CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER TWO
S TELLA WAS PROUD of herself for not stalking Atlas online, not even when she returned to her small flat in the top of the four-story walk-up.
Looking him up was a bad habit she had largely conquered because the humbling truth was, she didn’t need to. She had memorized his backstory long ago.
Atlas was usually described as Oliver Davenport’s son from “a brief relationship with Rhea Voudouris,” daughter of a Greek restaurant owner. At the time of his birth in Greece, Atlas’s father had been married to an heiress who started a line of athletic wear as a lark, under the DVE umbrella. When she passed from an unspecified illness, Oliver took it over.
In his teens, Atlas moved to live with his father in England. He’d been excelling in junior games as a competitive swimmer, which explained his powerful shoulders and lean hips. Within a few years, he’d won three golds and a silver at the Olympics.
His good looks and status as an elite athlete made him a natural for becoming the face of the athletic wear line. Through his late teens and early twenties, he was often posed with Carmel, Oliver’s legitimate child, next to pools and on rocky outcroppings atop mountains. Carmel was waif-thin and sulky next to Atlas’s broody strength. They made a striking pair and Carmel’s frequent scandals sent their images viral on a regular basis.
Over time, Atlas quit modeling in favor of working directly at DVE. Oliver was the majority shareholder and CEO, but Atlas was seen as his successor, which kept eyes on him as an industry titan worth watching.
Then there were the women.
That was the real reason Stella refused to look him up anymore. Every time she did, she was accosted by a photo of him with a beautiful, wealthy starlet or heiress. It shouldn’t bother her, but it did, probably because it reinforced exactly how different they were.
Honestly, with the world as his playground and an army of foot soldiers to fetch and carry for him, she had to wonder what he’d been doing walking into a shop in Zermatt today, but she refused to seek answers online.
Because it didn’t matter. He was dead to her.
Even if she did keep replaying their conversation, alternately wishing she had said more, or less, while also rehearsing what she would say if she ever got the chance to speak her mind again.
I shouldn’t have kissed you.
If only she had said that to him , rather than letting him say it first. Why did it sting so much to hear it?
She was staring into her refrigerator, trying to decide what to make for dinner, when her phone began to ping and ping and ping.
Concerned, she picked up her phone. Not her family, but it seemed to be a work emergency. Her coworkers, including the evening desk clerk and the manager of the hotel, were all sending texts. Every message was some variation of, Is this you?
The links and screen grabs showed her outside the patisserie, arguing with Atlas.
“ Nooo…” she groaned, flicking to scan the articles.
She’d been identified by name along with where she worked. Staff at the patisserie could have provided that information, she supposed. She was there several times a week.
But “a source close to the couple” was quoted as saying, “Atlas planned to propose to Iris while they were on holiday.” An accompanying photo showed him in a tuxedo with a stunning woman in a gorgeous dinner gown. She was delicate and elegant and she was the daughter of a viscount.
Stella’s stomach plummeted with inadequacy, then dropped again as she saw she was being framed as a home-wrecker, interfering in what was otherwise a fairy-tale courtship.
“Seriously?!” she gasped.
He could have said something about her when she asked about his family. Instead, he had jumped right into asking where she had gone that night—as if it was any of his business—and accused her of kissing him as a distraction tactic.
Now the whole thing was being twisted.
How could this be happening? No one at the patisserie would have suggested she was anyone’s Other Woman. People who knew her knew she barely dated, let alone got involved with men who were committed elsewhere.
The evening clerk texted.
People are calling to ask about you. Someone just asked me where you live. I didn’t tell them.
She was already swimming in outrage. Now she plunged into an icy pool of horror at the idea of being swarmed by paparazzi. She’d seen celebrities get mobbed while visiting here. It was horrible.
Hurrying to the door to her balcony, she twitched the drapes enough to see down to the street, but it was dark and the lanes were narrow and deep between the closely set buildings. It was difficult to tell whether those were locals and tourists going about their evening or someone more nefarious lingering in the shadows, hoping to catch her through the glass.
