aidan Dutton,” she repeated, afraid to let the stillness overtake her, to bury her so deep she’d never dig her way out and find herself again.

She went into escape mode. Time to exit gracefully. If she could with this bum foot of hers.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, then located her opera cane. It was within reach. She could grab it and hobble out of his life in a heartbeat.

But first she had to ask him, “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” Her heart went cold, shivered in her chest.

She waited for the answer she didn’t want to hear, that she was great on the snow and in the sack, but only as a distraction. The blizzard had passed. And so had their fantasy date.

He ran one hand down his face. He looked sad and resigned, as if he was about to suffer a great loss.

That wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought he would show her to the emergency exit.

“I hated the pretense, Allie.”

She let go the deep breath she’d been holding. A part of her believed him. A second part was already looking for her discarded UGGS. There’d be no retreat without her winter boots.

“You could have confided your secret identity,” she accused, tapping her good foot nervously, “and not acted like a department store ass.”

“I’m a wealthy man,” he explained, looking self-conscious, almost apologetic. “What I did was wrong. No excuse. But when I saw you again, I could think of only one thing: keeping you here until I found out why you bolted in Aspen.”

She blushed. “I guess I’m no snow angel either, running out like I did. But I was always up front about
who
I am, a skiing instructor with a dysfunctional family.” Her gaze swept the sixth floor. “Not heir to an exclusive department store that rivals Harrods.”

“Dutton’s was started by my great-great-grandfather,” Aidan said without apology. “The store will be mine someday.”

A significant pause, as he rolled out of bed. She stared at him. He looked the same, yet different somehow, now that she knew who he was.

He stood across the mattress from her, his shoulders broad, his stance wide. His white shirt still looked pressed and his slacks remained creased. The rich never looked rumpled.

“When we met, we were two people on a ski holiday, out for a good time,” he said. “I liked the fact you knew me as a man, a friend, then a lover before you learned my bank balance.”

Allie took offense. She was no fortune hunter. Yet there was no denying the man was worth millions.

A man like that needed a woman who could fit into his crowd. Smile with perfect teeth. Make polite conversation in social situations. Wear basic black and make it look like spun gold. She was none of that.

Allie took it all in. This opulent, luxuriant, seven-story department store was Aidan’s heritage. He’d grown up with wealth and privilege whereas her youth was spent apartment hopping and hoping for a meal.

No matter how she looked at it, the truth was she didn’t belong here. They were just too different. He was designer sheets. She was irregular markdowns.

“Your life is so—” she searched for the right word—“
large.”
The words hurt her as much as they would Aidan. “My paycheck barely covered two bottles of Snow Angel cologne.”

“The cologne is all you, Allie.” He gave her a moment, allowed his words to sink in. “Snow Angel is the fragrance of you on the mountain, of you in my bed. I hired a French perfumery to produce the scent of a woman I’d met on holiday.”

Aidan Dutton had created a cologne for her.

The fragrance was clean, fresh, and romantic. One whiff and she was wrapped up in Aidan’s arms all over again, blending the pink-cheeked coldness of downhill with the blush of heated skin on silk bed sheets.

She felt a moment of hope, only to have reality hit her broadside when she looked down and spotted her UGGS. Battered, worn. Like her. Wincing, she pulled on her boots, one at a time. She had to accept that the scent was Aidan’s creative imagining of who he believed her to be. She wasn’t the woman behind the winter wonderland mystique. She was plain old Allie Smith.

She’d never been to the opera. She wouldn’t have set foot in Dutton’s had it not been for the Snow Angels. She’d never planned to lose her heart to a man with a clothes closet bigger than her whole apartment.

She flexed her ankle. The pain was minimal. She had some run in her today. She pushed off the bed, retrieved her cane. She took her first step, her knees weak and her steps wobbly.

“I have to go,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “I need time.”

“How much more time do you need?” His tone was desperate now. “We’ve had three years apart.”

