by CC MacKenzie
Her throat was a little dry and she had a strange taste in her mouth, but her head was clear. Rolling onto her back, Elena stared at the ceiling and tried to remember the events of the night before.
As if she was watching a movie, various scenes flickered through her mind. She dimly recalled some sort of kerfuffle with poor David. Then she remembered the buzzing in her ears and the hectic beat of her heart she'd had during the experience with David and the fact that her boyfriend Tom had dumped her. Now that Tom was no longer part of her life, Elena reckoned she should at least have felt little pang of... something. But she didn't, except that she wished she'd dumped Tom first. A natural reaction, she told herself. Then she remembered a Viking god, Odin. Oh yeah, a lovely drop-dead-gorgeous tall, dark and handsome guy. She wondered what had happened to him? Then her brow wrinkled when she remembered Scott telling not to drink something, what was it again? Oh yeah, After Shock.
Elena tended to stick to a single glass of white wine or a lite beer or soft drinks when she partied. A particularly bad experience at Uni had put her off hard liquor, she didn't have the head for it.
As she wrinkled her brow, she remembered tossing back the shot, the burn in her throat, scorching a path down her digestive tract to pool in her belly, to spread through her system. The potent liquor had brought a tear to her eye. However, it was the 'after' affect that really stood out. She'd felt absolutely wonderful. Up for anything. Ready to take on the world and everyone in it. Especially sex!
However, other memories, unrelenting, now fast forwarded her memory.
Marc Atelier taking charge of poor David at the table in the restaurant, while a beyond stupid Tom simply sat and watched the action with his mouth hanging open. Then later, much later, Marc putting his arm around her, putting on her coat, winding his scarf around her neck. The freezing cold as they'd walked home, together. Marc opening her door. Marc in her sitting room, making her sweet tea. The sort of tea her daddy made her when she'd been little and was sick. And Marc ensuring she drank the tea.
Then Elena shot up in bed, her skin suddenly clammy, as her eyes went wide with something like utter horror as she remembered quite distinctly that she'd asked Marc to... to... fuck her?
All she could hear was the sound of her heart thundering in her ears.
The room spun.
And she'd touched him down... there!
He'd been so hard, so big, so terribly aroused.
Now she remembered how he'd groaned, how he'd begged her to stop.
She could smell him, taste him, hear him.
Omigod.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, Elena leapt out of bed and dragged open her curtains to find it snowing heavily beneath a leaden sky.
But she couldn't see it because her mind was merciless as it poured memories on top of memories along with feelings of lust, of need, of desire, of secrets told that should never, ever be told.
Dear god, had she really said those things to his face about her secret dreams, about him bending her over the sofa?
Had she really knelt on her bed and offered him her bare bottom?
Closing her eyes she shivered in reaction, torn between arousal and dismay and could feel the way his hands had trembled as he'd handled her as he'd stripped her dress, as he'd dressed her in her pyjamas, as he'd fought not to touch her.
What on earth had she done?
How could she look the man in the eye again?
How could she face him at work?
Elena whimpered, pressed her fingers to her mouth.
Now she really did feel sick.
But her heart wouldn't stop racing as she spun to look at her bed, to see the evidence of what she'd done. The way she'd stripped like a hooker. The stockings were on the floor, along with her panties, proof, and her dress. And now she stared down at her pyjama bottoms. The ones her best friend Lucy had bought her as a joke. Pink teddy bears and a huge pink T-shirt.
Omigod.
Now she raced into her bathroom to find a box of aspirin opened on the sink unit.
He'd given her two little pills and told her drink all the water in the glass.
And she'd done it.
Panic gripped her lungs and squeezed hard.
She stripped off her pyjamas, tossed them in the laundry basket and stepped into the shower.
The first sting of water was so icy she cried out loud.
Served her right, the voice of reason spoke.
As the water warmed, grew hot, she adjusted the thermostat.
And went through the motions of shampooing, conditioning, rinsing her hair. Then she slathered a foaming gel all over her body, avoiding her tingling nipples and the ache low in her belly. Even though mortification held her firmly in its grip, even though she'd no idea how she would ever look Marc in the eye again, she was incredibly aroused.
Now Elena recalled his face, his eyes, as he'd looked at her.
Maybe she'd imagined desire?
Maybe she'd imagined lust?
Maybe she'd imagined a mix of frustration and annoyance?
Maybe she needed her head examined?
Head spinning with too many hectic thoughts, she wrapped her hair in a warm towel, grabbed a large bath sheet, wound it around her body as she wandered into her bedroom and sank to the stool in front of her dressing table. She studied her face in the mirror and saw it all. Her eyes were too big for her face. She was too pale. And she was trembling with reaction.
How on earth could a dinner date with Tom have turned into this?
Her whole body was wound too tight, but she went through the motions of moisturising her face, of blow drying her short hair, of applying a little colour to her lips, her cheeks. God knew she needed it. It didn't take long. Like an automaton, she moved to her closet, dragged out ancient yoga pants, black, and an oversized sweatshirt, black, that had belonged to one of her brothers. In spite of the central heating her feet were freezing, so she pulled on thick socks and shoved her feet into ankle boots made of soft sheepskin, black.