Ew …
She dropped the curtain into place and texted her supervisor.
I don’t think I should come in tomorrow.
Agreed.
That was the swift reply. Then:
I notified Head Office. They’re unhappy the hotel name has been brought into it.
“That’s not my fault, is it?” she hissed, then quickly texted back.
Is my job on the line?
I’m not sure.
That was the heart-stopping reply.
That man. What an absolute life-imploding toad!
She didn’t have Atlas’s number, but she quickly found the landline for Chalet Ruhe. Before she could dial, a call from an unknown number came up. Then a text from her downstairs neighbor.
She ignored the call and read the text.
Are you expecting company? Someone tried to get in as I was leaving for dinner. They said they knew you.
Don’t let them in , she replied, and began to panic.
The building was mostly used for short-term rentals. That last text had come from the ski instructor who had told her about this apartment two years ago, but tourists who were only staying a week would think nothing of letting someone in to knock on her door.
Her brain slipped into the self-preservation mode that had gotten her onto a train to Zermatt the first time. She threw her laptop and a few overnight things into her shoulder bag, then dressed for the cold. A hat with earflaps wasn’t out of place. Neither was the wide scarf she layered up to her chin. At the last second, she thought to put on a different coat from the photos. This one was long and quilted, built for the coldest temperatures winter could throw at her, which she loved when she needed it, but it turned her into a shapeless lump of beige, something she hoped would disguise her on her way to the train station.
She would go to her stepmother’s until this blew over.
Please let this blow over .
The twins’ birthday was coming up and they both needed shoes. Beate’s application fee for the music academy was due soon, too. Stella helped with all of those costs.
She needed her job.
As she trotted down the stairs, she heard voices in the foyer.
She had reached the floor where the ski instructor lived so she slipped down the hall to their door and punched random codes into their keypad, pretending to be entering while she listened for the footsteps to climb the stairs behind her.
Whoever it was took them two at a time then halted, making her scalp prickle.
“Stella.”
She snapped around to see Atlas with his hand on the newel, one foot on the first step of the next flight. His gray wool topcoat hung open over black trousers and a pale gray turtleneck. He wore five-o’clock shadow and a scowl.
“I thought you lived on the top floor?” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“Unimportant. Come. I have a limo waiting.” He sounded crisp and remote as he stepped back to wave her toward the stairs.
She didn’t move. “You need to fix this. I might lose my job.”
His mouth flattened. “Let’s talk in the car. If my people can find where you live, so can the paps.” He waved again.
She hesitated, wanting to talk this out but, “Is your fiancée there?”
“I don’t have one. Go,” he insisted with a point down the stairs.
She tsked. “I didn’t even want to speak to you,” she reminded him as she hurried down the stairs in front of him. “You’re the one who turned it into a scene. Now—”
“Wait until we have privacy.” He caught her arm to halt her as they arrived in the foyer. He glanced both directions through the glass of the exit door, then, with a curt nod, opened the door and ushered her straight into the open back door of a waiting limo.
He slid in so fast behind her, he sat on her coat.
The door slammed, and in a powerful move, he gathered her and scooched her along, settling her just as quickly while shoving his hip against hers.
She was no delicate flower like the fiancée he claimed he didn’t have. It was both thrilling and disconcerting to be enveloped by his long arms and powerful chest and the faint cloud of a fading cologne. He could easily overpower her and she was letting it happen.
She wiggled to settle into her spot, putting space between them, but feeling cold as she did. Wary and frightened.
The driver slid behind the wheel and was away before she’d found her seat belt, let alone her composure.
“Are you taking me to the train station? That’s where I was headed,” she said as she clipped.
“To go where?”
“My stepmother’s.”
“Where’s that? Doesn’t matter,” he dismissed with a brush of his hand. “They’ll figure it out and look for you there. Text her. Tell her no matter who asks, she should say, ‘No comment.’”
