Page 16 of Hotter on Ice

“He’ll find me,” she said.

Federov’s eyes were on her, sharp and assessing. Some people would mistake the intensity of his stare for sexual, but she knew what it really was: surveying a part of his empire, an empire that reached beyond the thousand-dollar neckties and one-of-a-kind dresses he created. Everyone in that room was part of it, part of the inventory he handpicked, worshipped, then culled. And right now, he was looking at Alya the way he’d look at his favorite suit, set apart, making sure it was hanging right where he wanted it.

Alya had no illusions about Federov. She was the flavor of the day for a man known for his obsessions that surged and then fell just as quickly. But the artist-muse thing didn’t seem to revolve around sex for him—no way she would have signed on to this job if there were hints otherwise. The fucking was optional, though he certainly was known for that, too. In the end, she had taken a good, hard look at this job for what it was: an amazing opportunity to stand on her own and carve out her own path.

“Let me know if you need anything during your stay,” Federov said, then leaned in to kiss her cheek. “Though it looks like you have someone else to look after that.”

He nodded over her shoulder, and Alya followed Federov’s gaze. Henning’s expression was stony, his eyes darting from Federov back to her.

“My bodyguard,” she said, though her voice might have given away more.

“Interesting.” Federov’s expression hinted at mild amusement as his gaze flicked back to Henning. “Your mother had many admirers, too.”

Her first instinct was to deny the connections he was making, between her and Henning, between her and her mother. But direct responses rarely were taken at face value.

Instead, she gave him a dry smile. “My mother would be the first to say that men were the downfall of her career.”

Federov chuckled. “And yet she couldn’t resist.”

He kissed her again and turned to call Jean Pierre over. She had worked on projects with him before, and she had to admit she kind of liked him, despite his well-deserved reputation as a man-whore. Men like that either seemed to hate women or love them, and he was definitely in the latter category. He was good-natured and laid-back, basically a breath of fresh air in an industry with a few too many divas.

Jean Pierre was also an insufferable seducer, and, from the smile on his face, those efforts were going to be aimed her way. It was actually a good thing in small doses since, tomorrow morning, they would probably be spread out on a bed of smelly reindeer fur, looking into each other’s eyes. It was a lot easier to do sultry with someone who actually liked her.

“Alya Petrova.” He settled a hand on her back, though the intimacy of this gesture wasn’t as effective through the thick coat. “Can I get you a drink? Their signature drinks areinice here.”

Alya had no idea what he meant, and she wasn’t much of a drinker, but when in an ice bar... “Vodka martini, please.”

Jean Pierre raised an eyebrow. “Not my first guess. I would have thought you’d order champagne.”

He nodded to the group of models at the bar.

She gave him a little smile. “Family drink.”

A preference for vodka was one of the few Russian traditions her mother had maintained after their move to California. One of the many things Illana Petrova, model-turned-actress, was known for.

Jean Pierre flagged down the bartender and ordered, then turned to her as the woman mixed their drinks. He was as good-looking in person as he was on camera, which wasn’t a given, with tousled hair, deep blue eyes and a hint of a smirk in his smile that very few guys could pull off. He was assessing her, too, but Alya wasn’t sure what his conclusions were, though she was almost sure sex was on the table if she gave any indication she wanted it.

“The last time I saw you, your boyfriend Nick Bancroft was breathing down your neck.”

Trust Jean Pierre to get right to the point.

Alya rolled her eyes. “The whole world knows we’re not together anymore. He made sure of that, along with implying I was crazy.”

Jean Pierre’s mouth turned down in a rare frown. “I’m sorry you went through that. That bastard really tried to drag you through the mud.”

“Great taste in men, right?” She snorted. “I’m a lot more careful these days.”

“And does that bodyguard go everywhere with you now?” asked Jean Pierre in a low voice.

Alya had answered versions of this question, full of insinuation, many times when Max was her bodyguard, and there had never been anything between them. So she answered it the exact same way for Henning.

“Everywhere.”

“Huh.” That was all Jean Pierre said, but he was definitely registering something.

He looked like he was about to make a comment, but the bartender brought them their drinks. Jean Pierre handed one to her. “Vodka martini in ice.”

“Ahh, I see,” she said, studying the “glass” made out of ice.