Her eye was drawn to her cell phone on the small table at the side of her bed.
Elena bit her lip as she moved to pick it up, checked the number at the top and sure enough there was Marc's number.
Sinking to the edge of the bed, she wondered what to do for the best.
Should she phone him?
Maybe thank him for looking after her?
Maybe thank him for not taking advantage of her?
Elena tossed the phone on her unmade bed and held her spinning head in her hands as all the things, the words she'd used, spun into her mind again and again.
Eventually, Elena knew she had to get on with the day, eat breakfast, tidy the house, and then she'd decide what to do. She'd achieve nothing by sitting in her bedroom worried sick like a lemming.
With the phone clutched in her hand, Elena wandered down stairs, noticed her coat hanging on the peg in the hall, remembered Marc had hung it there. As soon as she entered her sitting room, the evidence of the night before was all there, too. The tray with tea things. The wood burner was still glowing. It needed wood, so she fed it and then turned to open her sitting room curtains to a day as grey as her mood. And felt a lot better once the cold light of day entered the room.
She picked up the tray, moved into the kitchen.
Then she opened the shutters, let in a skinny wintry light and smiled when she spotted a couple of robins playing tag as they fed from the selection of nuts and seeds in her bird feeder. As if walking in a dream, she switched on the kettle, popped a couple of slices of wholemeal toast into the toaster, rummaged around the fridge for cheese to add to the toast and milk for coffee. She'd just poured herself a mug of strong java and was standing leaning back against the smooth wood of her counter top, staring into space, when there was a brisk knock at the door.
And right away her heart took a mighty leap right into her mouth.
The thought spun into her chaotic mind that maybe she should ignore the door, prete
nd she was out, or still asleep. Maybe it wasn't Marc. Then Elena bit her lip, she hadn't heard the sound of a car engine. No sane person would be out driving in this weather. But Marc only lived a short distance away so he'd probably walked. Again there was a knock at the door, and this time it sounded impatient.
Taking a deep breath, Elena moved to place the mug on the counter top and realised her hands were shaking. But she straightened her spine and moved through her sitting room into the hall.
As the old song said, it was time to face the music.
Elena opened the door.
Chapter Eight
Marc knew as soon as he saw her pale face and the way her shoulders hunched as if ready for a blow that Elena remembered the night before. She was bound to have regrets because she'd no idea that he wanted her just as badly as she (if what she'd said and how she'd behaved last night was true and he hoped it was) wanted him. However, that didn't mean he was going to let her off the hook. After all he couldn't be certain she wanted him right now after what had happened between them last night. And he couldn't help having the sneaking suspicion that after a couple of After Shocks what any man might have done for Elena.
After all Odin was up for it with Elena, and from what he'd seen, so was Elena with Odin.
So basically, what Marc needed to know this morning was where he stood with Elena.
Her eyes couldn't meet his, he noticed, with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety pooling low in his gut. She didn't ask him in, but opened the door wide and stepped back. So he supposed that meant enter.
His heavy hiking boots were thick with snow. He tugged the laces, toed them off, thumped them against the wall under her porch to remove hard packed snow from the soles and placed them on the mat to dry inside the door. Still not speaking, Elena closed the door and moved past him into the sitting room. He raised his brows, but said nothing as he stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in the pocket of his jacket, unwound his scarf, ski hat, hung them on a hook and moved to join her.
The sitting room looked different in daylight, bigger, but still warm and cozy.
There was a scent of cinnamon in the air, of Christmas and of yo-ho-ho.
Marc hadn't had a lot of yo-ho-ho in his life lately.
And he could only hope that Elena might provide some.
He was tired after a filthy sleepless night filled with a burning frustration that had eventually led him to down a couple of brandies.
They hadn't helped.
Nothing had helped.
His eyes scanned the room.
She'd tidied and dusted and the log burner was blazing away, throwing out welcome heat.
"Would you like a coffee, toast?" she asked in a soft voice that wobbled a little.
For some reason her demeanour, the heat flushing her cheeks, her neck, and way she was biting her bottom lip, made him feel a hell of a lot better.
She was a nervous wreck.
Well, that made two of them.
He couldn't remember feeling this nervous around a woman in his life.
When it came to seduction, normally he was the one in charge of the setting and of the end result.
But today Marc was on her turf, in her personal space.
Elena made the rules.
He took a steadying breath.
Okay, he could live with that.
And where was the confident, demanding girl from the night before?
The ache in his groin was still making its presence felt, but the tension in his belly, his shoulders, eased away.
He studied her as she reached up into the cupboard for an oversized mug with the little lilac flowers.
She was dressed from head to toe in black.
The colour of mourning.
God, she was beautiful.
Not all skin and bone like some women and a couple of the girls on reception or many who worked for the Ferranti Group.
Elena was tall, with a long line from head to toe, but under that huge sweatshirt she had breasts and hips and a stunning ass. Elena was a real woman. And in that dress she'd worn last night, she'd looked sensational.