“They’re going to badger my family?” She had a flash of her father’s reaction and cringed, then quickly texted Grettina. She said she would call to explain as soon as she could. “That’s the train station,” she pointed out as the limo shot right past it.
“That’s where the photographers think I’m headed. We’re going to Cervinia.”
“That’s four hours!” It was on the Italian side of the Alps, absolutely the wrong direction for her.
“We’ll go over the top.”
“The cable cars don’t run at night.”
“Stella.” His tone was insulted, but he didn’t say anything more because the limo was pulling into the heliport.
“Oh.” That answered that. “But I don’t want to go to Cervinia,” she pointed out.
“You’d rather be eaten by wolves? Because I had to jump from an e-taxi to a limo to lose the photographers who were staking out the chalet. We have about five minutes before they realize this is where I was really headed. They’ll see you’re with me and everything will grow exponentially worse. Let’s talk on the other side.”
“This feels like a kidnapping,” she told him crossly. One she facilitated by jogging up the stairs to the helipad that mostly serviced heli-skiing and sightseeing tours of the Alps.
Minutes later they lifted off. She was alone in the back seat while he was next to the pilot looking as though he knew what he was doing up there.
She took a few breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. This was all happening too fast. Was he really saving her? Or managing her?
She shouldn’t have come with him. It had taken a lot for her to become as independent as she was. A lot . But she had a good life in Zermatt. One that sustained her and allowed her to help Grettina. One that made her feel valued and secure and confident.
Now, as the moonlit Matterhorn slid behind her, she felt as though her connection to her safe place and the life that she’d built stretched and snapped like a rubber band.
She could get it back, she reassured herself. She had her ski pass in her wallet. That would get her onto the cable cars. A taxi around the base of the mountain cost the earth, but she had a credit card if she had to resort to taking the ground route. There were trains, too. One way or another, she could find her way home.
They didn’t descend into Cervinia, though. Not the proper part of the town. They landed on a private helipad next to a chalet built on the edge of a small lake on the outskirts. It was a mountain retreat that didn’t seem to have a plowed road into it. Four people on snowmobiles were riding away from it.
How would she get anywhere from here? Snowshoe?
A flutter of panic went through her. This was exactly the kind of situation she had run away from—being under the thumb of a man who held all the cards while she had none.
Atlas hopped out and opened the door beside her.
“Come,” he shouted, reaching to unbuckle her. “The pilot wants to get back to his dinner.”
He helped her down from the helicopter and used the flap of his coat to shelter her as they ran from the cloud of snow that was stirred up by the churning blades. As soon as they were at the door to the house, the chopper lifted off again.
“The house is fully stocked, but I told them to release the staff,” Atlas said as they entered to shake off the snow in the ski room. “My people will arrive tomorrow. In situations like this, I don’t want anyone around me who isn’t on my payroll.”
“Like me?” she suggested, stomach tilting with the knowledge they were alone here.
She hung her jacket and sensed him stilling as he looked at her.
“That was a joke,” she said.
“I know.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw. He turned away to remove his own things.
She glanced down, wondering if she had something on her shirt.
She’d worn this cashmere sweater over black trousers to work today. Her wardrobe was a careful curation of high-quality consignment shop items. In Zermatt, designer labels often wound up in the secondhand shops. The trick was finding things in her size that flattered her figure, but she was a decent hand with sewing so she was usually able to alter something to make it work.
This pearl-pink pullover was simple and classy beneath the blazer she wore at work and she loved the feel of it, but she suddenly realized how closely it hugged her torso and breasts.
She glanced up again, but Atlas was stowing his boots on the shelf, profile stiff.
“This feels like we’ve pulled a bank heist,” she muttered. “What the hell , Atlas?”
“Fun fact, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that this evening. We need to discuss how we’re going to respond.” He held open an interior door, inviting her to walk down a hall past a glass-enclosed fitness room.
