Page 44 of Hotter on Ice

Which made him feel even more messed up about his blow-up at her about giving away her schedule. Had his reaction been so fucking selfish? He didn’t truly want her to cower, just so he could get another hit of that deep-seeded need to protect her, to remind himself that he was not just a cold strategist in a man’s body. And, yet, out on that frozen river, that’s exactly what he did. He had dumped all her fears back on her.

As Henning closed the door to his apartment, he couldn’t shake the sound of Alya’s voice. He leaned back against the door as whispers of her fingers played across his skin, over and over, setting him on fire. His willpower was slipping at the memory of how she looked at him when she touched him, her breaths teasing him.

That memory led to others, taking him down the road he was trying so hard to resist. Now that it was here, he didn’t stop it. Just once more. Just one moment of weakness, so he could remember what it felt like. The sounds she made as he thrust deep inside her, his cock unbearably hard and aching, holding on until she came.

Fuck. It was too much. This was why he shouldn’t even see her, despite the way Suzanne had stared at him like he had his head up his ass. Because as soon as she came close, he wouldn’t want to let her go again. And he shouldn’t take another step into her life unless he was sure he could give her what she deserved: love, not fear.

Still, she was alone tonight, and he needed to know if she was all right. Maybe Max would be willing to send him an update. Just to make sure.

Henning swiped a hand over his face, picked up his phone and dialed Max’s number.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“WE’REHERE,MA’AM,” said the driver, peering at Alya through the rearview mirror.

She swallowed. “Just give me a minute.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Alya took a few yoga breaths, her usual preparation for stepping out of the car before an event, preparing to face looks or judgments or whatever came her way.

But just like at the Icehotel, when she waited for the interview, the usual twist-in-the-gut feeling was conspicuously absent. In fact, that little flutter of nerves in her stomach was surprisingly invigorating. It was refreshing to step out knowing that whatever went through the minds of everyone who was watching, it didn’t change anything, not really. All along she had thought that not worrying about what others said about her meant the kind of recklessness that really had never been her style. But for her, it was something else. It was putting aside all her fears and looking forward. Not backward, not to the side.

Anything involving Max Jensen and his family—who were like royalty here—attracted the Australian press, and this fund-raiser was no exception, which made it a great place to test her resolution to just relax and look forward. She was ready to enjoy the night with her sister and Max and the rest of the Blackmore Inc. group, off duty. Alya took out her compact mirror and checked her lipstick once more. Cherry red, as Natasha had called it, to match her dress.

Her lipstick was in place. Her hair was woven into an intricate knot on her head, exposing her neck. The pearl earrings and necklace gave the whole outfit a classy look, and all the red said sexy. It was the kind of look designers might dress her up in, but she never picked it out herself. Until today. Let the fun begin.

“I’m ready,” she said to the driver. He climbed out and walked around the car to open the door for her.

Sydney’s hot summer air poured into the car, along with a cacophony of voices and music. Bulbs flashed and the crowd moved as she stepped out into the late-afternoon sun and onto the red carpet. Alya hesitated, even looked back for a moment, instinctually searching for someone’s hand to grab, someone who would make her feel less exposed. No. She was doing this on her own. The first times would tug on her vulnerabilities, but she’d learn. There was no way to move forward without risk. She had condemned Henning for not being willing to take risks, so it was time for her to step up her own game, too.

Alya held her head high and walked forward, ignoring the questions that were coming from all sides.

“Everyone has been talking about yourBehind the Runwayinterview. Can you comment on who is the source of your thoughts on falling in love?”

“Who are you hoping to get it right with?” called another voice.

“You were seen talking intimately to Jean Pierre Rus. Can you comment?”

“Nick Bancroft posted about the flowers he sent you on social media. Are you two back together?”

She almost rolled her eyes at that last one. Of course Nick was going to find a way to make this about him. She took long strides to the circular part of the carpet, pausing there, turning for the cameras.

“No matter what I say, you’ll probably come to your own conclusions,” she said, smiling mischievously. “So, no comment.”

Was it really so easy? Of course, she had answered questions withno commentfor years, but still, the insinuations had lingered, each a new bite of insecurity that tore at her, deep inside. All this time, she had cared what they thought. But today? It was...fine. The speculations were so far from the truth, and if she told anyone the real story of her and Henning they wouldn’t believe her. She had taken a risk for a man, he had offered her less and she had decided she wouldn’t settle. So simple, and yet it was everything.

Alya smiled at the cameras one more time, and then walked into the entryway. The first portion of the event was an open-aired affair, on an enormous patio right on the harbour, lined with colorful flowers. Giant sails sheltered portions of the patio from the sun, and the guests gathered around standing tables under them. A passing server offered her a glass of champagne, and she took it, scanning the place for familiar faces. Max and Natasha were here somewhere, maybe talking with donors. The rest of the Blackmore Inc. team, whom Alya had met over the years, would show up with their partners at some point, but at the moment, Alya didn’t see any of them.

She did see the society columnist forLuxury, one of the many magazines where Alya’s private life occasionally had entertained the readership, despite all her efforts to avoid it. Nathaniel Woods. Over the past three years, she and Natasha had come up with coordinated plans to avoid him at events like this, but tonight, she walked straight up to him.

His eyes showed a hint of surprise, but he kissed her cheek and smiled. “Alya Petrova. You’re voluntarily talking to me?”

Alya laughed. “I know. Can you believe it?”

“You look lovely,” he said, and his smile was warm. He asked about the Icehotel, Federov’s collection and her plans for the spring, and they chatted about other Sydney events. The more they talked, the more she felt her confidence growing. Whatever he ended up writing, she could handle it.

But just as he was leaning in to kiss her on the cheek again, Nathaniel froze.