But today it was as if there were two Elena's. The one who ran the busy reception of a first class hotel with humour and panache. The one last night who was mouthy with a hard-ass attitude. The one who knew what she wanted and how to get it. He liked that Elena. He liked her a lot.
And then there was this one, a little shy of herself and of him. A little unsure of herself and especially of him. He liked this Elena, too.
She turned to look at him, raised brows over wary eyes, and he realised he hadn't responded to her question if he wanted a drink.
"Yes, thanks. Black is fine. And I'll have toast if you're making it. Did you sleep well? No hangover?"
Her response to the little digs, (even though he'd asked nicely btw. After all, he was a very nice guy) was a tiny jerk of her chin that told him he'd scored a hit.
The mug was placed on the bump of a breakfast bar, which held two high stools. He slid onto one, settled himself, and picked up his coffee. He took a sip. Working for Nico Ferranti, Marc was used to nothing but the best. The coffee was very good. The girl had serious skills. A large bowl, same pattern as the mug, was filled with a selection of sliced fresh fruit and placed between them. Without a word, and without meeting his eye, she handed him a side plate, a knife and a large napkin of white cotton. No paper napkins for her. It seemed Elena had standards. Then she took a platter with a selection of cheeses from the fridge, placed it on the counter top between them, sat opposite him and dug in.
They ate in silence.
It wasn't a companionable silence, the air was too think with tension for that.
And all the while she focused on her food, her coffee.
And all the while Marc focused on her.
On how young she looked now she was outside her work environment. On the sprinkle of freckles on her nose. On how astoundingly long her thick lashes were. How sweet her mouth looked. How gorgeous her clear skin was. How her ears hugged her skull. How her brows arched over wide eyes. On her pixie hair above a pixie face. He liked the whole package. He liked it a lot.
Now his gaze focused on the pulse beating like crazy wings beneath her ear.
And Marc decided to put her out of her misery.
"How are you feeling?"
Her insides churning, Elena placed her knife on top of her empty plate.
She needed to do something with her hands so she reached for her coffee, brought the mug to her mouth and watched him carefully over the rim.
Marc Atelier in his work uniform of Savile Row suit, crisp shirt of white cotton, fabulous silk tie and without a hair out of place, was something special. In a work environment, he had a reputation for fairness and straight talking. And for taking no prisoners.
Elena decided the Marc Atelier sitting opposite her was an unknown quantity.
With his dark brown hair all tousled after wearing his ski cap, he looked younger. The pale grey thermal sweater worn over a white T-shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, brought out the blue of his eyes. She couldn't take her eyes off his spiky lashes as he studied her face the way she was studying his. He hadn't shaved and the dark shadow of his strong jaw only made him appear too handsome, if that was possible. On his wrist he wore a Breitling watch, black face, black leather strap. Unpretentious. Outrageously expensive. His blue jeans, ancient, comfortable, were slung low on his hips even as they hugged long and muscled thighs. She couldn't see the bulge between his legs since the breakfast bar blocked the view, but she knew it was there. Hard. Aroused. Ever ready.
It didn't matter what he wore, at the end of the day the man who sat opposite her was, to put it bluntly, a warrior. She came from a family of warriors herself, so Elena knew what she was talking about. He'd been in the military. She could see it in the steadiness of his eyes. In the strength of his wide jaw. In the way he sat, shoulders back and relaxed and comfortable in his own skin. He was a man at ease with himself
and his surroundings. It pleased her that he could be at home in her home. And it felt right he was here, now, with her. Especially after the night before.
So, how was she feeling?
Good question.
It deserved an honest answer.
And something told her, his firm mouth perhaps, that Marc was not in the mood to be jerked around. The time had come for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
"I feel embarrassed and mortified that I might have put you in an uncomfortable situation last night. One not of your choosing. To be perfectly honest, I'm not used to hard liquor..."
His eyes stayed on her face as she took a break, took a tiny sip of coffee. She needed to take a breath or she'd be babbling like a fool. But she couldn't help the heat staining her cheeks.
"Perfectly understandable that you felt you needed a stiff drink. You'd had an upsetting evening. You had to deal with a very sick young man in front of everyone in a busy restaurant. Your boyfriend had been... unkind. Do you love him?"
Too right she'd had an upsetting evening.
Too right Tom had been unkind, he'd been horrible and he'd hurt her.
She'd no idea he'd had the power to hurt her.
The last question shocked her and she didn't know why.
It was a perfectly reasonable question.
So she gave it a perfectly reasonable answer.
"No. After last night I don't even like him. Usually, I stay friends with ex-boyfriends, but that's not going to happen with him."
"Good," Marc said. "But you must have seen something in him to go out with him in the first place."
Now Elena frowned into her coffee.
God, the man didn't know when to give up.
Oh well, she'd already made a complete ass of herself, what was one more humiliating moment?
"My brother set us up. He works with Tom. Thought we'd gel."
"Does your brother often organise your dates?"
Thinking of her big brothers, she had to smile.
And right there his blue eyes went dark as pitch, hungry.
The smile slid from her face as her mouth went too dry and her heart rate kicked.