At the end was a flight of stairs next to a wall of glass that looked onto the indoor pool. Windows on the far side of the water offered a view to the snowy outdoors. A lounge on the end was surrounded by lush tropical plants, and sunlamps were installed on the ceiling. Moody blue lighting reflected off the veined marble on the walls, making the whole place look magical.
An elevator pinged. She hadn’t even seen it, but Atlas had touched the call button and the doors slid open next to the stairs.
“What’s to talk about?” She stepped inside the elevator and immediately regretted it. It was too small. She could smell the winter air still clinging to his hair and skin. “Can’t you make a statement that the photos were taken out of context and make it go away?”
“Those sorts of statements look really stupid if the other party makes their own statement that contradicts it. Have you talked to anyone?”
“ No . Like who? Why would I?”
“For money? What?” His brow went up as she swung an affronted look on him. “You were unjustly fired five years ago. You might have seen this as an opportunity to receive compensation for that.”
“I don’t want compensation. I want to keep a low profile so I can keep my job. My life .” The doors opened, allowing her to stomp off the elevator in a dramatic exit, but she paused to get her bearings.
He came up behind her, not touching her, but making her prickle with awareness as he halted just as abruptly.
They took in the rooms that flowed one into another beneath exposed wooden beams. The decor was mostly white and earthy browns. Glittering chandeliers were turned off above a massive sectional, but Tiffany-style table lamps glowed in mosaics of violet and scarlet and amber. Cozy reading chairs were tucked into nooks beside the massive stone fireplace that separated the main living room from the dining room. The marble dining table had sixteen empty chairs and a floral inlay that was an absolute work of art. In front of her were huge windows and double doors that led onto an upper terrace and what was likely a beautiful view of the lake and the hilly dales surrounded by sharp peaks looming above.
The kitchen was an open space with an island and eating bar. Places like this usually had a professional kitchen on one of the lower floors where the bulk of food preparation happened. Breakfast would be served here and the chef would prepare meals here if asked, but it was mostly a place for guests to make cocoa and find snacks after midnight.
She moved to the refrigerator to take inventory. “Have you eaten?”
“No. I should have asked the staff to leave something. Do you want a drink?” He moved to where the bar was in shadow and clicked on the track lighting above it.
“White wine, thanks.” She pulled out milk, flour and eggs. Crepes were her standby when she didn’t know what else to cook. “What would I even say?” she asked. “If I talked to reporters?”
“Exactly.” There was a faint pop as he removed a cork from a bottle of wine. “That my sister held a wild party five years ago? There’s front-page news.” His voice was deeply sarcastic. “That I kissed you? I did.” He shrugged it off as nothing, not looking at her as he poured her glass. “That my father fired you without cause? It’s all true and does very little harm to any of us.”
“Except me. They’re already making out like I broke your engagement. My employer doesn’t want to be associated with that. I’ve worked really hard for that job, Atlas. Can you please make a statement that your lack of a fiancée has nothing to do with me?”
“I would if it were true, but it’s not.” His mouth formed a humorless twist as he brought both drinks to the island.
“What do you mean?” She paused in reaching for the glass, heart swerving in her chest. “I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even know she existed.”
“You’re still the reason Iris went home without me.”
* * *
“How?” Stella cried. The pink in her cheeks had started to fade, but rushed back in. That chin of hers was looking for a fight, but the tension around her eyes and mouth deepened with distress. “Is that really what you’re going to say?”
“No. Probably not. I’m still deciding. Do you want me to cook?” He was even hungrier than he’d been when Iris had suggested an early dinner four hours ago.
“As if.” She turned to set the crepe pan on a burner and pulled more ingredients from the refrigerator.
“I can cook.” He was a grown man who had learned to take care of himself long before his father’s staff had begun doing it. “My grandfather owned a taverna. I started working there as soon as I was tall enough to carry an empty plate to the sink.”
“I’ll let you clean up, then.”
He leaned on the wall where he was out of the way, still skeptical she wouldn’t want revenge for losing her job five years ago.