“I don’t know you, Aidan,” she said, meaning it. She rubbed her forehead. “Please, don’t try to stop me. It’s all so confusing.”

“Bullshit, Allie.” His tone called her on the carpet. “You’re making excuses for something you don’t want to face.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” she shot back.

“You think you’re like your mother because she couldn’t hold onto a guy. You believe all men leave. Especially the rich ones.”

“How dare you talk about my mother like that—”

“It’s true, think about it,” he said with urgency. “All your life you were afraid if you found the right guy and he made you happy, your mother’s prediction would come true: he’d up and leave you too. So you left first to stop that from happening. You also didn’t want to hurt your mom by finding a man of your own when she remained alone.”

“That’s not true—”
Or was it?
She stopped abruptly. Tears stung her eyes. She refused to cry. Could he be right? Was she so afraid of hurting her mother that she sabotaged her own relationships with men? Even if it was true, Aidan had no right to say it.

She turned to leave, her breathing labored. She didn’t want to hear any more. Not another word. Especially on the subject of her mother.

Before she got more than a few steps, Aidan grabbed her cane and pulled her back to him. He turned her around, held her close. His expression was fierce. “Your mother was wrong about men, Allie. Dead wrong. Let me prove it to you.”

“No, please, let me go—”

“Not until you listen to what I have to say,” he forced out. “You liked me as a skier, and again as the first floor supervisor. All I ask is that you find a place in your heart for Aidan Dutton.”

“I’m trying.”

“
Try harder
.”

“I can’t change how I feel,” she insisted. “Not without taking some time to think things through—what you said about me, about us.”

She was doing the best she could, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for him. He laid down his ultimatum.

“I won’t beg you to stay, Allie Smith, but somewhere, somehow, you need to find your own happiness. You’ve followed in your mother’s footsteps too long.”

Sadness slipped around her heart. “Aidan, I—”

“You need to face your future, with or without me.” He released her, but held her gaze. “If you decide to give us a chance, I’ll be in Aspen on New Year’s Eve. There’ll be champagne and fireworks, big fireworks. They go off at midnight.”

Frost Peak Lodge
New Year’s Eve

It was 11:15
P.M.
when Allie Smith entered Aidan Dutton’s suite. He’d left a room key in her name at the registration desk, hoping she would show. She had. That was the easy part. Now what?

Her practical side still questioned her sanity. What was she doing here? Her face-the-future side seduced her with the idea of hot, crazy sex with a man who claimed to love her. Still, that hadn’t prevented her from spending the past ten minutes pacing up and down the hallway, getting up the courage to let herself in.

She was in now. She broke into a cold sweat and her hand shook when she closed the door behind her. The lock clicked, and her insides tangled. Her stomach was one big knot.

She lowered her backpack to the carpet, dropped her opera cane alongside it. She shrugged off her winter jacket then looked around. A hundred crystal candle holders held snow-white votives. The tiny flames danced, and vanilla scented the air. A romantic glow tinted everything in the room gold. The playful shadows beckoned her to stay.

A bottle of Snow Angel sat on the coffee table, his gift to her. She laid the card key down and picked up the cologne, spritzed lightly behind her ears and at the pulse point at her throat. She loved the scent.

A dinner cart sat off to the side, yet to be removed. The service was for one, she noted, relieved. Aidan had eaten his meat and potatoes but left his vegetables. He apparently didn’t like asparagus.

There was no immediate sign of the man. What if he’d gotten tired of waiting? She was late, but she’d had no choice. She’d seen an orthopedist that very day. His diagnosis: a hairline fracture. He recommended rest, ice, and elevation of her foot. No skiing for at least six weeks.

She smiled. With any luck, she’d be recuperating between the sheets in Aidan’s bed. She’d even purchased a lacy bra and satin thong for the occasion, which she wore beneath her jeans and sweatshirt.