He was distracted by noticing her hair was longer than he’d suspected. It hung in an intricate golden braid that resembled a herringbone pattern. As she moved, it swished across her back, drawing him into a fantasy of catching it and wrapping it around his fist while he ran his free hand all over the cashmere that hugged her full breasts.
Damn it, what was it about her? Each time he saw her, he reacted as though he’d never seen a female figure before. Yes, hers was exceptional, but he’d seen many exceptional beauties in his lifetime. They’d been throwing themselves at him from the moment his first whisker had appeared. He was careful about how and with whom he had sex, but he had enough of it that he wasn’t in a state of parched need for it.
That’s how Stella made him feel, though. As though he would die if he didn’t touch her. Like he needed to have her. The urge to stand behind her and bury his lips in the side of her neck pulled like a magnet.
“Why is it my fault that your engagement is off?” she asked stiffly.
Because he couldn’t keep himself from looking for knicker lines beneath her trousers.
He made himself stare into his glass, doubtful she’d appreciate hearing his compliments on that front. Or rear, as it were.
“Our engagement was not official.” He’d already had his assistant cancel the order for the ring. “It was more of a business agreement anyway.”
“Really?” She glanced over, nose wrinkled with skepticism. Disapproval maybe?
He shrugged.
“Our fathers are friends.” Iris’s family was the quintessential broke aristocracy, desperate for an influx of cash. Oliver was eleventh in line for an earldom, so he considered himself a peer of the realm. He had this common, bastard son, however. One he wanted to elevate with a marriage into a titled family. “Iris is well connected socially, but I had concerns about how successful we’d be. She wants a man of leisure, whereas I’ve crafted my life around taking over DVE. I just bought a home in Greece, but she prefers London. In many ways we weren’t compatible. Hence the separate bedrooms.”
Stella paused before throwing the mushrooms into a pan of melted butter.
Yes, he had told her that deliberately. He wanted her to know.
The mushrooms began to sizzle.
The irony was, he loathed himself anytime he showed the least similarity to his father, yet he had been about to repeat Oliver’s mistake. Oliver had married the woman his parents had put in front of him, then cheated on her with Atlas’s mother. With countless women, in fact, but Oliver had learned his lesson after the first pregnancy. He took precautions after that.
Atlas wanted to believe he would never break his vows, but this hum of desire for Stella had lingered like a ringing in his ears. Now it was a cacophony crashing around his chest.
She glanced over again. “I still don’t understand—”
“My PR team wanted to issue a statement that would make all of this go away. For me . I refused to leave you to take the brunt of it.” That was something his father would do. “Iris read my reluctance as more significant than it is.”
“What were they going to say?” she asked with alarm.
“That you’re an opportunist who orchestrated the photos for profit.”
“Why are rich people so awful ?” She flipped a crepe.
“I didn’t let them do it, did I?” No, he had made a few blistering phone calls, warning his staff that Stella was not a scapegoat. Then he’d told them to find her so he wasn’t leaving her to fend for herself against the inevitable deluge of photographers and trolls.
Iris had left for the heliport in a justifiable snit, reading plenty into what she had overheard. How could he deny his interest in Stella, though? He didn’t understand why he felt so protective of her, but he was.
While Stella seemed the furthest thing from grateful for his consideration or rescue. Her profile was stiff as she went into full production with the crepes: pouring, flipping, filling, rolling… All while stirring a pan of sauce and pulling roasted asparagus from the oven.
When she began plating everything, he topped up their drinks.
“This looks really good,” he said as they took side-by-side seats at the bar. She’d drizzled a creamy herb sauce across the mushroom-filled crepes, topped them with the asparagus spears and added halved cherry tomatoes on sprigs of basil. “Are you a chef?”
“I’ve taken sous-chef courses.”
“Is that the direction you want to go?”
“No.” She took a bite, considered it, then picked up the saltshaker. “Before I left home, I thought I would go into accounting. I was shy and decent at math and I wanted to know how to handle money because we never had any while I was growing up. I had a crash course in finances when I got to Zermatt,” she said wryly, handing him the salt. “But I realized a lot of little things could add up to better pay and opportunities. Bartending, first aid, cooking…” She waved at her plate. “I also realized I like hospitality so I took my degree in it, online so I could keep working.”
“What do you like about it?” All he remembered about his time working at the taverna was late nights and a layer of sweat that felt like a crust while his mother complained about how sore her feet were.
“It makes me feel good to solve problems. Appreciated.” She used the side of her fork to separate a bite from the rolled crepe. “And people interest me. I’ve realized that it doesn’t matter if I’m shy or private. They’d rather talk about themselves anyway, so I just ask them about where they’re from or what they do for a living.” She shrugged.
“You’re not shy.”
“Because I’ve worked hard to overcome it.” She closed her mouth over a bite of food.
“No.” He rejected that. She was too confident, easily meeting his gaze—which many didn’t have the nerve to do.
She lifted her brows in challenge.
“You dress tastefully, but in a way that allows yourself to be noticed and admired. You speak plainly and clearly. My lie detector says you’re not being honest.”
She gave a sniff of indignation and took another bite of food.
“Oh,” he said with realization. “You’re not being honest with yourself .” That was interesting enough to swivel him away from the very tasty meal to study her profile as her chin set at a militant angle.
“I think I know myself better than you do.”
He bit back a laugh. He might not know details of her upbringing or her life in Zermatt, but he could read her like a book.
“You were born stubborn and assertive.” It went bone deep. That was as clear to him as the modest gold hoops in her ears and the dismayed twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You were told to be something else, though. That’s why you never felt comfortable in your own skin. That’s why you ran away. Isn’t it?”
“Is that Interpol on the phone?” She thumbed toward the desk in the corner, where a cordless landline sat. “Asking you to profile a serial killer for them?”
“Is that what you are under this good-girl act? A serial killer?” He waved at her. “ Prove me wrong . Why did you run away from home?”
“I’ll direct your attention back to the word ‘private.’ Which I definitely am.”
“She said. Stubbornly and assertively,” he mocked.
“Yes. I am stubbornly, assertively private. And you have destroyed my privacy with your fame. Or is it infamy? Either way, tell me how you intend to fix it.”
He swiveled back to his own meal, polishing off several bites as he considered his options. Denying there was a relationship between them felt like a lie. The spark was there, still glowing hotly after five years of neglect. Power like that was dangerous. He was already too possessive and protective of her. He could tell that an affair with her wouldn’t be as lighthearted as his liaisons usually were.
He shouldn’t be contemplating an affair with her at all. He wasn’t a snob about dating a woman of means that were considerably more limited than his own, but he was highly conscious of the hypocrisy of it. His father had taken advantage of his mother, bowling her over with his wealth and status. Stella might possess self-assurance and ambition, but he knew which one of them had the upper hand here. The one with the house and the helicopter.
Besides, starting up an affair with her would push off his plans at DVE indefinitely. So no. He definitely should not have an affair with her.
But he really wanted one.
“Are you married?” he belatedly thought to ask. “Involved with someone?” The thought caused a cold wind to invade his chest, the kind that whistled through the cracks of a chasm.
“No. Why?” She gave him a side-eye of suspicion.
“Just making sure this isn’t worse than it already looks,” he prevaricated.
She carefully stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork.
“What if I do tell my side of it?” She fixed her gaze on the back wall of the kitchen while she chewed and swallowed. “I don’t need to get paid for it. Your PR people could release it however they want, but it’s true that your father got me fired and that’s why I was angry with you. Doesn’t that defuse the whole thing?”
“It might.” Damn. Now that he knew she didn’t have anyone else in her life, he couldn’t keep himself from saying it. “Unless we have an affair. Then it looks like a poor attempt at hiding what they knew all along.”