She moved toward the master bedroom, relaxed when she heard the shower running. The bed was turned down. A mint sat on his pillow. It looked small and lonely. Like she’d felt all her life. Not tonight. She was here and that was all that mattered. She had every intention of welcoming in the New Year with this man.

Movement near the bathroom door caught her eye. She cut a glance left, found Aidan leaning against the doorjamb—naked, damp, buff. A calendar hunk come to life. And that stare of his was positively lethal. He crossed his arms over his chest, fixed his gaze on her.

She stared back so intently, she aroused him. He grew stiff. His sex soon lay flat against his abdomen, reaching almost to his navel.

He was one superb man.

Her heart lodged in her throat and her voice went tight. “Happy New Year, Aidan.”

“You’re late, Allie Smith,” he said, his voice low, concerned. “By six hours, fourteen minutes, and eight seconds.”

“How did you know I’d show up?”

“I made a bet with myself that you would.”

“And if I hadn’t?”

“But you did, babe.”

She detailed her day. “An afternoon doctor’s appointment forced me to change my flight.”

“How’s your ankle?”

“On the mend.” She would give him the details later. His jaw worked. “What got you here, Allie?” He needed to know. “What changed your mind?”

It was her moment of truth. She opened her heart and told him how she felt. “It’s simple, Aidan. I love you. I was lonely without you.”

He sniffed the air, got a whiff of her scent and smiled. “I missed you too, Snow Angel.”

He pushed off the door frame, came to her, a human sculpture, all water slicked and generously proportioned.

Inches separated them as she made the first move and placed a kiss over his heart. “You’re a man of strength, courage, and immense patience,” she murmured appreciatively. “You protect the pride of your security guard and show kindness to snowbound shoppers.”

“Sam sends his best, by the way,” Aidan relayed. “Jay, Pamela, and the Murphys requested invitations to our wedding.”

Marriage. Had a nice ring to it.

She scrunched her nose. “I’m not very domestic.”

“You’re a free-spirit,” he said. “I envy you that.”

“You do?” This was the first time anyone had said her offbeat lifestyle was something desirable.

He grinned at her. “You fly down mountains, enjoy hot buttered rum, wear red sunglasses, and travel light. You moan low in your throat when we make love. And when you sleep, you hog the covers.”

“You always sleep on your right side.”

“You noticed?”

“That, and the fact you snore.”

The bedside clock softly chimed the quarter hour. It was eleven forty-five. He took her hand, gave her fingers a squeeze. “You’re overdressed for New Year’s Eve.”

He stripped her in under a minute. Her red sweatshirt and jeans soon pooled at her feet. His gaze heated on her bra and panties. “Nice. Very, very nice,” he admired as he removed them.

He had fast hands when it came to getting her naked.

Slow hands when it came to making love.

She wrapped her arms about his neck, leaned into him. She so loved his body. Her hands grazed his strong back. His chest tensed when she rubbed her nipples against his skin. His leg muscles tightened when she leaned into his groin. She fit so perfectly between his thighs.

He lowered his head and she lifted her lips for his kiss. He changed the angle of his mouth, and deepened their intimacy. His tongue penetrated, then retreated, leaving heat and longing in its wake. She never wanted the kiss to end. She stretched her body in pleasure to be closer to him.

He walked her backward until her thighs hit the side of the bed. Then he lowered her to the mattress. Slowly. And he followed her down.

He fondled her breasts, ran his hand over her flat belly, moved down between her legs. She loved the touch of his hands on her inner thighs. He opened her. Stroked her. Coaxed her. She went hot, soft, wet for him.

She was gasping, panting, aching for him to fill her when he snagged a condom from the top drawer of his nightstand and slipped it on.

He came back to her, his mouth fastening on her sensitive nipple, his hands closing around her waist. Her heart slammed as he moved over her more fully, then spread her thighs and claimed her.

He felt huge inside her. She felt every thick inch of him. He rocked his hips, slow, deep thrusts; steady and prolonged. Heat pooled between them, a fiery friction.